Kevin: i think i'm going to go try out Cinco De Mayo. Any interest?
Alex: Hmm, I was thinking of going to Russ and Daughters for a Superheeb
Alex: I will go with you, sure
Kevin: well whatever, dude, it's no skin off my ass if you eat elsewhere
Alex: but I will eat light so as to save room for whitefish and wasabi roe
Alex: and since when do you say "no skin off my ass"
Kevin: i say it when i talk about food. because nothing says delicious like the phrase "skin off my ass"
Alex: I figured you would apply it more to situations of social equality and cultural sensitivity
Kevin: no, for those sorts of things i usually just yell, "whatever, bitches!" and throw up a gang sign or something
Alex: I never should have let you listen to Wu Tang
Alex: look at you now
Kevin: By the way from now on you need to call me the KZA |
rikc: my dad wants to buy me fucking shoes? I can't do this myself?
alex: Let the man buy you some queer-kickers
rikc: I will kick all the queers
alex: (secretly kickin' it with queers) |
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Mar. 10th, 2008 @ 07:34 pm
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Sometimes I find myself longing for the flat neon innocence of the mid-1980s. With synthesizers and pigtails and Pogo-Balls and shit. The fat-fuck Reebok high-tops and unironic appreciation for Michael J. Fox.
Now in the late years of the 2000s, it seems like we've co-opted most of that culture but made it up to look fuckin' mean. "Small Wonder" today would a 6-foot-tall pale vaguely Jewish American Apparel model with telltale white dust around the corners of her nostrils, way too much mascara and eyeliner, and an expression on her face like she wants to rip off your dick. |
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I'm leaving my door closed. You all are on your own. |
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Jan. 1st, 2008 @ 03:23 am
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I'm keeping my door open in case anyone has nightmares. |
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At this juncture perhaps we find ourselves running out. Having used up all the accumulated goodwill from earnest intentions, finding worn down the pity and sympathy garnered from past trials and woes, and feeling drained all too quick the charming attraction wrung from overambitious romanticism. Where once these qualities afforded momentum to carry on through the days, now they bear a weight of outmoded banality. Coasting on charm stops working, and then there's no substance to follow up with. |
One of these days I will make one too many references to Kevin's mom.
And he will kick down the door to my room
Throw off his gloves
Pull my shirt over my head
and pound the living shit out of me
Before bitterly demanding, "You stay away from Mommy." |
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eff.
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Mar. 15th, 2007 @ 09:34 pm
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WHAT THE FUCK
FUCKING HOW
WHAT IN FUCKING
HOW THE FUCK
I DON'T FUCKING
WHERE THE FUCK
I FUCKING CAN'T
WHAT THE FUCK
god dammit. |
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Feb. 27th, 2007 @ 08:13 pm
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I don't know what else there is to tell you in here that I wouldn't already tell you in person. At least what I'd want you to know about. Anything I should be telling you would need to come with all the proper accessories: the nervous adjusting of my collar, a few swift gesticulations, the sly cocking of my brow, slight theatrical fluctuations in the tone of my voice, with a touch on your shoulder and a wave of my hand to let you know it's not that big a deal (despite how dramatic I make it sound). I can't get those across here.
So what's left to be done with you? |
(1:52:41 AM) Alex: Basically I wish we could fall in love and run away together
(1:54:07 AM) Alex: Carve out a place for ourselves in this world; a place where people can understand the clingy, co-dependent bond between a nervous nonsexual dweeb and his bi-curious lesbian lover
(1:54:26 AM) Kait: you're adorable.
Acting: determined Soundtrack: Billy Joel // She's Always A Woman |
This is the first year that I'll have spent Christmas alone. I've been assigned to work on the two weeks around the holiday, with my only day off being the 25th itself. My folks will be in Maryland, and Best Friend Kevin will be in Michigan with his family. Hopefully our roommate will be out of town as well, just for a little reprieve from all the tension of that situation.
Truth be told, I'm grateful that my schedule affords me the luxury of avoiding family this year. After spending the last year waist-deep in a boiling pot of dysfunction, I don't have to face my addled father and pretend that I enjoy his company and glib attempts at winning my favor, or tag along with my mother as she launches into transparent escapism with the same creeps that she partied with as a reckless teenager. And for all I care, my back-biting grandmothers and aunts and uncles and cousins can choke on my fuck.
Usually this time of year is one that I look forward to, for getting closer with loved ones and admiring the trappings of seasonal traditions. In the past, I've gone gung-ho with giving gifts and catching up with those I haven't seen in ages. It doesn't show from beneath the many layers of social anxiety and pessimism and compulsive badgering that I will have sunk into by Christmas Eve, but deep down I am a beacon of holiday cheer for one and all.
But this year? I don't think there's much cheer for me to give - or gifts for that matter, as it seems I will forever be hopelessly strapped for cash. And if that's how it's got to be, it might as well be that way. No skin off my ass.
