bastards turned of my phone over 30 bucks. wendy asked me to do her a favor, go to this show with her. The National and Grizzly Bear. it was at Hammerstein Ballroom. every time i walk by hammerstein i look at the lines and am so glad i'm not going in. still have no money - bought cigarettes with quarters; tomorrow i buy pouch tabac with nickels and dimes. four dollars in bills to the MTA guy in the booth who is wearing a Barak Obama pin. almost tell him something cos civil servants of any stripe are not allowed to participate in campaigning. i gotta say that even though i will vote for obama, i've seen some really, nasty, shady stuff from his supporters lately. that douche in DUMBO. bland acceptance here that obama has already won or that anything is legit so long as you worship obama, etc. uncomfortable. Uptown A made every stop. despite having no phone wendy and i found each other outside easily and a staff girl who lingered too long let us know that we can't come back in if we go outside to smoke cigarettes, but sometimes people smoke things inside and it's not a big deal, and if that's the hammerstein's policy...that's fucked up. inside smoking is $500 bucks. like i'm gonna gamble with something like that. rock and roll? held her bag while she peed in Andrews. talked about stuff i'm not to put in my blog. wendy and i went down to the lincoln tunnel entrance and smoked metal cigarettes by the berm before going back to go in. i pretended to talk on my useless phone very close to her to block view. coming back we were separated on 34th Street by a river of slowly moving cars (both directions.) on our way inside a bogey in the line yells out bad things happen here. inside it is like hell. wendy's name is not on the list. a glimmer of hope emerges that wendy and i will spend the next three+ hours smoking cigarettes on 34th Street until the show is over but a girl came out and let us in. she looked a lot like someone i know. didn't wanna be awkward so stayed mum. Stella people on stage making poop jokes or something. couldn't understand what anyone on stage was saying until we crossed this invisible line. before it was all groa wanh wanh groa. we went downstairs to use the bathroom and there were all these guys standing around awkwardly outside the female facilities. i found this to be creepy, but then after finishing my leak i joined their ranks and instantly understood. more uncomfortable as i realize i have crossed over into the special world of young, white, straight people. wendy conceeds and let us sit upstairs away from the people initially, but then the people followed us there. beer in plastic cups and from the stage a total sensory assault. can't hear from the speakers. can't see from the lights. can't feel from my cramped condition. can't taste from my...from my...started worrying that the girls on either side of me could hear me breathing and would think i was masturbating. gradually harder and harder to breathe, and then i'm so conscious of my breathing that it's taking all of my attention just to breathe properly, and hopefully quietly enough to not disturb the people sitting next to me who are also being assaulted with the same decibels. there was prolly no way anyone in that place could hear me breathe. wendy couldn't even hear me scream. after a while she ditched me for the VIP section. i knew she was coming back, but there were so many people around me and i was having so much drama with taking in oxygen -- and then the really unreasonable stuff started happening. started hallucinating that the place was on fire, or was going to catch fire. started seeing everyone with melting skin. and then they are all talking about me and how fat i am. i bolted right before wendy came back to bring me to the VIP. on my way out the girl says you know there's no reentry and i nod yes. on the way to the train worry if this means i am old, but then remember i was exactly the same way when i was younger.


also this,
looking down into the darkness of the floor area in front of the stage everyone keeps checking their phones. little square bits of light shining up randomly. i liked that. it was neat.

Did anyone see this most recent episode of South park?
If you did, then you know what I'm going to talk about. If not, then here is the rub.

In this week's episode, repeatedly, in front of the watching eyes of animated children, animations of George Lucas and Steven Spielberg anally raped Indiana Jones. In a movie theatre, in the woods, and most graphically, on top of a pinball machine.

In the pinball rape scene, George Lucas pins Indy to the machine, pulls down his pants, and without a thought thrusts his penis into the fictional character's buttocks. Then the camera tightens in for a shot of Lucas's face getting red with blush as he dumps a load of semen into Indy's ass.

And I ask you, where in this were the condoms?

