Thursday, November 06, 2003
Pictures of Me
- start, stop and start
stupid acting smart
flirting with the flicks
you say it's just for kicks
you'll be the victim of your own dirty tricks
you got yourself to tease and displease
doors swinging wide
you walked in to hide
looking at your feet
failure's complete
saw you and me on the coin-op tv
frozen in fear every time we appear
I'm not surprised at all and really, why should I be
see nothing wrong, see nothing wrong
so sick and tired of all these pictures of me
completely wrong, totally wrong
go walking by
here come another guy
jailer who sells personal hells
who'd like to see me down on my fucking knees
everybody's dying just to get the disease
hey hey hey hey
I'm not surprised at all and really, why should I be
see nothing wrong, see nothing wrong
so sick and tired of all these pictures of me
completely wrong, totally wrong
I'm not surprised at all and really, why should I be
see nothing wrong, see nothing wrong
so sick and tired of all these pictures of me
oh everybody's dying just to get the disease
everybody's dying just to get the disease
everybody's dying just to get the disease
Pictures of Me -- Elliot Smith
Man, this song works on a lot of levels for me right now...
Yesterday, my friend MB and I went out for lunch. He had the CD "Either/Or" by Elliot Smith in the car stereo -- well, I was thunderstruck. I had never heard of him before: I've never seen "Good Will Hunting" and I didn't know he won the Academy Award for some song in that movie. Uh oh, don't tell the Queer Patrol! I raved so much, that he gave me a burned copy of the CD later that afternoon. I've been listening to it non-stop since.
I really like MB and his girlfriend. They're about ten years younger than me, and have a down-to-earth, laid-back way of looking at things. MB likes folk music, and plays in an old-tyme band; we are constantly talking music and he's had me listening to a lot of folks I never would -- I mean, Bob Dylan, ugh! His girlfriend belly-dances as a hobby. I particularly like MB because, just by stopping by his cube, he can take me out of the downward scrolling loop my mind sometimes (frequently) catches here at work. He reminds me there are larger priorities in life.
For example, the rumors were flying at BIPC this week. Today the axe has fallen, the other shoe has dropped: People are being let go as I type. Because I had sometimes (frequently) vocalized my unhappiness, I was half-expecting it might be me. But it wasn't. Not this time.
Before I leave to join folks for a "freedom hour" with one of my now former colleagues, I consider two halves of corporate America:
(1) Toiling at a job that gives no pleasure and adds no value
(2) Finding fulfilling work, but, at the whim of management or some other factor, suddenly out of job.
I consider the issue of motivation -- either as a staff member or as a manager; and how our lives are determined by what "work" we do.
I posted an updated personal ad on-line -- hasty, and maybe not a good thing. I don't expect to get many responses, I completed it yesterday and it's probably an angry little posting -- of course I try to couch it in terms of humor. So, tired of reading about "laid-back", "down-to-earth" folks who like to cuddle -- PUKE! -- my ad's tag-line says "'Cuddlers' Need Not Apply." I had begun drafting a narrative that was attempting to lightly build on this by outlining my compulsive habits; but I don't think anyone would get my sense of humor. I toned it down and instead said something along the lines of "Ok ok I'll cuddle -- but only if it's while we're clipping coupons." Ha ha haaaaaaa (NOT! Oh, it's pathetic). I've already gotten a "wink" from someone, telling me I have a "nice smile". Hey. Thanx.
MB is playing at the "freedom hour", and I'm already late. Cheerio.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Fell Off The Wagon
A little while ago, I had tired of the quality of my extracurricular encounters. I stopped being interested; I didn't go out, and I didn't miss it. But I've fallen off the wagon. I've slept with 1,2,3 guys in the last two weeks.
