I had the oddest non-date of my life yesterday. It was a guy from gay.com who I'd started chatting with only a few hours earlier but we were both feeling adventuresome and said, screw it, let's meet up. I call it a non-date because there is always a possibility of something but no one really knows what the hell is going on, cause we've only "known" each other for a few hours. So we met up and he was very nice, talkative and disarmingly good looking. Not because he was that spectacular, but most of the people floating around cyberspace don't get mistaken for tom cruise in a hat. So it was fine, and I wasn't feeling overly talkative. I was engaging, I guess, but not by normal witty self. I just started realizing how odd the entire situation was. Most people develop relationships (broad sense) because of a common social situation such as school, work, or recreation. However in this case, the only ties that bind (bound?) were the fact that we were two young gay guys sick of being trolled on by DOMs (Dirty Old Man...s). I mean, we could still talk about musicals for twenty minutes but it just felt unatural, and this isn't a comment on him because he was very good at suddenly coming up with a new topic or keeping the conversation alive. I don't know what compelled me but as we were walking to my car, I said, "I'm sorry if I've been less than upbeat, but for some reason this is feeling very unatural to me." And I told him why, all the while thinking to myself, "What the fuck are you doing?! You are actually telling a guy that the past hour and a half as been completely weird. You are SO never allowed out into society again!" But then he did the weirdest thing, I just kind of went there with me, and we totally started talking about it, and I'm not sure if he totally got it, but I could tell that he was really trying to. We ended up saying goodnight twenty minutes later and he said that I'd like to call me. Dunno if he ever will. I'd love to say I don't care, but I do a bit. However, above that, it was an absolutely odd experience.

Watched Saved! again. Made breakfast. chatted a bit. I'm feeling kind of depressed, which is not a new emotion, but one I haven't experienced in a while. I've been really content recently. Not uber-happy, but not down. Just kinda steady, and I guess anything on either sides of the spectrum can rock that. I suppose the downside to being so GAH (passionate) about everything is that you can live this very manic-depressive existance, but since everything has been so steady for the past few months I've gotten into this psychological state of meh-ness. I can't remember the last time I was really HAPPY about something; I think it was the Orville thing and that was almost three months ago (the competition).

Last nights festivities threw me off for some reason. I've taken to putting myself only in situations where I know I'll be fairly compatible; where I can control the variables, at least to a degree. And a big street party is sooo not one of those places. So much liquor, and noise, and rudeness, and pretty people. I forgot how many good looking people there are. It's rather humbling. I know it shouldn't matter, but to say it doesn't at all is just delusional.

And this day-after exhile thing is really not working so well. So if any of you know and love David, call him, cause this kinda blows.

As people, we are victms of abuse everyday. Ironically, we are also the victimizers, so I suppose things come full circle, but still. I myself am included in this support group; people treat me like crap all the time! And yes, I'm assure there's some give or take there. I was blown off today. I was harassed by drunken baffoons. I got thrown into a door by more drunken baffoons. I left my bag at a second cup and I will present the consequent interaction in both what was actually said (and I what I was thinking).

Me: Hi, I think I left my bag here.

Awful Coffee-Hawking Shill: You know, you really shouldn't leave your stuff just lying around.

Me: Yeah, well, I went to watch the fireworks and I guess I kinda...(Really? Cause I was kinda thinking it could be a new trend. Like, leaving your bag in a run down, Yanni-playing, whipped-cream-charging bean hole could be the new black this fall.)

ACHS: What did it look like?

Me: It's black. (It looks like the only bag you've found in the last five minutes, dumbass.)

ACHS (looking at my bag on the floor): Does it have a rolled up newspaper in it?

Me: Um, yes? (No, mine is the black bag you've found in the last five minutes with a rolled up can o' whup ass in it.)

ACHS: Here you go.

Me: Thanks. (I fucking hate you. I hope you choke on one of your seventeen dollar pastries you commie bastard.)