Lucas didn't put a rubber suit on his sailor before penetrating Indiana Jones's ass. Neither does Spielberg. What kind of example does this set for the youth of America? Of the world? That condoms aren't necessary when you rape? Besides the obvious folly of leaving your DNA inside a crime scene, are we forgetting that our world is one of nasty sexually transmitted diseases that don't care how non-consensual the sex is? Just because you are taking a hole by force does NOT mean that you aren't taking syphilis along with it. Or HIV, etc.

What about the children? Wake up, Matt Stone & Trey Parker!
They will learn it from watching you.

i don't understand how someone can worship joanna newsome, but not like leon redbone. i mean, come on, it's almost 2009. we have a whole new decade coming upon us, ready to be defined. 2012 is only three years away! what are you doing with your time? getting angry about gas prices? pining away for someone to pine for? coming up with sensitive rationals that explain your inexplicable vote for mccain/palin? stuff all that. america's over anyway. Resist Ye Not EVIL. the real question is how are we gonna go out -- and i say retro retro.



when the bad thing happens, let it catch us in the act of reminiscing over the past 135 years of our recorded history. let us watch our cave paintings and absorb the awesomeness that is the world we created in our own image while we still have the technology and leisure time to enjoy it. when the bad thing happens, we will blame ourselves and frigidity will prevail. when the war comes home everything will change. in a time of crisis our culture should be unable to sustain the worshiping of youth and frivolity. truth be known, the young are worthless. i mean, if you hafta kill some family at a distant farm so that you can take over their house and lands and try to eek out an existence in a time of famine and plague and warfare, what would be more useless to you, than, say, a young asian with a pink purse who can pick out your nail polish to fit your outfit? There is a show on TV featuring this person RIGHT NOW. that person would only be useful in a post-apocalyptic future for me, so that i could have something to fuck, and i don't think that would be a luxury i could afford in that type of environment. most likely i would hafta talk my way into marrying some farmer's ugly daughter.

unless i could get a gig as adviser to a thug warlord. maybe they would through me boys to rape while they pillage.

THE FUTURE!



then Groucho in 1930 trying to arrange a lesbianonic 3way before abandoning it for an orgy of young nymphos.



but before everything goes austere we need to make pornographic recreations of marx brothers movies. an auteur approach to the fatty arbuckle story, where we cross the lines and really have some fat fuck break a glass wine bottle inside an actor's vagina because the reality and truth of the moment is SO FUCKING IMPORTANT for your AUTEURNESS. but besides that, a wholemeal approach to creation pushing the future as the past. i mean, the past in the future. there. living with us side by side.

and then Groucho as God. we are all Ms. Dumonts, prey to his whims despite our stiff-necked stance. Wizard of Oz as Book of Deuteronomy. Buster Keaton as Abraham. The Lumeiere brothers come to Earth and wrestle with Jacob.

Etc.

i have a crush on my boss. i didn't think this would happen. i just drove out to park slope to meet him for dinner, and i'm not quite clear what...he has a boyfriend, and i can't imagine anyone getting a hard on for me right now in this shape i find myself in. i don't know what it is. maybe he needs a friend. it's fucking up my system. the more time i spend around him the more i want him. i want to know him as a child and bring him back home and own his body and then after listen to all those stories people tell you about themselves, but you can only really stand it when you've just met them and need to information to consume them.

i find myself fantasizing about the moles and freckles on his skin that i can't see because they are covered with clothes. today i finally saw his legs, covered in swaths of golden hair like red heads get. he's so normal and it's driving me crazy.

he reminds me of me. his life experiences, upbringing, and resolution to date are all part of a path i can easily identify myself with. he's so obviously in love with his boyfriend. it's eating a hole through my shell and i am getting hungry for something i can never have. not necessarily him, just this sense of completeness that i have only achieved with cocaine, and then only the first handful of times.

i don't even know what i would...i don't know why this is relevant, but he's totally white. irish-italian. it feels weird to even think about. a white guy. what do white guys taste like? dear lord am i one of those? even if there were something there, he lives in philly. philly. i need to meet someone who lives no more than three train stations away from me, and i'm talking about the A/C/J/M/Z/2/3/4 or 5, not the acela express. i need something to fuck up. i need things to go badly so i'm not doubting my decision to go it alone til my days are done. once i start getting distracted i am lost. buck up, tristan. a relationship would kill everything you've been building just as badly as if you go boy crazy again. it's just sex and our bodies will rot and our meat prisons will rupture and the spark will rejoin the ________ and that's all there is. live pure. live simple. do not wake me. let me slumber.

