Wed 29 April 2009

Ben's car got towed yesterday. And again today. Yeah.

Gold

Cower and weep: I am 23.

I make an annual effort around this time of year to express anticipation for my impending Golden Birthday (in hopes that my friends will get the hint). Impending no longer: it is April 23rd. 5:12 AM and no surprise party yet...

I'm actually spending this birthday in a car for 11 hours. Driving to Charlotte. Fun times.

Stace, Tiff and I had dinner with Jimmy. He lives right next door to me. I will pay him many more visits.

More from the Veil Of Decrepitude as it happens...

"Eyebrow" is redundant. Unless we invent a new kind of brow. Perhaps tits can become "abdomen brows."

Yesterday

Yesterday was 78F and gorgeous.

• Adam and I had a brunch special and people-watched.
• Then we met Ian and Brittany in Central Park for some Frisbee.
• After the sun set, Alex joined all of us for a guac party and we put on Helvetica.
• Then Ben, Alex and I did a poetry reading.
• And after everyone left, Ben and I did some writing together.

"It's the real thing. Period. Coke. Period. In Helvetica. Period. Any questions? Of course not. Drink Coke. PERIOD!"

Bye Bye Mommy

My mom just visited me. She and my godmother took me to dinner Wednesday, then Mom took Ben and me to dinner and Hair on Thursday. She also brought me Girl Scout cookies, a computer and a hand-made hat. I love my mom.

18

It all began with a casual after-dinner philosophical chat. Ben and I chewed the fat about culture and art and shit like that. The hours wore on and the debate turned inevitably toward Ben's and my favorite topic: the nature of morality.

After a long and deep exchange, we retired to a dénouementic ease of conversation on various miscellaneous matters. Enter stage left the 20-sided die.

The theory goes as follows: at any given time, there are a number of things we want to do and an associated likelihood that we should do any of those things. For example, at 3am in the morning, 8 hours before my job interview, Ben and I might:

1. Go to sleep
2. Watch part 2 of the Battlestar Galactica miniseries
3. Smoke weed and read/write poetry
4. Go out to a bar and talk with a stranger

These choices represent a spread of probability. There is a 60% chance of doing option 1, a 20% chance of doing option 2, a 10% chance of doing option 3, and a 5% chance of doing option 4 (the remaining 5% is left for "re-roll").

If we randomly selected our course of action, we would make the "responsible" choice most of the time, the "irresponsible" choice some of the time, and the "interesting" choice every now and again.

But left to our own devices, we will not choose randomly. We will never actually elect the most interesting option. We will select from the 80th percentile 100% of the time. This means that we will never experience the "long tail" of life: the unlikely but very interesting choices.

Cue 20-die.

• 1 = Re-roll
• 2-13 = Go to bed
• 14-17 = BSG
• 18-19 = Weed & poetry
• 20 = Bar
  

The poem we wrote together is entitled 18:

My, oh my. Maybe it’s just telling you something that it’s not telling me?! Like a secret??! >:0

redeye

redpants

redburp

these are the bytes that [man, the 20-sided die was so right. Don’t cha think > ] , are [[beep]] being scanned,

[[beep]] being shot out.

[[beep]] being scanned,

[[beep]] being shot out.

and for a moment I believed that you actually said something that you didn’t say.

a spot um it’s really intence to explain the experience of looking at a hand. Bam – fist. It’s really intence.

put some vomit noises into the poem.

My Lady's Smile

My Lady fills with pregnant pause
And viciously her nostrils sigh.
She sideways-glances at the cause
And gives to me her best shit-eye.

My Lady does not care for farts
Or joke with words unfit for church
Or any talk of body parts
That might her lily ears besmirch.

My Lady smiles at everything,
Politely pleased is her disguise.
Her gnashing teeth are all hiding
'Neith crescent lips and sideways eyes.

Trash TV

I am addicted to Queer as Folk. I am hoping that by posting about it, I can shame myself into stopping. It is the trashiest show not on TV anymore. I love it.

Jesus loves you. But Jesus doesn't really have standards.

YEAH!

WE WILL OVERRIDE!

Hahaha

Hahahaha. HAHAHAHA!

HA!
HA!
HA!

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 10

Ben. He is not a "thing" so much as a "person," but I love him none the less.

Annabelle's House

It is commonly known that when Annabelle leaves
The house is invaded by arsonous thieves
The preclusion of which no precaution achieves.

And the innocent, well-bred and handsome young guys
Who would live in this house under Annabelle's eyes
Are most certainly felons in handsome disguise.

Or at least are the dimmest among short-bus stocks
Who cannot be trusted to understand locks
By virtue of their vulgarly having cocks.

They Were The Best of Pants, They Were The Worst of Pants

Aaron Bockover no longer has my pants! This is an important development.

I am an uno-pantalones kind of muchacho. I own many pairs but I wear only one: The Chosen Trousers. I know exactly what I want from a pair of jeans and I usually don't find it. An entire day of shopping may only yield two "good enough" purchases, of which, only one will grace my ass day in and day out.

Just before going to that place I've been for 9 months, I assembled a task force of trusted friends and embarked on a mission: find Scott a New Pair of Pants. No establishment was spared, no jean unmolested. Every 30-32 in the Mall of America had my butt in it.

After a wearying blur of denim, two victors emerged: the Lucky Jeans that I really, really liked and they're not perfect but they're about as close to perfect as any jeans I've ever tried on, and the other pair which I also liked and they would make a great backup pair. Damn good work, people, I told my task force. Damn good work.

I was all set to live happily ever after with my nearly-perfect jeans, but AARON BOCKOVER had other designs!!1!!1 I was at his place getting ready to leave the country forever when my pretty-perfect pants mysteriously forgot to get back into my luggage. A LIKELY STORY! Of course, you and I both know what really happened, don't we? Baby-faced Bockover, wild with jealousy, took 'em! I have reports that he was soon there after seen around Boston in a fabulous new pair of Lucky Jeans, and that they made his ass look GREAT!

Meanwhile, I was half a world away stuck with the fucking backups. If any one thing can be blamed for the failure of my business... it would probably be the GLOBAL ECONOMIC CLUSTERFUCK. But a close second is that pair of pants. Attempts were made to emancipate the pants from Bockover's belt, all of which met with suspicious failure.

Well friend, the veil of tears is lifted at last. Last Saturday I popped by Boston and was reunited with my fairly flawless slacks. JOY! Aaron then proceeded to treat me to dinner with Miguel. He hid it well, but I caught that solitary tear silently rolling down his baby-faced cheek as he gazed mournfully at the fine, fine denim clinging tightly to another man's cheeks. Au revoir mon ami, glistened the tear. He then wiped it away under the pretence of adjusting his glasses and ordered another quesadilla.

Bonjour à nouveau, mon ami!