On my drive back from Rochester, angry and mentally exhausted after chewing out Bump and Chaffee in imaginary one-sided lectures, I detoured on impulse to the bath house in Columbus -- yes, the same bath house that I wrote about with such disdain a few weeks earlier when in town with C. And regardless of my original reasons for swinging by or what I might anticipate as soon as I was buzzed through the qindow-less door, I found a fully-stocked gym (as in weights). I hit them with ferocity... and ached for three days afterwards. In addition to exhausting myself on all manner of free and machine weights, it felt great to use the sauna, the steam room and the jacuzzi afterwards. Of course, there were other things going on there, and I porked some guy in his private room -- rooms with signs on the door stating "Only One Occupant Allowed". Would you believe this is only my second visit ever to a bathhouse? They have such a great gym, that I might return -- Is that like subscribing to Playboy for the articles?
Last night, I went out dancing and, after dancing, I stopped by a certain skanky bar. And lo and behold, I ran into a nice guy I had had a previous encounter with, along with his chat for the evening. Both had shaved, gym bunny bodies. Whatever. Well, I invited them back to my place for some fun. Which was had by all. Supposedly these two were tops, but since one had his mouth full and the other one's head was buried in a pillow, perhaps I misunderstood. One of them ran home as soon as he was finished, but the other -- my previous encounter -- stayed for another round. I was a bit tired today.
I read this post back; I think it's a leeetle angry. Oh dear. Well, I'm sure this silliness will stop when I move back to Dayton. The silliness should stop.
On my drive back from Rochester, angry and mentally exhausted after chewing out Bump and Chaffee in imaginary one-sided lectures, I detoured on impulse to the bath house in Columbus -- yes, the same bath house that I wrote about with such disdain a few weeks earlier when in town with C. And regardless of my original reasons for swinging by or what I might anticipate as soon as I was buzzed through the qindow-less door, I found a fully-stocked gym (as in weights). I hit them with ferocity... and ached for three days afterwards. In addition to exhausting myself on all manner of free and machine weights, it felt great to use the sauna, the steam room and the jacuzzi afterwards. Of course, there were other things going on there, and I porked some guy in his private room -- rooms with signs on the door stating "Only One Occupant Allowed". Would you believe this is only my second visit ever to a bathhouse? They have such a great gym, that I might return -- Is that like subscribing to Playboy for the articles?
Last night, I went out dancing and, after dancing, I stopped by a certain skanky bar. And lo and behold, I ran into a nice guy I had had a previous encounter with, along with his chat for the evening. Both had shaved, gym bunny bodies. Whatever. Well, I invited them back to my place for some fun. Which was had by all. Supposedly these two were tops, but since one had his mouth full and the other one's head was buried in a pillow, perhaps I misunderstood. One of them ran home as soon as he was finished, but the other -- my previous encounter -- stayed for another round. I was a bit tired today.
I read this post back; I think it's a leeetle angry. Oh dear. Well, I'm sure this silliness will stop when I move back to Dayton. The silliness should stop.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
All Over the Map
My ex-boyfriend DJ came and visited me for a few days. He wanted to get away from Colorado and from stalking his ex. And we both hate halloween. He flew into Indianapolis, rented a car and drove over to meet me. Lately, it seems like my social life is made up entirely of ex-boyfriends -- pathetic, huh?
We went to a BIPC party, and talked by a bonfire in the back. I heard story after story about his ex, Jae, including that Jae thought I was big flamer. I can just hear it: How can you date someone so queeny?
DJ got to meet a lot of my friends: On Saturday night, we went to B's healing party, bridging two opposing feminist camps from her women's studies program and held at her downtown Victorian townhouse. The ranks had somehow divided in the handling of the latest edition of the group's magazine, The Rag. The event of the evening was voting on who should cut the cake and a vote on whether "outsiders" (i.e., C, DJ and I) could participate. The group was divided into people who took this seriously and people who didn't. You will be pleased to learn that, minus one abstention, it was unanimous in our favor. Let the healing begin....
On Sunday, we went to the Sorg Opera in Middletown, a 1950s town that looks like some virus had decimated all humans -- post-apocalyptic blocks of empty buildings, stray leaves blowing on the sidewalks. We went to see A Little Nightmare Music and Giancarlo Menotti's one act opera The Medium. We were about thirty strong in the opera house, and people trickled out during intermission or between acts: one old gent noisily and slowly clanked his walker out in the middle of a scene. It was embarrassing.
