Crash No. 5

No bear this time. And for those who are keeping track, this was the first one that was not my fault.

No sirree. There was no reason why the midsized boat, captained by an elderly black man who—and I wish I were just making this up—was literally eating fried chicken and chewing on a toothpick, could claim it had right-of-way. Pulling out of a mini-mall to turn left does not give you right-of-way against oncoming traffic, especially if said oncoming traffic (me) has to veer into oncoming traffic (them) to avoid you, so that you—quite luckily, due to the skilled maneuvering on this same oncoming traffic (me, again)—barely tap each other.

Stop!

Do not steal the stop sign right outside the Department of Public Safety office. They will catch you. Especially if you decide to stop in the middle of the street next to the stop sign and put on your hazard lights so that your friend (Julianne) can run out with a knife to pry off the last remaining nail. While it may be true that the stop sign is now remarkably easy to steal—because someone pryed off that last remaining nail—that white SUV you see might actually be an unmarked DPS vehicle that will pursue you. And if you don't pull over right away when they flash their white lights and a low-speed chase ensues down McClintock towards Parkside, they will call for reinforcements. And reinforcements will come. And the bitchy officer who will take down all your friend's information won't even crack a smile when she says, "You could be going to jail for this." And when she makes your friend return the sign, you might be tempted to giggle, which will only prompt the officer to remind you that you are an "accomplice." And it will occur to you, isn't stealing a stop sign attempted manslaughter, and thus a felony? And while the anxiety of the moment might make you inclined to giggle again, giggling at felonies is inappropriate. So even though the stop sign may look like it's begging for a new home—just lying there, propped against the orange construction sign—avoid the inevitable faux pas and talk your friend out of it. The officer will only tell you that what you should have done anyway.

Rise of the Machines

The makers of the voting machines say no one can look inside of them, because they would reveal trade secrets. What secrets? Isn’t their job to count votes? Or do they get secret messages from Mars?

And all three owners of the companies who make these machines are donors to the Bush administration.

So Bush will probably win if the country is covered with these balloting machines. He can’t lose.

—Gore Vidal, LA Weekly Interview 11/20/03

Booty Calls Dos y Tres

Lacked the same endearing novelty when they came in at eight-thirty Friday morning and nine o'clock Saturday morning, respectively.

My Brother

gave his girlfriend a $110 white gold necklace to celebrate their one-month anniversary. And I just want someone to give flowers to. Seriously, if you dated me, I'd give you flowers every day. I wouldn't mean anything by them, but I have wandered through the downtown flower market twice in the past month, and those flowers are so beautiful, I'm just craving an excuse to buy them.

I don't like having a blog...

I realize there's something patently absurd about someone who writes to the anonymous void that is the internet. It reeks of a need for self-validation, and I assure you, I am not that person. These anecdotes are not latent cries for help. They keep me distracted on occasion, and that is all.

Case In Point

Today I photographed strip malls in Inglewood, and this, dear friends, is why I have become obsessed with them. I found one that featured not only a check cashing place but 99¢ Stuff and Thangs, Neville's House of Glamour, Hot Gossip Nails, Ms. Bea's Hats, and a barbershop.

Brilliant, no?

Strip Malls

I chose the topic, because I didn't want to do portraits. I didn't want to do what everyone else would do. In fact, I didn't want to do something pretty, since even that can be passé. So I chose strip malls. But now that I have spent hours driving around in seach of them to take their pictures, I've become obsessed. They are fascinating. First of all, do you know how much they have in common with each other? Donut shops, check cashing centers, and 99¢ stores are remarkably consistent strip mall staples. That and the one on Santa Monica and Vine had hookers hanging out outside of it when I went to photograph it this morning.

And I realize how crazy this makes me sound, but each one really does have its own aura. Just look at how much they differ geographically: how much ones in our neighborhood differ from those in Hollywood or Japantown.

Yes, they're ugly, but they're also amazing.

Play Crushes

There's the boy in this organization I'm in whose solitude is adorable and whose sexuality is still indeterminate.
There's the boy in another organization I'm in who's taken, but his laughter is addictive and contagious.
There's the boy I joined an organization in order to meet but was so dumbstruck by his presence that my pursuit was in vain.
There's the boy I've never met but have seen—in movies.
There's the boy whose LiveJournal I became addicted to, but could never contact due to his stance on certain ethical issues that shall remain unnamed.
There's the boy I contacted on the internet ages ago but who never wrote back. He actually said, "Hi," to me on campus recently, and I like to think of that as progress.
There's the boy I went on a date with once but didn't really like. Then I found out he was deeper and more sincere than I am, and I was humbled by my blasé.
There's the boy who was in a play I wrote—who is straight. Actually, there are a few of those, since my only criteria in casting is physical attractiveness.
There's the boy I loved freshman year only to realize how pretentious he was as the year progressed.
There's the boy who's intelligent, sexy and experienced, but he's a friend of friends, and I'm not sure how to break that barrier. "Hey, do you want to hang out?"
There's the boy whose intellectual catfights with me are pitiful at best, whose intellectual counterpart is most closely—quite literally—a cat. But he's stocky and built like a corn-fed midwestern boy, and I hate what he stirs inside me.

And, finally, of course, there's the boy I'm in love with and will probably always be in love with—stupidly, stupidly in love with—precisely because he is unattainable. Imagine: if I really did take dating seriously and found someone I could relate to, the pedestal I've carved for myself would crumble before me; no longer could I take self-satisfaction in conceiving of myself as so intelligent as not to have a match. So I pine after the boy who could play match for me and wonder why all of my play crushes have yet to work out.

