"If age was measured in consciousness, I might probably be close to a hundred… but a hundred what?"
I thought this picture was funny.
This is another one of those "don’t-expect-this-to-make-sense-because-I’m-drunk" posts. Sorry. Actually, I’m not really all that drunk anymore, but I am currently fighting a killer vodka and red bull hangover. This is so – what’s the word? – gay. Without the obligatory after-sex. I mean, this has very quickly become The Season of Piling Addictions: thumbtack thievery, reality TV shows about the fashion industry, Stud Horse poker and some other things we won’t mention. And as if my sleep habits weren’t erratic enough, now caffeine has found its way back to the top of the heap. I tried to scavenge my Dad’s video closet to find a golf tournament he may have taped back in 1989. (This is a fail safe cure for insomnia.) Low and behold, it wasn’t there. Now it’s 5:30 AM. I’m going to temple in five hours. I surrender.
I have a hard time knowing what to write in here these days. Something to do with being unable to commit to paragraphs. Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe I’m embarrassed by state of my life and have outgrown the urge to complain about it. I mean, you get to a point when it’s no longer introspection and it just becomes repetitive narcissism. The fact of the matter is that it’s nobody’s fucking business unless I say it is. The only reason I bring this up in the first place is that a few people I’ve lost touch with since I moved out of Chicago seem to be using this as a resource for what’s going on in my life. It hasn’t been that for quite awhile. If you know me beyond mere proximity, chances are that I will tell you what’s up. No need to assume I’ve been shipped off to an asylum or developed some crystal meth habit.
Having said all of that, I would like to try to write more often. I figure if I can’t finish paragraphs, I can revive the 1-5 list, though this morning it’ll be 1-3--- since I just took an Excedrin PM.
une. Lloyd and I went down to the Diplo party at Neumos. Everyone was wearing orange. Not that I have anything against the color per se (Okay. I don't like the color orange) but it was everywhere. I found this creepy. Like a surprise Florida State pep rally. And I’m not even going to try to analyze this. The night itself though turned out to be a lot of fun. It reminded me of some of the nights out with The Doom Troopers back in Chicago. Also, I think bourbon has just become my drink, and I’m not even sure that I like it.
deux I have vague plans to move out to Capitol Hill at the end of the month. That if I find a job in the next couple of weeks that will take care of the rent. And to cover an even further prospect, I’ve decided I’d like to move back to New York when the timing’s right. I thought about leaving in the fall, but frankly, I just don’t have the wherewithal to pursue it at the moment.
trois. On Friday, I went to R Place with Paul. It wasn’t the first time I’ve been there, but I could only stay for about a half-an-hour before I actually started to feel physically ill. They weren’t wearing orange exactly, although they did more or less all look the same. (Smell a theme?) You either had your aging bald grease monkeys or your spraytanned-striped-polo-shirted-I-swear-I’m-not-a-Republican-retail zombies. When did gay men go white trash? And how are gay men supposed to be arbiters of good taste when they’re all wearing the same haircut? We will elaborate on this later.
Time to take my superficial ass to bed.
