manic depression and cut candlesticks

andy pink, dallas, tx —

taste the sauce on your wing, i deserve a ring —

this font — which i don't really like but will tolerate — is named 'patrick hand' — which makes me wonder: is he so repressed — or stressed — that he doesn't even watch gay porn on his off days and clear the cache before his gf scans his win7 chrome history? dude, stick a sticker over the laptop cam — you're free and clear!

i was up at 5 this morning, made a closeted decision to avoid comm and the starbucks, for no good reason, found my $1 coffee at the fresh — which really has disappointed in a massive way, the entire neighborhood — and then walked down comm, to kenmore, to the back bay, prepared with coffee, huddled with lacan's seminar on anxiety for a bit — then to class for observation and evaluation: all went fine, i stood, which helped, wrote itinerary on the white board, and did my usual schtick, broke for a bit, checked the site, smoked twice, and then returned for 'paris is burning' which is a really good film to announce the sad fact that: the black gay man does not exist in america. if i ask you, any of you — say, patrick or nick — to imagine a gay man — an image, a picture in your mind — there is no doubt that you — say, patrick or nick — would imagine a white man. we don't even have an available image of a black gay man — and 'paris is burning' illuminates that black male homosexuality only becomes visible — being as such — in the feminized form of the queen. of course, black male subjectivity and its tenuous hold on masculinity is radically compromised in american society, and any feminization via homosexualization of black male subjectivity threatens to emasculate black maleness to the point of dissolving any vestige of masculinity itself in the black male body. i could riff about this for a bit but the sad subtext of my excess is that: i care very little about this problem and its irresolvable solution.

i jerked off to jap anime last night — mistake — and it was such a lengthy session with a deplorable orgasm at the end — came before i orgasmed — that i've decided to stay away from all asian characters — toon or not — for the time being; the problem may have been that the idea of jerking off only occurred to me after i took what is a nightly massive dose of sleeping pills — which don't work anyway other than as a prophylactic against a successful masturbation session. i'm at hoodlo cafe now, with mike, and i am reminded that he is pudgy and short, for a pale boy he wears heather grey well, i can't make out the substance of his graphic tee, but it'm sure he's ambivalent about the content of the msg. it is only at the age of 39 that i can properly confront my sexuality: this pursuit of the spectral presence of boys who may or may not be attractive; i avoid speaking to mike as best i can — i ordered from a bitch but was served by him — but i want nothing less than the occasional nod that we are both here, together, in a space of highly restricted and absurdly constrained desire, circulating, amidst laptops, books, and mugs — with confused children and unhappy couples, all consuming baked goods in the place of some semblance of verite satisfaction — mike and i circulate our desires, kept in abeyance and suspension by the conventions of this surveilled space. i thought about perhaps augmenting and elaborating him on the site — supplementing his spot in the 'boys' section with a more foregrounded illumination of him, but i think i don't have the energy at this time. i'm positive that i couldn't have sex with this guy, perhaps not even talk to him — but the conundrum here is my resistance to any engagement, even measured and within the bounds of the relationship as it is established in this privatized space of the public. it's a sheer repetition of my ritual with p*trick, and i suppose i'll resist making a mistake again — though i am almost certain that mike would respond kindly, even if demurely, to a creative pursuit of him. patrick's response — intimidation pose, 141 code, and threatening phone call — were so immature, and in retrospect he would have to realize how his riposte to my creation was an overreaction of rather preposterous quantities. i was the tar baby in the episode, and he just salted himself with ever stickier semen the more he fought; it makes him appear: stupid.

i went to the sox game with marc last wk and had a fine time even though i haven't watched a game this season and only know about half of the players on the team. i managed not to eat — or even drink — and found a seat on the b-line on the way home from the game, i was exhausted. marc is so kind and gentle — so relaxed — and though he is ideologically at the level with brookline (where he lives) he resists the common denominator of brookline as i witnessed and summarized it in my recent interaction with a clerk at the framer's workshop in the village: brookline — helpful but unfriendly, that is in essence the sensibility of brookline and it is tolerable, probably for a foreigner, though not the kind of place you — and all of us — would want to settle down and make objects in — i bet wellesley is worse, but i bet those folks aren't as phony as the brookline liberals.

i may start up with bupropion again (wellbutrin, zyban) for smoking and depression; when i took it last, tiny dose, about a yr ago i gained 10 lbs (which i lost), and felt edgy and nervous; but i do need to stop smoking — even if my intuition is that i will die from some malady other than cancer — and so the zyban (by way of wellbutrin) might be the way to go; in any case, the experiment won't hit the screen until the marquee letters are reconfigured, early next week.