Neverland

For those of you who missed my glorious debut last night, be sure to check me out sometime over the next two nights, because I look Peter Pantastic. For someone who had never sewn a day in his life, the costume I made for myself is quite an achievement if I do say so myself. For those of you who may not see it, let me just say Peter Pan has never been as sexy as I have made him: the costume is so tight I have to zipper into it—yes, I sewed a zipper.

And to top it all off, I walked around all night asking people if they'd like a kiss. Then I handed them a thimble. Yes, I am that fucking adorable.

Bench

Today I was able to bench ninety-five pounds. Yes, kids, ninety-five pounds. For those who are keeping track, that is a twenty pound increase since I began what I thought was a farce of a weight training program. My scrappy, five-foot-six frame is able to wield a weight roughly seventy-five percent of its own body mass. How crazy is that?

My Novel

I was going to start my novel today, but I didn’t. I watched television instead. My agent, of course, thinks I have been working on it for the past three months, but I have actually been perfecting my powers of telekinesis. I can now lift my bookshelf for over three minutes so long as I don’t flinch. It may not lend itself to literary celebrity, but washing dishes has become a snap.

Boy

I had a date tonight. With a boy. It was very cordial. There were no sparks but there might be, if we went on another one. Or ten. Or twenty. (Who makes that call?) I asked if I could call him, but he said he's busy next week—he is, with three midterms—and he'd see me URAP.

I kept making these odd and inappropriate comments about race, and there were awkward beats, like when our food came three minutes after placing our order.

It isn't God that instilled in me this unfulfillable need for companionship but: capitalism, the media, social construction, what have you.

So I resort to polite conversation about what bands we like—and wonder why it feels like I'm missing the connection.

music

David once described the music I listen to as "Rent music," by which he meant that I listen to music in which people sing their heart out! (Think: "One Song, Glory...") Tonight I received two such CDs from Amazon—my little personal self-reward for the essay competition—Granian's Hang Around and Guster's Goldfly. I love my passionate, poppy music.

Barista no more!

I quit the Coffee Beanery today. My prize money will take care of me for a while. And the romance of working with coffee lost its appeal very quickly. On the first day of the job, I made the comment that baristas inherently had sex appeal. My co-workers couldn't relate at all—they just looked very confused. And that fantasy died pretty quickly. There's nothing all that sexy about those shirts (which I have return, incidentally). Even though I didn't hate the actual work, the job made me stressed and cranky. And now I can sleep in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, like a normal, healthy college student.

the end of history

I feel as though it would be appropriate to write some profound political treatise tonight, but maybe not. Isn't this most recent election really symptomatic of something broader that had nothing to do with anything that happened today?

I like boys, and I was trying to psyche myself up to ask for one's number tonight. But I've never done that before, and its hard.

Sometimes the world is too sad for words.

Get Real

In order to salvage what would otherwise have been a bust of a celebratory evening, I decided I would go out and rent a cheesy, gay, coming-of-age flick and commune with myself.

Contrary to the rave reviews on amazon, Get Real is one of the tritest pieces of crap I've ever seen. And I was looking forward to it! A British film! A gay British film!

And I realize that as a cheesy, gay, coming-of-age flick, it had a certain formula to follow, but it was far too chockful of lines like:

"I'm so scared."
"I know."
"How the fuck can you know? You're not me!"
"I know."

The rumors of the last hundred-fifty years are true: the British Empire really is on the decline.

celebration

I learned today that I am runner-up for the fairly prestigious W.W. Norton Scholar's Prize, so I have netted no small amount of prize money. I called friends with whom I could celebrate, and while I took comfort that the list felt longer than I thought it would be, no one was available. A striking majority were in such far-flung places as Bakersfield, Newport, Reno, and Arizona. And the rest didn't answer their phones. A shame, since dinner would have been on me.

Boy

There's this really hot boy on campus that I've always known peripherally—a friend of friends, you know. We'll call him Jon. Freshman year I was thrilled to find out that Jon was gay. Really he's gay? Now, I never actually pursued him. Even though he was hot and nice and smart, I didn't think our interests overlapped too much. And as hot and nice and smart as he was, he was probably out of my league. But I still like him and giggle, chat and smile whenever he talks to me.

So, three weeks ago, when I was drinking with a bunch of friends, one of them—we'll call him Noel—was going through his cell phone to see who his should call, and of course, Jon's number came popped up, and I said,

"Dude, you should totally call him. He's so hot."

So Jon came over, and we all hung out, but nothing scandalous happened. No crazy sailor-suit shenanigans. But that episode, along with a couple of subsequent conversations, must have made an impression, because he asked Noel whether I liked him.

Dun dun dun.

Noel said yes. Jon said, "Well, tell him I'd just like to be friends."

Noel told me tonight, and I'm placed in the awkward situation of being rejected without ever actually pursuing the boy.

Nice.

Booty Call

I got a booty call last night. I've never gotten a booty call before, as in a literal ("ring ring") call to inquire about some booty. Unfortunately, the boy in question was on ecstacy and "I just had a fight with my boyfriend."

I can't be that guy.

So I saw him this afternoon, and we both played it off like nothing happened. And it made me very grateful to be a gay man, because somehow I don't think any other type of person could master the same nonchalance we had.

It made me wonder: If I were to call random boys I have vague crushes on and pretend to be drunk, could I also get away with such forward behavior? Would they be as kind, letting me down nicely and pretending nothing happened?

I hope things have worked out with his boyfriend.