The first part of the program, I thought I was going to walk out myself. The singing involved Bach and Salieri and some time-travel guy with a cel phone singing sing-songy lyrics, set to Bach melodies.
The second part -- Menotti's The Medium -- was modern, too modern considering the audience. I enjoyed it even though it was discordant, and I wonder if my ear is now developing since the other modern opera I sat through last summer, Medusa? ha ha ha...
Both these acts were broken by three painful "Monster monologues", delivered by enthusiastic actors -- a vampire, a witch, and Death. Tired jokes about republicans and religion, and tired double-entendres like "How'd you like riding around with a pole between your legs all day?" One actor, a visiting "artist" from a local community college, had trouble remembering his lines. It was so awful that I shook the seats with laughter at one point. Even if you agreed with the liberal sentiment, I can't see how this will make it in a ghost-town like Middletown. Guess they have nothing to lose.
I recognized one of the chorus from the Cincy opera, and we talked to him at intermission. A nice guy, he introduced himself to DJ, and said he was scoping the place out for a future gig. Young and good looking, he waited at the auditorium entrance after the performance had ended and we speculated whether he was instead waiting for one of the two male hotties in the production. Giggle giggle tee hee hee...
When DJ left yesterday morning, I was plunged into a pretty severe depression. Once again, I faced moving back to Dayton, and once again I looked to the shrink listings. But -- things have staved off since then. My tenants asked for an extension to their lease -- until January 15th. And if that's the case, then I won't have to move for another six weeks. On the one hand, funds are running low; but on the other, my mental health is saved!
We shall see we shall see.
Oh, and I logged on to two chat rooms for a couple of hours. I was bothered by a few no-pic-no profilers -- "hey whassup", "ur cute." Hey. Thanx. Without benefit of a j-piggy, let me give you a completely and totally subjective self-assessment of my body. Damn, I look good! I've got a slim and toned body. I am 5'-7" and I weigh 132 lbs. For what I see, I'm in significantly better physical shape than most people my age. (Which is 40 -- in case you missed the tag-line of this blog.)
Well, bloggies, as soon as I type a self-empowerment line about my body, it boomerangs around to smack me upside with insecurities. Talking about this positively is something new for me -- I always associated athletes only as physically attractive; and since I was a geek, I was automatically unattractive. I thought my strong point was my face: I have grey eyes and a dimpled cleft in the chin. I don't have six packs, I don't have rippling abs. I don't have broad shoulders, I'm not over 6 feet tall and, worse of all, I'm *not* 21. C took some photos of me recently that my friends liked, but all I saw were the wrinkles around the mouth, eyes and forehead -- I sure hope it's accurate showing me laughing at least! With the stringent physical standards imposed on me by the media and gay porn industries, the boat never stopped at my door and I should be munching on my third bag of troll-house cookies just about now.
Rather than say I'm happy with my body, maybe it's more accurate to say I'm happier. For the perceived "worse" things, there's not a thing I can do to change them. I need to accept What Is. And for the most part I already do: What, seriously, would I want with someone who rejects me because I'm not 6 feet tall? Or, because I'm 40? But having said that, "I want a Boyfriend" mode kicks in. I only need one, and, well... Where Is He? I'd been looking for a while -- dated three guys this last year, too. Future blog entries should perhaps focus on either being friends (something I don't seem to fail so miserably at) or working at the ingredient that accepts, er, embraces single-dom.
On the subject of appearance, one of my favorite gay movies, is It's A Very Natural Thing. From the early 1970s, it's been billed as the first movie to positively portray a gay lifestyle. The main character leaves the priesthood and moves to the "big city" (NYC), beginning a relationship with -- first -- a real jerk, and then, after a period of getting over it, a photographer. Regardless of how "dated" my older friends feel this movie is, I like it a lot. Among other reasons, it portrays bodies that are not shaved or steroided out. Very attractive guys.