mike is dreamy, he moves quickly, and i bet he would be considered one of the more regular looking of the servers here at hoodlo cafe — but it is also impossible for me to assess his objective sexiness, despite being completely overwhelmed by him. anyway, like patrick, he works hard, even seems to care, be cathected, to the job and the customers, and it's just such a wonder to watch. i bet he's never been told — even by a girlfriend — that he is beautiful, that specific word, and i would like to tell him so, but i think it's actually unfair to make a mild move on a server — they are constrained in their capacity to respond, and it's simply not a structure within which desire can circulate in an explicit and expressive form, which i suppose is why my desire is activated in these strictly monitored and circumscribed locales. mike is not hot, he is not gay, and he has eyeglasses that utterly transform him; patrick might've worn contacts, i make reference to that in the update to the sign plot, but i bet he actually doesn't wear contacts, or glasses, and probably simply does not — and never did — read much. i think a single shelf of books — $175 science textbooks — does not make an intellectual, and even though patrick is a phd student, i wouldn't classify him as such; given mike's black flag tee from the other week, i am happy to classify him as an intellectual, and probably one who shares my values and political commitments. in the end game, patrick probably doesn't actually know anything, it's unclear how i could have elevated him to the level of myself. i think mike would be a good walking partner, maybe picnic, and if i can get to that, which might require several haldols, i think i will ask him if he wants to hang out sometime — i could do so on a smoke break, though i bet he doesn't smoke. he probably rides a bike like the best of the boys — patrick, trevor, wonder boy, come to mind — and i wonder if it is some form of mini bike given his diminutive stature. he does look like he has a big dick and he is most certainly cut; good idea to hook him up with michael, who would never bother to travel to jp for a boy, like i would.

patrick must have a very primitive conceptualization of sexuality — as would a dick science jock — and so he wouldn't be within a hermeneutical horizon to be able to really understand me, or the machinations and manipulations of my desire that wound their way toward my creative invitation to a free (courtesy of berklee hr) visit to the museum of science with me. i guess his story is simple: stern father, no money. of course, the next interval of this plot is when some fool from the neighborhood bothers to go to the starbucks, identify him, and make mention of this disastrous ripped trip; i suppose his response is his own broken egg to clean up in time — a gooey mess of his own mistake — and i so much as do not care, except i don't want to put him through any further humiliation than has already been done by his 141 deed. but he'll have to handle his confrontation with the public display of his behavior — 'i don't know what you're talking about' might suffice — i won't bother to have dave drop a copy of the book off in the store when it comes out in september; i'm vindictive — in order to vindicate myself, which i amply have — but i'm not punitive — and i don't wish him to suffer his misdeed anymore than necessary for my own pride. he has to suffer his girlfriend enough. i bet she's asian.

i will move either to jp or davis square sometime next year.

i love corn, i love porn, without — forlorn,

andy

alert, next i write i will do a 'self-interview,' as homer once called my transcription of his ego onto page, and it will be a trife dry and a tad wry — but, in summary, it will reveal andy pink to be the genuine soul that he is — a quiet glory that is best experienced in the hot rain of a solstice sunrise. good riddens to all — !

undecided, will barbara — gurgling — interview andy? or will michael — jerking — interview andy? and how will a 'self-interview' be written in dialogue betwixt two bodies, one virile, the other lanky, one crippled, the other svelte?

but the burning question: what would barbara say if she could finally — cerebral palsy momentarily suspended — speak?

my current shopping bag at j.crew is $802 — payday on thursday?

after i jerked off last night, i wondered: will a day arrive on this planet that the penis appears to me — in its simple phenomenology, closed interval between its translucence and my eyes — as an ordinary object, a urinal in a bathroom rather than an artwork in a museum? is there a mise-en-scene — even for a misunderstood addict like me — in which the penis would appear ordinary, forgettable, neither present nor absent, but simply at the side, marginal, neither foreground nor background — but simply unspectacular?

the p*trick situation was so traumatic because it really was love at first sight — not an event that i had ever experienced before and, even though it is a common enough trope in the culture, i probably wouldn't have given such an experience must credence, thinking of it as a mere fantasmatic retroactive reconstruction by a will to rationalize a love that either is working out or, more probably, needs a bit of cement to hold its cracked edifice in place. anyway, the shock of that experience has been genuinely traumatic — i wouldn't trade it out, of course — but to be greeted with such cruelty, rather than compassion, is so stupendous — almost exhilarating in its fundamental violence — that it will probably take a bit of time to recover. i will eventually write it up as a short story (short) and post it as its own section on the site. i'll also get the last name — if only for cinema verite purposes; perhaps dave will film it and tadas — who is charismatic in his own blustery way — can play p*trick and his careless cruelty. the sad part — sort of embarrassing for the entire species — is that he is the kind of human specimen that must think such violence is impressive or charming. for what it's worth — i too can dole out cruelty — more like: careless dismissal — but i mostly choose not to because i find it — as most people do — so profoundly unattractive. a disfigurement, to the face, that carelessness — i'm tempted to say: arrogance — generates for a gawking public who are ready to further ruffle the otherwise sexy face of his grotesque display of ineptitude. that's the other magic: he didn't quite pull off the cruelty, he tripped, didn't watch his step, simply didn't think, and found himself in nigger'd mess with the tar baby. in any case, falling in love at first sight — if, readers, you haven't already — is certainly worth the pain. i will get that last name — even if i have to resort to the sloppiness of a garbled call with a mexican accent to the department office. vindictive — but not punitive — andy pink.

mike is an entirely different bird, wholly other set of wings — ones that fly.

i found my useless social worker from my last stint at st elizabeth's on grindr last night. he's a top. good to know, dickbag.

love andy