marcel duchamp

andy pink, charlestown, carolina —

smoke weed in folk tweed!

i have read about certain black people who actually look white. while i have several black friends in my current life at the moment all of them look black, some of them with lighter shades, others quite dark. a colleague had told me that she had a black (by which is meant here: african-american) student who simply looked white, and she was only later told that he was in fact african-american. what i would like to know is: is a white-looking african-american “white” or “black”? this seems like the kind of question that could only be posed on an anonymous blog such as this. when the moon wanes, i consider myself white but it is quite possible that when you meet me in person (at the 25th reunion) — that you will think of me as black. at the 25th reunion, you will also learn about me —

facts about andy pinkster:

i was raised in brooklyn, massachusetts.

i attended college in pennsylvania.

i attended graduate school in new york city.

i câme out as gay at 17.

my father may have died in 1984.

my hair is either red or brown unless it is orange (in which case it is blond).

if i had a boyfriend his name would be trevor (what this means is that: i might have a boyfriend, if i do, his name is trevor, but also i might not have a boyfriend, and if i don’t, his name is none of your business).

two of the following are true:

1. my name is michael.

2. my name is dylan.

3. i only have a surname.

4. i come from a culture (such as the balinese) which do not have first names.

5. my name is michael.

***

forgive and accept:

you will never learn my racial identity.

***

today was the start of the queer culture course as well as the gender and sexuality course. the idea — let alone in fact practice! — that i teach such potentially simple but manifestly complex courses about such topics is beside me, i never thought i would be that guy, surviving on take-out chinese, 6′, 146, blond, 7″ cut, pnp, generou$, serious only. my training is in 19th and 20th century french and german philosophy and although such theoretical traditions inform gay/lesbian studies it is also a fact that much queer academic work exceeds anything philosophical whatsoever. philosophy is properly about death, and death is properly about sex, so in the end jean genet is dead (which is true). that said —

— wouldn’t it be funny if it turned out that i was japanese? —

— that said i am very good at what i do, i left today’s first class of queer culture with: “you people are awesome, i love you all already.” i am generous and kind, and although i am insecure and bitter, willing to swallow pills rather than suffer at the hands of do-gooder helpers and mis-guided liberals — i have turned out to be a gorgeous but handsome man, a skeptical but involved citizen, a loyal but critical son, a wise but diffident brother, and an available mate for the thick and the worthy. on the subway today, sure enough, i found cute boys, not so much in my classes.

i have given up on jean genet for the moment. his discussion of his dead lover’s crotch, the surviving brother-crabs who remind him of his own std and brother-itch, these i find heartfelt and touching, but they are painful too, not the way in which gay sex can be painful — horrible, might be a better word here — but painful in the way in which a blog post which is not commented on can make the writer feel — like gay sex. must you, you, must you, you, must you always make me feel like gay sex? it is a special type of masochistic pain, invited by crohn’s disease, embedded in shame, public to scrutiny, and nicely wrapped in a condom — lest crabs. i do not remember what crabs is a slang for — but my only itch these days is the sjs from lamictal. and heavens! —

i think everybody should have herpes — by needle and shot, if necessary. all together, we should have herpes. and, by golly, then all of us would be clean. herpes would be the new polio and fdr would be only at the aperture of his second term.

facts about andy pink:

i do not have herpes.

i am feeling much better, lighter on the toes, talking to strangers, winking at men, eating less, loving more, less prints more stamps, and a light at the end of august that keeps the crickets rubbing their feet and cracking jokes about grass.

420 is the rich kid’s way to pretend. lithium is the x-men’s way to follow the rules.

the pervert — all of you should know — follows the rules, perfectly. this is the reason that i have not missed a day on my blog, yet.

it dawns on me now that there are many white africans (south africa comes to mind) — but even if natively african people can be considered white i still wonder whether a white-looking “african-american” could be considered black in the united states, especially given our history of race relations. you might say such weird logic could be extended to religion and sexuality and gender — and i would tend to want to make such absurdist application — but i could make fine arguments for the reason that the (in)visibility of religion, sexuality, and gender is different from the (in)visibility of whiteness and blackness given race relations in america. here is one undeniable fact about me: i am jewish.

i have managed to stay away from abilify thus far, i have it in 2s, 5s, 10s, and 15s, so i can mix and match, red skittle to green skittle, m to m, as i like. i have decided that i myself should be rated on angle’s list. does anyone know how to make it to her list? this is the kind of answer one might want to offer in a comment to this blog. lithium is a miracle drug and i trust her because she is natural. zyprexa and abilify remind me of gmo’s. what’s next — fake butter or edible seals?

i should like to post my epic okcupid profile on this blog, but i fear it will not fit, line by line, page by page, gigabyte by gigabyte. you should message me if you still believe that diamonds are forever. i met my match when i met trevor, he was so tall and long, lanky and lean, and with eight-pack, reptilian or aquatic almost, it took three years, i saw him finally, but i knew he would never touch me but once — and, when he finally did, it felt uncomfortable, like on the off day when i take out a banana republic shirt rather than a press from j. crew. banana republic is uncomfortable, arranged starch and hard collars, for men with bristling bones and uptight clients. banana offers better sales.

j.crew is dreamy.

hopefully, by spring 2014, i will fatten up like a turkey and other-trevor will throw my giblets to the refuse.

it is now that time that i tell you where i am located: freeport, maine. it is raining here, as it often does, but those of us in ll bean duck boots with various and precious “layering” are doing just fine despite the droplets. i am lucky to have a seaside shack in freeport, though i will admit only to the readers of this blog that i am not entirely sure if freeport is on the coast. in any case, i will curl up on the porch swing, drink my tea, and imagine what life would be like if i were a post-doc rather than a professor.

on some lonely nights, the new england waves remind me of yale and their skull and bones. i lied when i said i went to grad school in boston.

to the docks —

andy pink

postscript: i have joined isis. it is for real.