yikes

Things might be totally fucked.

I am moving back in with my parents for a couple of months. Buhbye Missoula, I am suddenly realizing summer may not be my season. Disaster seems close and frequent during these trouble-soaked months.

I am hoping to make it to Austin by Halloween. I think I have a pretty hot job prospect lined up in the hometown, and hopefully I will be bored/productive enough to save up an arseload. If I stayed here, I would just spend it all away, as I feel confident in admitting now.

I went to Crystal's wedding on Saturday...it was pretty great, lots of people to talk to. I made amazing vegetarian enchiladas, with black beans, hominy and sweet potatoes and pepperjack cheese - they were hot. I got not-surprisingly fucked up and ended up setting off for the long stumble home at 10:30, in crazy uncomfortable/outmoded white loafers.

It's weird to think about going home. Who the fuck am I going to hang out with? Another intense period of growing inward. Life is struggle, blah blah blah.

Here's what's helping me right now: I just saw Fantastic Four today, and it's like this epic visual love poem to how FUCKING OUTRAGEOUSLY HOT this dude who plays the Human Torch is (let's just calll him Chris Evans). Example, anyone?

Okay. Things are generally weird and depressing, but at least there are things like frozen pizza, Chris Evans and pot! Yay!

stoned, opinions

I recently read this article shortly after I started Leavitt's Equal Affections, which is a really incredible novel (will probably spend the rest of the afternoon avoiding the heat and finishing it). I really appreciate Leavitt's thought on the de-ghettoification of gay literature, but it's hard to fully appreciate it since a lot of his impetus seems to come from the resentment of being categorized in this manner. He spends a lot of time saying, 'this book isn't shelved with gay men's fiction but mine are!' which is definitely fair. But honestly, it might have to do with the fact that if you examine a lot of gay fiction in recent years, the stuff that seems to sell well are these bollocks-y, beachy-book lit. Stuff that tries to take a risk and really break out of the formulaic paradigm probably sells really poorly. But novels about really lame, homoerotic wish-fulfilment stories are selling like hotcakes. Why? In transforming into a more demographically-oriented world, and people are given the choice between a story that gives them a ridiculous, cheap fantasy version of the lives they want or challenging, mind-expanding novels, people blatantly rush for the former.

End that rant. Sorry, everyone, I'm high and frustrated.

Check this shit out though. This is why I love Gawker to pieces.

I recently read Confederacy of Dunces, which for some reason I thought was really stupid (possibly because I started reading it four years ago, somehow remembered all the jokes and found them unfunny now). Maybe it was just my mood.

HOWEVER, I did have the good fortune to follow it up with John Cheever's Falconer, which is a fucking amazing novel. He has such a precise, direct and beautifully effective style. It's a story of a man in prison for killing his brother and being a heroin addict. Really interesting insight into the nature of the prisoner's mind, jail sexuality and contemporary ideas of morality, etc. I recommend it highly.

I don't think I can continue along these overly productive lines any longer, so instead of bitching about the jobquest, I'm just going to peace the fuck out.

oh, for fuck's sake

I know it's only been a couple of days but the fucking porn store has not called! I lack a sufficiently transcendant vocabulary to curse, as utterly as I would like, the fucking soul-destroying shite that is looking for a job in Missoula.

However, I did run into the young punkish dude who was working at pornmart when I handed in my app. When we recognized one another, he said, 'Dude, I think you're too qualified to work here.'

No fucking shit! Of course I am. I'm wildly overqualified, just like nearly everyone in this town who holds a fucking job is! There are people with Master's and Ph.D's hocking coffee and videos and pizza and cigarettes to the world at large.

I ended up mumbling that I wanted a job that didn't insist that I totally prostitute myself to get it, i.e. nothing corporate or uniformish where I find myself saying things like, 'I really think the variety of position's I've held predispose me to learning new things quickly and being a good worker.' Saying shit like that makes me not want to be friends with myself.

Creepily and perhaps redundantly, I realized that the Wilma guy also manages the porn palace, and he very publically checks me out whenever I was at the Wilma. Which is why I don't really go to the Wilma anymore. So do I have to fucking go back there and wear something cute and convince him to hire me?! What the fuck is wrong with me that I'm not getting a callback from the porn store?! I mean, I read fucking Fleshbot, I know what's up!

Speaking of the Wilma and porn, my darling friend Crystal is getting married on Saturday. I need to figure out a gift, figure out a dish to make (it's a potluck wedding) need to figure out an outfit, since I was basically planning on rocking the amazing pinstripe pants (RIP, my fave pants).

My beloved Fake Wife has also returned to Missoula and to my life, which I am certainly enjoying but is not precisely imbuing me with any more will to live. Hopefully seeing her instantly get a job will fuel me into more efficient desparation. Or, I'll just go buy a sack..

fuck!

Yeah, I'm still unemployed! Yeah!

Fuck.

I was roused by a ringing telephone before 9 this morning and let me assure the readers out there that I DO NOT GET UP BEFORE 11, which is being generous. The guy from the flowershop was telling me he wanted to hire me, but needed me to make some kind of assurance that I would be around til Christmas at the very least, to have the apparently long training period be worthwhile.