I can't believe that happened. I can't believe that I was shamed by the 25 year old son of a Second Cup owner. Mostly, I can't believe that it bugged me so much that I felt the need to write about it. Like those guys that yelled, "Fag!" as they passed. I shouldn't care. They'll wind up cleaning sewers or something. But still, it's just wrong. Alcohol should not be an excuse for being an asshole. If I was someone who didn't drink, that would totally be my reason why: "Actually, I don't drink. I'm protesting all the assholes that do and shout 'Fag' at people." (I don't know why I capitalize Fag, like it's some sort of diety or something...?)

In other news, I bought a second Tori Amos CD. *sigh* And so it begins...

Today was my last day at the G-O-V, and yet I felt a tinge of sadness as after nine mind-numbing months, I was starting to kinda, you know, like people, a couple to whom I gave this blog, so shout out to my FSWEP peeps, I FS-WEEP for you. Cause it's like wept, but...shut up!

Ok, so I came to several conclusions at work today, and thus I present them to you, dear Blog:

1. Nobody likes me.

2. Everbody hates me.

3. Worms do not equal love.

4. Goats and llamas are universally funny. You just smiled didn't you?

I stood in Movie Village yesterday a disillusioned celluloid soul, when I remembered a passing rave made by my dear friend Tote Bag. "Mandy Moore plays a Born-again." I asked the clerk if he knew of such a movie and he looked as me as though I had just spit in his mouth and replied in the negative. I was about to give up when suddenly I remembered - SAVED! (with the exclamation mark doubling as crucifix). I picked it up, somewhat drawn back by the presence Macauly 'Mac' Culkin in a wheelchair along side Ms. Moore, as well as Jena Malone, who for the record is exactly my type.

I haven't seen this good a movie in such a long time! It was essentially about this high school that put the E in Evangelical. It was actually cute, odd as that adjective seems, how totally it consumed these kids. And then one becomes a gay and his girlfriend in an attempt to de-gay-ify him, gives up her flower and of course gets knocked up, and pretty soon it becomes apparent that none of these kids are who they thought they were. The best part was that it neither glorified secularism nor shot down devotion, and though the latter did take a few good jibes, but the characters were so earnest that it didn't feel like fun was being made at their expense. Rather, it was kind of like observing a different society.

I had another of my bus experiences today on the way home from work. I don't read much on the bus anymore because I love looking at people, searching for beauty. I actually once crashed my car because I saw someone beautiful. It's rather uncontrolable, but no more than any other hobby. When I was 10 I used to collect rocks; now I collect prettiness. But I digress. So I'm on the bus, near the back, on one of those side-ways seats just before the very back seat, the kind that have two very confined seats. At confusion this boy got on. He was my age, but very much a boy: wide-eyed, slightly cautious in his movements, slouchy. I think he might have been just a little developmentally delayed, but in a very angelic way. The bus was very crowded, except for the back seat, which had two people bookending and three seats empty. Still, when he got to the back, he paused, and he got this face like he was thinking, not to the point of pain, but just enough so that I in a blind moment of sociability, scooched my bum over, just a half an inch, but enough to say, "You can sit here." I didn't actually expect him to, and yet he bashfully smiled as he took the seat. I took my right arm from where it was connected at the hand with the left and leaned my elbow on the back of my seat so I could continue looking out the window. I was half facing him, and although I was clearly looking out the window, he arose from his ten year-old's slouch and straighted up, looking about as comfortable as I imagine my father would trying yoga for the first time. Over the next thirty seconds he found a comfortable position, although the hair on his forearm was standing on end. He got off eight very lengthy minutes later, and as his feet hit the cement, he took off in this incredibly awkward but beautiful run.

It wasn't anything. Just a moment.

mothafuggah.

Ok, so I just wrote this big long thing and my ass of a computer just ate it, and so je suis le pissed, but here we go anyway.

