is back! — the superstar formerly known as dylan

andy p, south side, florida —

for gentlemen only:

i had moved my old’ies blog over to wordpress but quickly stopped writing because i didn’t have an audience, no knees in the seats, no dicks in the showers, no crazy fuckers on board to boo.

so i have returned from my nether regions to yours.

actually: i realized i was quite chatty on the boards these last few days so i decided it might be a good idea to take it off the boards, take off my shirt, and do something magical: here.

i’m still a professor at such and such, and live in so and so metropolis on the south coast. i’m really the same old dylan, nothing has changed but patrick, and michael is still asleep on the wheel on phil.

my book is coming out soon and though i cannot share with you any information about the title, i promised to tell you, before i cut ties with the promise, i promised to tell you that: it will make those of you with the crazies quite proud that yes, we too, narnia, are still some of the geniuses in the barn out by the back where the shotgun wakes us at night.

but in my fantasy i said to you all: “patrick stole the book, and he stole everything else in its wake.”

for those who remember patrick:

i ended up being hospitalized over him — only for a few days — but i later returned to the starbucks and made it through a couple of days, then the manager said that he wanted an apology (i think it was for when i asked him whether his penis was cut or uncut, and then saying several virtually incomprehensible delusional utterances to him) — i think the demand for an apology is queer — but anyway, i left and wrote him a quick paragraph that said i apologized — perhaps i’ll post the text of the suicide note — i wrote him and apologized and said that i was manic depressive and on my way toward an episode. that morning, i had guessed properly that he was a bio chem phd student a a local university (not my own) and i think he wanted to make up, be friends, maybe he wasn’t gay, i don’t know, but i sort of botched the apology by self-banning myself from the *bucks. anyway: the moral of the story is: always cock-block. italicized: always. bold: cock. underline: by which i mean: penis.

the manic depression is going ok. it’s been a desperate dry spell, but classes are starting up on thursday so perhaps things will look better on wednesday.

if sex isn’t traumatic, what would the other purpose of it be?

in the interim — from last blog post — i gave away most of my children to the salvation army. i kept one (the hispanic) in order to maintain decorum around the tree house. juan says i make good ice cubes. if only he knew the ones i served p’trick.

actually, i did have a pertinent question for possible comments to this entry: does anyone else find sex traumatic? i’ve really had to lay off being laid in order to not get laid off. i’m a man, and my nipples pierce my t-shirts with a bit too much garlic and gusto.

i guess the problem is that i could endlessly write. perhaps tomorrow (or later today) i’ll start up on donny trump. does anyone else think he is actually dangerous? a demagogue in the wake of domestic economic ills due to foreign entanglements — it reminds me of something: and hitler was at least a good keynesian economist! i have no sense that trump is secretly gay, though i do have the sense that he might be spanish.

in any event, i’ll save the story about the veal for another day — must wait till thursday, or at least wednesday night!

delorean

postscript: it’s been a long time, and for those who have waited for this, i apologize for the ketchup.

we’re on our way!