So if anyone needs me, I'll be unwinding in Brooklyn on Christmas. My plans consist of bowls of rice pudding, mugs of cocoa, sprawling out under a blanket on the couch in pajamas, listening to John Coltrane and Chieftains CDs, and catching a few of the "24 Hours of A Christmas Story" in between viewings of The 400 Blows (I like to watch it this time of year, don't ask me why). And who knows, maybe I'll masturbate in Kevin's room a little. |
Inspired by a conversation with Internet Celebrity Layabout Rikchard Serious, I present this snippet from my forthcoming epic tome, Legendary Tales of Brooklyn.
The Genius stood behind the bar with the iPod in hand, gazing ponderously over indentations in the dark blue labeling tape affixed to its back. Deciphering the lettered glyphs, with perplexed hesitation his mouth silently formed the words, "...Sister, I'm a poet?"
Danny responded by giving an anxious shuffling of his feet, exaggeratedly kicking them to each side with a twist of his hips. The great smile on his face resembled the expression of a cat presenting a dead sparrow on the doorstep. "Those are Morrissey lyrics!" he guffawed. |
He packed up his rented car, closed the door on our apartment one last time, said his goodbyes and doled out a couple long hugs. Now he's gone.
It may have been my nature in the past to do so, but I don't want to wax poetic about all this. Because I know he'd be the first one to snicker at any glib attempts at philosophical ponderings that I could make about our friendship, or about our tenure as the best roommates ever. But as much as I wish I could avoid such cliches and platitudes, and as pathetic as it sounds even in my own head, there's just this sentiment that I didn't have the courage to say to his face. I just want it off my chest.
You were my big brother. And our time together has had a tremendous impact on me such that I can't begin to describe. You gave me guidance.
Goodbye, Daniel. I miss you already. Soundtrack: Harvey Danger // Radio Silence. |
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All is pernicious enterprise, and none will come so close to ruin as we can find. |
1. What did you do in 2005 that you'd never done before?
Traversed space and time.
( It's the return of the Mack, right under this cut. )
Thanks for a better year, guys. Here's wishing the next will bring us more good fortune.
Acting: content Soundtrack: The Zombies // This Will Be Our Year. |
The moment I stepped onto the platform at Grand Central Station I remained in a state of constant motion. Hailing a cab brought me to the Museum of Modern Art, where my feet carried me along a loopy tango from exhibit to exhibit as my eyes would lock upon a piece approaching my view, taking as much as I could in before dipping around and sashaying towards the next. But moving at such a pace accorded me only an ephemeral appreciation of the works, and I was soon back out the door and going northward to Central Park. The sidewalks swept under me as a blur, while the warmth of the July sun could only trickle through the canopy of trees above to provide flashing beats of light. By way of the Strawberry Fields site being too packed with kids and obstructive tourist-types to make my intended reflections, I descended upon the rowboat lake and finally allowed myself to slow just enough to climb atop the rocky hillock and take in the scenery with a few snapshots. The day had found me imbued with a newfound energy and even ambling endlessly through a five-block radius around Broadway and Columbus Avenues, finally feeling hopeful and capable.
And then the bottom dropped out from under me. It was 7:30 and I was sitting alone on the corner of 65th and Central Park West, the wind knocked out of me and all my vigor dried up. The musculature of my portly frame had given in and left me slumped over, while the sweat of walking ceaselessly for 6 hours was finally washing over me and soaked through my shirt. I was too dejected to want to stay, but too aching and stubborn to leave.
Sitting beside me on the steps was a small, white ceramic ninja statue. It was hollowed out with a large hole in the back for the intended purpose of holding tacky mixed drinks and being served to customers at those Japanese hibachi joints, but I had taken the liberty of stuffing it with carnations as a kind of silly gift. Now it seemed the gift would go unaccepted, leaving me with this caustic passenger to carry home with me.
“Time and self-loathing have a way of obscuring sincerity.”
As I remained still and limp, my eyes drifted downward to the sidewalk and absently focused on a crack in the pavement while I went about brooding. I didn’t see the figure approaching me. So it caused my head to jerk around with a start when I heard the statement, “You look like you’ve just lost a friend.”
Not knowing who I was talking to at first, I immediately responded, “Yeah, something like that,” while my mind shifted gears from solitary rumination to wary conversation with strangers.
“I’m sorry, I don’t usually just stop and talk to people like this,” she explained. This was a rather short, older woman in her 60s, thin almost to the point of looking malnourished and sporting a messy shock of bright white hair atop her head. In one hand she carried a small plastic grocery bag that seemed to sway by her side and slap at her thigh. “You’re not thinking of hurting yourself, I hope.”
The snarkier side of me would have liked to tell her, ‘Gee, you know I wasn’t thinking about that before. But now that you mention it…’ Instead I just brushed her concern off with a soft chuckle. “No, no. Thankfully, I’m too narcissistic for that.”
“Okay then,” she answered blankly, apparently not getting my attempt at humor, “Because you know, there’s only one person with the right to take your life.” She was building up to the big dramatic revelation of who that might be, as her outstretched finger slowly pointed up to the sky. I was hoping she’d say Spider-Man, but instead it was, “The man upstairs, God.”
Yeah, of course. Why not some god talk, I thought.