in my head it's not like we are together together. we just get high and have competitions to see who can get the most head in a dark room, or, like picking up boys to use and then kicking them out so we can play boggle.

i don't know.
something.

i also still have the crush on my hairdresser and am afraid to do anything about it cos even though i think he might be keen...well, there's a whole lotta boys in this town you can fuck, but an attractive & skilled hairdresser who will fix you up AND shave your beard and back for less than $50 - there's only justin.

boethius had it wrong. there's not one wheel of fortune. just many, many wheels, and as soon as you think you've gotten past something you find yourself back down in that mud clinging to the frame and waiting for the motion to drag you back up to the top again. 31 and you learn the lessons from when you were 23 and 28 over again even though you've got the notes cribbed into your heart.

i wish i could open my chest and let this void consume the entire world.
i need to get out more, maybe.

I have a rule that I don't sleep with people I work with. I've had it for a while, but after I modified it to include thinking about breaking the rule that I don't sleep with people I work with it has been a really powerful and effective thing in my life. I moon and brood less; and i don't take it to work with me. It's great. When I'm working I'm very often surrounded by really pretty boys and handsome girls who I have no business sticking my dick in, and it really makes things less complicated for me in my head.

Tonight this job snuck up on my thrust. I let my guard down, to be honest. The long story short is that I was absently nurturing a schoolboy crush on the main LM and one of the Producers, and tonight I found out they both play on my team. It happened without seeing them: just from talking to them on the phone before they gotta into town. This is devastating to me. I rarely work with anyone my age + a cute fag. The producer reminds me of Howie. Sort of obsessive in a friendly way with Middle Eastern good looks. Prolly has a thick uncut cock and a hairy back. One of those ridges tucked into his foreskin so it looks like he has a second urethra...

i thought the next paragraph without typing it, and i think that's for the best.

The more comfortable I get with being my own man, the more I feel this tug inside me like it's gonna happen soon. The next great romance. It's been almost six years since Courtney left me. I don't know what word to use to define any relationship I've had since then. I mean, Court and I lived together. He made me dinner. We had our own language...

Ugh. I don't know. I think it's okay that if I get into another relationship it will some day end. At least it happened, right? But then a relationship is totally inconceivable to me. I mean...when? Nothing in this world has been holding my interest for very long. Not enough to draw me back in. When I come back from the world my head is always too full of all the things I saw and heard, and worse, all the things I said. They bounce around in my head and it is hard to sleep without escalating my dependence on psychoactives. I medicate myself and then I put on a playlist of talk radio and ambient music timed so that when the list ends I will wake up (the absence of sound wakes me up more readily than the sudden intrusion of alarums) having not entered into the total empty sleep that I can only afford when fallow. Jerk off. Medicate. Put on a timed playlist and try to forget everything that happened during the day, pause the constant deconstruction of everyone and everything, in anticipation of passing the fuck out for three hours.

So it's one thing to go out in the world and hafta toss and turn at the end of the night if I'm getting paid to do it. To encounter the world for any other reason seems thriftless. Is that the right word? I'm so tired. Why would I go to a bar? I am barely keeping myself afloat. How can I justify giving time over to...

I called my Great Aunt before the last hurricane (Port Arthur) and she started gossiping all this family stuff that I never get to hear, and one of the things she said about my mom's cousin was something like, he's so selfish he doesn't have children, cos children cost money, but I have always had this struggle with breeding in my head over it being the most selfish act: shackling another spark from the Great Divinity inside a meat prison, and forcing it to suffer in this flawed and evil world. I guess there's different ways to look at things. It was good to talk to her. I should call her more often.

All this talk about kids. And now I'm in danger of sexualizing co-workers. Even the girls. Something major is up with my hormones. I feel like everything is about to change.