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Well, the floodgates have been opened. Very few people know this about me, but I don't believe in 'liking' something, or even 'really grooving with' something. I get full-out lobster-bib obsessed. This takes a lot of energy, as you may image, so I have been known to purposefully avoid certain pop cultural "things" that I know that should I be exposed to them, rampant obession will follow. Take RENT, for example; I put off listening to that for years, and then one day. . . cut to a month later a month later and I'm weeping in the middle of the Centennial Concert Hall. It was very much a wet-nap and cuddle-time situation.

So when I took the vows of Chastity where Tori Amos was concerned years ago, I really, truly, meant them. I listened to one song and capital L -oved it, but convinced myself that this was only due to the emotional placement of Siren - said song - in Great Expectations. But then on Thursday, I'm trolling my way down Corydon when I come across Boys For Pele, her 1996 album, in Music Traders. '"It's just one album and besides, she's kinda weird so I probably won't even like her all that much."

...

I freakin' love her, God damnit!

So now it's all Moses crashing the sea onto the Egyptians, except they weren't newly infatuated with a woman who's produced eight other albums, when of course I simply must have, cause of my freakin' addictive personality, and let me tell you, those other ones are not gonna cost me $7.95 neither. No sir! And let's talk for a minute about time commitment; this is not a woman that puts out wimpy indie-rock 10-track albums, oh no. We're talking anywhere between 12 and 19 on one album. That's 150 songs! So goodbye social life and hello Ms. Amos and her motherfucking gorgeously ethereal sound!

Ok, so in other news, a friend and I were talking last night and we were having this rather philisophical conversation. I say 'rather' cause it wasn't Plato and Aristotle here, mostly due to the fact that our philsophical conversations mostly arise out of trying to out-trump one another with quirky weirdness. Anyway, so we're all discussing the concepts of truth and reality and existential crap like this when he drops religion on me. Ok, back the truck up, I say, Are you sure you want to open this door? I mean, we've opened it a crack before, but once we do this, it's, like, open, and stuff. Now let's just say that my friend and I have very different spiritual backgrounds. We are both well-educated, open-minded people, but when the observant and the agnostic get together it can get messy. Well, he responded, I'm up for it if you are, not unlike two fourteen year olds guys playing 'truth or dare' for the first time (Hey, I said we were both open minded). So we begin, and I think this is going to be one of those awful debates that will enevitably end in the statement, "Well, that's why it's called faith." However through a series of realizations, we come to the conclusion that while he adheres strongly to a religion and I don't really adhere other than culturally, that we can both agree on the fact that NO ONE KNOWS DICK! I mean, we believe, sure, but despite protests from both sides - ok, mostly one side - no one knows, and the fact that we were both so humble in our own humanity was just beeee-yutiful.

I think about religion a lot, hey?

A potentially offensive blog entry

Do you ever think, "Hey, um, am I big racist?"

I was at Zeller's this eve fetching wall tack to hang some of the fine prints I have amassed, and when I got to the line there was this black couple arguing with the check-out madame about the discount on conditioner or something. Now these were middle of the road, over-weight, not-overly educated people, these assumptions from sweeping generalization in regards to their verbal and physical communications, and well, my eyes. It wasn't like I thought any particularily racial thoughts, like, "Oh black people, just hurry up!" but I thought perhaps I was annoyed because subconsciously I resented them.

Then I began pondering my views on other aspects of the non-caucasian minorities...or rather majorities, cause if those kids ever got it in their heads to bring us down, we'd be dead. Anyway, so I thought about the stereotypical drunk native downtown, and the G'ed out ghetto superstars with their skull caps and their ebonics, and I was like, "Oh God! They all annoy me! I'm Hitler!" And that's a pretty big statement for a guy that come next Holocaust is donning a pink star.

But wait! Then I thought, "Ok, so I'm Satan, but what if it was white people acting like that?" And I thought about drunk white people down town, and white guys preaching mysogeny and bad fashion sense, and lastly I thought about white, chubby people arguing about Pears Conditioner and it hit me - I hate them too! Well, not hate, but they bug me. So I'm not a racist; I am pissed off by all dumbasses! Black, white, asian, native, straight, queer, stupid, or just plain moronic.

Pink star, here I come!