Contrast this to the gay-themed movie DJ and I saw on Sunday, Mambo Italiano. Awful! It's like they took a bunch of movies (My Big Fat Greek Wedding, etc.) turned it gay and threw in a mild message about Coming Out. The best audience would be glistening-eyed gay teenagers who had *never* seen a Gay Movie before. I couldn't believe people around us were laughing at the lamest, oldest jokes, usually involving the Catholic church. (The only good thing to come out of this viewing experience is knowing I could write crap and still see it made.)
The rumors have been flying at BIPC. A reorganization is about to occur, one that involves the loss of headcount. One person, newly married, freaked out and had to leave a meeting as soon as the rumor was given credence. (Why a manager even discussed it at a staff meeting, I have no idea.) A woman stopped by and said she was cleaning out her desk "just in case" and asked if I knew any bankruptcy attorneys. I talked about the rumors with my boss a bit. Although not as vitriolic as on these pages, I have voiced my employment unhappiness to him -- and if that means I'm one of the ones escorted to the door, then so be it. My boss assured me that he had kept our discussions confidential, and that nothing would directly or adversely impact me. I believe him. As our conversation turned to joking about who new bosses might be, we chose the most psycho people around (and my boss and I agree on these points, luckily!). Folks said my laughter was so loud they could hear me in offices two doors down.
This is a crappy entry. Maybe I'll work to improve it later. Or not.
We went to a BIPC party, and talked by a bonfire in the back. I heard story after story about his ex, Jae, including that Jae thought I was big flamer. I can just hear it: How can you date someone so queeny?
- There's not much I can do about that, I said.
Good. You're owning it.
- You're a good dancer, DJ said.
Yup, it was a good work-out.
DJ got to meet a lot of my friends: On Saturday night, we went to B's healing party, bridging two opposing feminist camps from her women's studies program and held at her downtown Victorian townhouse. The ranks had somehow divided in the handling of the latest edition of the group's magazine, The Rag. The event of the evening was voting on who should cut the cake and a vote on whether "outsiders" (i.e., C, DJ and I) could participate. The group was divided into people who took this seriously and people who didn't. You will be pleased to learn that, minus one abstention, it was unanimous in our favor. Let the healing begin....
On Sunday, we went to the Sorg Opera in Middletown, a 1950s town that looks like some virus had decimated all humans -- post-apocalyptic blocks of empty buildings, stray leaves blowing on the sidewalks. We went to see A Little Nightmare Music and Giancarlo Menotti's one act opera The Medium. We were about thirty strong in the opera house, and people trickled out during intermission or between acts: one old gent noisily and slowly clanked his walker out in the middle of a scene. It was embarrassing.
The first part of the program, I thought I was going to walk out myself. The singing involved Bach and Salieri and some time-travel guy with a cel phone singing sing-songy lyrics, set to Bach melodies.
- This man is a twit, can't you see.
He's a jerk, my name is Salier-i.
The second part -- Menotti's The Medium -- was modern, too modern considering the audience. I enjoyed it even though it was discordant, and I wonder if my ear is now developing since the other modern opera I sat through last summer, Medusa? ha ha ha...
Both these acts were broken by three painful "Monster monologues", delivered by enthusiastic actors -- a vampire, a witch, and Death. Tired jokes about republicans and religion, and tired double-entendres like "How'd you like riding around with a pole between your legs all day?" One actor, a visiting "artist" from a local community college, had trouble remembering his lines. It was so awful that I shook the seats with laughter at one point. Even if you agreed with the liberal sentiment, I can't see how this will make it in a ghost-town like Middletown. Guess they have nothing to lose.
I recognized one of the chorus from the Cincy opera, and we talked to him at intermission. A nice guy, he introduced himself to DJ, and said he was scoping the place out for a future gig. Young and good looking, he waited at the auditorium entrance after the performance had ended and we speculated whether he was instead waiting for one of the two male hotties in the production. Giggle giggle tee hee hee...
