three ways since sunday

andy pinkster so says:

"i hate the queen."

"I should be the queen."

"Same reason I hate jimmy fallon."

"he stole my job."

i must resume the long-stalled comic book about my imaginary talk show, with guests.

it should be abundantly clear to even the occasional viewer of the fact sheet (e.g., crazymeds friends) that my fantasy — the place of my desire — is the coffee shop, and that the object of desire is either the barista (with permanence) or a customer (usually fleeting). i don't drink, though i go to bars to dance, but the bar doesn't really do it for me as a scene of desire because i can't get drunk, the order of the night at a gay bar. this is to say: i most definitely have a type or, rather, a place. It's serendipitous that i can get work done in this fantasy space, it's perfect. the intensity of the circulation of repressed (inhibited) desire in any coffee shop is epic. i suppose the classroom is also a voyeuristic context that enframes a desire of the object, and i do sport a apparitional boner while lecturing or listening. what students forget is that professors have penises.

i have finally given the fifth book ("introduction: centers of discourse") to my heroic mother, Lucy, who has lost a husband and a daughter: and then there were two. Eventually: and then there was one. soon enough, i will have no family, which is fine. after excising the introductory discussion of buttfucking among queer lost souls — i can now give her a copy of the short book. She doesn't really understand the whole deal of "perverse relational cinematic" — but she tries hard, and with her reading glasses often lost in the vw golf, she cannot sustain long passages, has to quit early, and can't find her way back to the problematic that i am outlining. when she returns. she read half of the Big Book and always asked inquisitive and interrogatory questions, perspicacious. she once asked me what a signifier was in a hospital emergency room. (it's not explained well in the Big Book.)

webstat, my organ for web sleuthing, has disappeared, and it is either due to not paying the monthly rent for the app or due to rich's hack of my site, hovering, like a parent, ghosting without actually leaving me. he is precious: the voice, and the cropped dickies pants and shorts, the loopy loops, and with at least the shame not to have a nose ring. although he looks like a barista, he in no way actually embodies the word. I think baristas should be referred to as "workmen," wouldn't that be easier? as it stands, dunkin is the site of workman, and the coffee shop is the place of the barista.

i realized that rich and i did lock eyes once, i think it was maybe the first time i saw him, or second, he was wearing a zipperless hoodie (i don't like this new iteration) speckled by "provincetown." his hoody was heather gray, which is a terrible "color" that looks bad on all white people. the lock was rather intense, i recall, almost wide-eyed on his end, and probably suspicious on my end. i miss rich, but i'm glad that he decided not to destroy the contents of my computer. in the end, we never hurt one another when we broke up, and so he would have no reason to breach the hacker's code. that said, the hack haunts, vulnerable, exposed, out.

i used to be really quite attractive (see pic below), worked out regularly, ate healthy, etc., but during the last five years i have slipped into a dad bod ("soft," as reni once said of me) that i'm a bit ashamed of. i'm really interested in fitting into my small slim j.crew articles, but that has been a year-long project (including intense fasts) fail and so perhaps i should dump the clothes, accept that i am a small (not slim), retain 29/32, and start over, at 46 (i'm actually 45, bday in december). how many button downs do i really need?

tatte is boring this morning. i took the immodium (cvs) a few hours ago, before the walk, and i feel better. must look sharp (or at least not shit my pants) for class. there is nothing quite like shitting your pants while teaching. lisa and i used to have this thing (joke) about shitting our pants, each of us had done it once. lisa: at disneyland. andy: in my own apartment, which is lame. should i end up in disneyland i promise i will shit my pants during the jungle cruise ride (which is just as racist as you remember).

i want web-stat back, buttfucker!

off soon to central, then boylston and thinking cup. i did peek into the 1369 in central the other day but there were no cute workmen to perform for.

love andy p, small but not slim —