Times like these wish I was as amoral as I often claim to be. Maybe part of the problem is that one of my best friends referred me and used to work there for two years. I don't want to sully his name; obviously I don't really give a damn about my own.

So, I think the time has come for me to realize my destiny as a vendor of pornography. This will surely yield much better reading material for anyone that reads this paltry blog. 'adventures of a porn merchant' may become the new title of this wee log.

Anyway, wah. I'm wildly pissed off that I'm actually awake right now, and still not employed. But sleep would not return to me so here we are, with me trying to make the best of being awake at this godforsaken hour.

blogging again

OK, it's been over a week, so I should write something. Hum.

I still don't have a job now, but I have been all but given one that starts training next week. Still need something supplemental, obviously. Looking into more of that stuff today. I'm trying to arm myself with useful job-finding necessities, like a pair of pants without a huge gaping hole in the crotch.

Doing nothing is pretty much really fucking depressing, but that's why the lord created drinking, which I discovered this weekend.

I actually went to the first really fun Missoula party I've been to in some time. DJs, people dancing, seeing friends that are supposed to be sober and have been going to AA falling into a sickeningly drunken heap.

I feel like relapses are natural, though. So I wasn't judging her. But I was trying to make her get me a beer. Also, I am curious as to whether a certain dude was hitting on me or just really coked up. Not that I care, since I have already chosen my next victim. And the date is drawing frighteningly close to the anniversary of the last time I had sex. So I need to get to it, for the love of god.

I wish I had more to broadcast. My beloved fake wife is coming back soon, and I can hardly wait to see her. I actually wrote a to-do list last night, so I had better get on the doing of it. Unfortunately/not-that-yall-care, I am not including a culture snack in this edition because I am far too lazy.

fuckity fuck!

OK, so, things were definitely looking good. I had ill-advisedly decided to run away to Salt Lake City with my friend Lydia (one of my new fave people) to see Johnathon Richmond (of The Modern Lovers) on Wednesday. It was an excellent setup, barring my complete lack of knowledge of J-Rich (slightly alievated by a listenting session with my ole chum Julia, cultural genius).

Parenthetical? Yes. It's about to get pathetical, though.

Let's just say that the show was great and we ended up hitting the streets of SLC some time later. At a yet to be determined moment, someone got into the car and stole both of our cellphones and both of our bags. We were both sure that we both locked our doors, but it still fucking happened. I'm kind of trying to go less crazy about it and just learn the fucking lesson that life is trying to teach me right now. I'm FUCKING TRYING HERE.

Elegy for my beloved things:
-My notebook from Europe, with all my friends' address information, random writing and pictures, notes to myself, etc.
-The greatest pants EVER, these black pinstripe pants from H&M - interview wear and night life wear in one!
-My beloved eyepatch! Eyepatches are totally the new mustaches.
-Earthly Powers, by Anthony Burgess, which wasn't even MY book and I was totally excited to read because of the meaty recommendation Tabs and Nettie gave it
-My passport (whoops!)
-All my toiletries, including the only cologne I've ever really liked, Gaultier's Le Male complete with suggestive male-bust bottle!
-My fave light jacket, this sweat denim thing with my last button from Amsterdam and my only fucking button from my only fucking French friend!!!

I'm pretty much over all of that stuff. But Verizon just cockslapped me with the knowledge that my piece of shit phone would cost $120 to replace, since I hadn't paid for fucking insurance because I'm already paying out the nose for fucking cell service. Let's say it together: FUCK YOU VERIZON, YOU FUCKING MINDFUCKING FUCKS!

Feeling better about that. Things are moving on well enough. I was denied another job and I'm being toyed with by the place I actually want to work more (local flower shop, it would be so fucking Six Feet Under). Last night, in the climax of life's unnecessary horriblishness, I broke 'my' bong (it belongs to my friend but was being bongsitted by my friend/roomie Kurt). It looked like a piece of minimalist art, and now all my potheadish dreams are ruined like bongwater-stained carpet!

To top things off, while masturbating I think I re-fucked up my old gimp knee. Obviously, people having as little sex as me have to get more athletic in their masturbation, just to keep things interesting, but some unpredicted spasming found my knee doing that evil, rapid, popping in and out of place thing. I'm trying to walk on it and I might actually NOT have to go to the hospital, which would probably be the last thing to drive me over the edge.

Did I mention the rent's due?

Things are fucked but I'm trying to roll with it and learn my little lessons. Maybe my knee is trying to compensate for my new creativity rush, by forcing me into a brief period of time in which I cannot escape my 'studio.' Actually, my previous brush with convalescence found my writing a shitload and working every day for two weeks for a couple of hours each day. Let's just say that is pretty much unparalleled productivity for me. Whoops. Whatevs, my room looks fucking amazing right now, so why on earth would I want to escape it?!

Happy America's Birthday. I have neither the time nor the desire to pen a thoughful critique on the fucked-up state of our nation. Instead, I will endorse the drinking of beer and the watching of explodey things.