When DJ left yesterday morning, I was plunged into a pretty severe depression. Once again, I faced moving back to Dayton, and once again I looked to the shrink listings. But -- things have staved off since then. My tenants asked for an extension to their lease -- until January 15th. And if that's the case, then I won't have to move for another six weeks. On the one hand, funds are running low; but on the other, my mental health is saved!
We shall see we shall see.
Oh, and I logged on to two chat rooms for a couple of hours. I was bothered by a few no-pic-no profilers -- "hey whassup", "ur cute." Hey. Thanx. Without benefit of a j-piggy, let me give you a completely and totally subjective self-assessment of my body. Damn, I look good! I've got a slim and toned body. I am 5'-7" and I weigh 132 lbs. For what I see, I'm in significantly better physical shape than most people my age. (Which is 40 -- in case you missed the tag-line of this blog.)
Well, bloggies, as soon as I type a self-empowerment line about my body, it boomerangs around to smack me upside with insecurities. Talking about this positively is something new for me -- I always associated athletes only as physically attractive; and since I was a geek, I was automatically unattractive. I thought my strong point was my face: I have grey eyes and a dimpled cleft in the chin. I don't have six packs, I don't have rippling abs. I don't have broad shoulders, I'm not over 6 feet tall and, worse of all, I'm *not* 21. C took some photos of me recently that my friends liked, but all I saw were the wrinkles around the mouth, eyes and forehead -- I sure hope it's accurate showing me laughing at least! With the stringent physical standards imposed on me by the media and gay porn industries, the boat never stopped at my door and I should be munching on my third bag of troll-house cookies just about now.
Rather than say I'm happy with my body, maybe it's more accurate to say I'm happier. For the perceived "worse" things, there's not a thing I can do to change them. I need to accept What Is. And for the most part I already do: What, seriously, would I want with someone who rejects me because I'm not 6 feet tall? Or, because I'm 40? But having said that, "I want a Boyfriend" mode kicks in. I only need one, and, well... Where Is He? I'd been looking for a while -- dated three guys this last year, too. Future blog entries should perhaps focus on either being friends (something I don't seem to fail so miserably at) or working at the ingredient that accepts, er, embraces single-dom.
On the subject of appearance, one of my favorite gay movies, is It's A Very Natural Thing. From the early 1970s, it's been billed as the first movie to positively portray a gay lifestyle. The main character leaves the priesthood and moves to the "big city" (NYC), beginning a relationship with -- first -- a real jerk, and then, after a period of getting over it, a photographer. Regardless of how "dated" my older friends feel this movie is, I like it a lot. Among other reasons, it portrays bodies that are not shaved or steroided out. Very attractive guys.
Contrast this to the gay-themed movie DJ and I saw on Sunday, Mambo Italiano. Awful! It's like they took a bunch of movies (My Big Fat Greek Wedding, etc.) turned it gay and threw in a mild message about Coming Out. The best audience would be glistening-eyed gay teenagers who had *never* seen a Gay Movie before. I couldn't believe people around us were laughing at the lamest, oldest jokes, usually involving the Catholic church. (The only good thing to come out of this viewing experience is knowing I could write crap and still see it made.)
The rumors have been flying at BIPC. A reorganization is about to occur, one that involves the loss of headcount. One person, newly married, freaked out and had to leave a meeting as soon as the rumor was given credence. (Why a manager even discussed it at a staff meeting, I have no idea.) A woman stopped by and said she was cleaning out her desk "just in case" and asked if I knew any bankruptcy attorneys. I talked about the rumors with my boss a bit. Although not as vitriolic as on these pages, I have voiced my employment unhappiness to him -- and if that means I'm one of the ones escorted to the door, then so be it. My boss assured me that he had kept our discussions confidential, and that nothing would directly or adversely impact me. I believe him. As our conversation turned to joking about who new bosses might be, we chose the most psycho people around (and my boss and I agree on these points, luckily!). Folks said my laughter was so loud they could hear me in offices two doors down.
This is a crappy entry. Maybe I'll work to improve it later. Or not.