Thus begat her aimless dissertation on the benefits of religion, from stammered scripture quotes to recommendations on Christian-centric self-help books by someone named Cloud. A few times I attempted to explain that converting would do me little good, as my Agnosticism is probably the one thing in my life that I am comfortable and happy with. Yet still the woman continued, offering to take me to church support groups and loan me books from her apartment. The more she tried to drag me home with her, the more the conversation moved past simple testifying and persuasion and into possible cult indoctrination.
The little ceramic ninja merely looked on, contributing nothing to the conversation.
It took some time to firmly assure the woman that my situation wasn’t all that dire, and that I likely couldn’t join her church groups due to my “Just Visiting” status within the city. Finally she began to move on her way, but not before backing up three more times to remind me about the suggested authors in the Pat Robertson Book Club.
As she departed, I sighed and shook my head with frustration. What is it about me that the Jesus freaks know just when to swoop in and prey on my emotional fragility? My head then seemed to subconsciously jerk around, and I looked to the ornate stone columns and heavy wooden doors behind me. Oh. I’m sitting in front of a church. So maybe I was asking for it.
”With a healthy dose of indignation, everything’s a pleasant frustration."
The time continued to crawl along, and I sat with cell phone in hand in the hope that my call would come. By 8:30 it still hadn’t. With the sun nearly set on the city, my only option left was to pack up and return home in defeat. So I slung my backpack over my shoulder and gathered up my ceramic ninja companion, and began to march South.
The ninja held in my hand felt like a white flag to the world. The mark of a failure. I felt compelled to give in to a fit of exasperation and smash it on the ground, just to be done with it all. But looking over the small trinket, blooming from its orifices with bundles of pink carnations, I couldn’t bring myself to. It was too pretty and sweet to give up so quickly.
Acting: down and out. Soundtrack: Paul Simon // Long, Long Day. |
"If there's one thing that can make a desperately lonely guy feel even more distressed, it's looking at an empty email inbox. As though even the spammers want nothing to do with you."
It occurs to me that it's been nearly two years since I began this journal, and I have yet to divulge the meaning of "The Skunk Paradox." I realize that usually Livejournal usernames aren't intended to be explained, but are rather just a mishmash of words and phrases often culled from popular culture. I also realize that in the case of those usernames that are explainable, most other people just don't give a goddamn either way. But because the name ties into the themes of my entries, and because I think it might be giving people the false impression I'm in league with the Furry crowd, now is as good a time as any to let you know what I'm getting at.
It started with a glib, egotistical concept for a "sociological theory" that I was trying to concoct three or so years back:
"The desire to express one's worth, to transcend preconceived notions and bias in order to reveal the true self; a need ultimately hindered by everyone else's desire to suppress it, for fear that it will make a stink." You don't have to tell me how ridiculously self-righteous that is. It is the height of pretension. The product of an angry kid looking to justify his dissatisfaction with his place in the world. A silly slogan that wouldn't fit on a tee shirt, born out of a need to pin the blame for my petty bullshit on society instead of my own foolishness -- and because I figured it would earn me some credence as a (facetiously) self-proclaimed "Pop Culture Philosopher." And I kinda gave it up after a while, finally coming to see that I must have sounded like a complete boob whenever I would espouse that trite nonsense.
The representation of the skunk in the name doesn’t come from any ideal of a "totem animal," or whatever those types want to call it. I just saw it as a metaphor for alienation. Here you have this small, otherwise docile creature whose presence can immediately inspire shock and trepidation in people; not because it can eat you or poison you or steal your credit cards, but because it produces a really bad smell. Sure it might make you a little ill or even sting, but as defense mechanisms go it produces more unpleasantness than harm. But still people will fearfully keep their distance, too scared of upsetting it to notice it's just a furry little critter. Once again, this all adds up to a rather self-serving bit of hodgepodge just to pat myself on the back for being a jerk.
So if I knew it was a lot of malarkey, why do I trot it back out here as the basis of my public diatribes? Because somewhere between then and now I got myself kicked in the crotch, and I have yet to dislodge the foot. Metaphorically speaking.
There came a night when I felt as though I’d finally figured it out. Maybe I am surrounded by a world full of assholes – people taking pleasure in knocking you down a peg, putting you in your place out of sheer spite. But at the same time, maybe I’m just as much a part of the problem. Maybe I really just push people away with my cynicism and bitterness; maybe I’m prone to lashing out at those who want to help just as much as those who antagonize. I’m just too stupid and scared to know the difference anymore.
And so the skunk is no longer the product of solitude, but his own indignation. Whether I mean to or not, I’m the one who is keeping the rest of the world at a distance. When you hide away, letting your fear get the best of you and giving scowls or disinterested huffs to anyone who tries to lure you out, then you’ve condemned yourself. You find that even genuine, proffered affections can’t be trusted.
But this has all become a rambling mess. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I am a fucking idiot.
Acting: guilty Soundtrack: Billy Joel // Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel). |
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Jul. 12th, 2005 @ 03:51 am
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Rise up, you tamed monster, and menace us once more. Though your claws are chipped and your fangs have decayed, your aching bellows still wrest us from our complacence with inexorable quivering. |
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