The Return Of The Emotionless Robot

The first time my parents came to visit me at Torpor Heights boarding school, my dorm adviser told my parents that I had the sort of personality that adjusted well to change.  "Everything that happen.  It is like nothing to him.  Is just.  Day."  And, broken English aside, she wasn't wrong.

Wherever I wake up is where I am, and there's nothing that can be done about it.  Oh, I can make sure I'm somewhere else in a few minutes, an hour, a day or so.  But that's the future.  The present is completely beyond your control.  It's like the past, but harder to ignore.

In my current present, I'm sitting in front of a fan in the living room of The Yoda Louise Vader Memorial Cafegymtorium, which is the name I've given to the house I've been living in for the last year.  Tomorrow I work in both the comic book store, and at the bar.  Thursday I interview potential new roommates: a pair of friends from Mission Hill, a poetry reviewer (no shit) who already lives in this neighborhood, a "free-spirited artist", and a 21 year old gay kid on disability for psychological problems.  The last one is just like Sora, but with an income.

Any potential roommate has a lot to live up to.  My most recently previoused roommates: Don, and Ms. Gibbons  were roommates you're just going to have to read about to believe.  Not only were all our bills paid on time but we never had any epic battles over dishes or thermostats, and Ms. Gibbons didn't even steal my TV on the way out like that awful Thai tranny drug addict, Divine, that I lived with on Mission Hill.

"Frankly," Bacchus said, as he sprawled across my chest, "I don't know how you can trust trannies anymore."

I wrinkled my eyebrows at him.  "It wasn't the trannie part of him that stole my TV.  It was the drug addict.  Or possibly the Asian part."

It was Bacchus's turn to shoot a funny look.  Unfortunately, he was not gifted with the proper genetics for facial grammar.  "Then I guess you'd better keep an eye on me when I go home tomorrow."

Bacchus was the man of the moment.  It was the summer of 2008.  I was living in Somerville, and had spent the winter dating and then not dating and then dating and not dating Sora, among other people.  Spring had much the same feel to it.  And I spent July preparing for August, where I drove to Madison with Mazarine and did some poetry things, and some insafemodey things.  And when I came home, I found an e-mail reply to a hardly used personal ad that sounded promising.

Like all solid relationships, ours began when Bacchus pulled his car into my driveway at 2:30 in the morning.  We talked, made out, and tried, unsuccessfully to reproduce.  But we had enough fun that we tried it again a couple of times for good measure.

This ritual went on for a couple of weeks.  And while we confined our recreational activities to my bedroom, we often cuddled on the couch in the living room, watching American Gladiators with my roommates or just hanging out by ourselves watching the shadows charcoal the wall.

"I like him."  The least combative of my roommates, Byrne, said.  "He's a refreshing change of pace from Sora."

"How so?" I asked.

"I dunno.  I guess it's just nice that you're dating the God Of Wine now, as opposed to the God of Whine."

"I...ok."

The following night was the premiere of The Comedy Central Roast Of Bob Saget.  The entire household: me, Mike, Byrne, and the other roommate were all going to watch it together.  I invited Bacchus to join us, and about ten minutes before the show was about to start, I saw his car pull into the driveway.  I tried to hide my goofy grin when the front doorbell rang.  "The back door is open."  I said.  "I don't know why--" and I opened the door to see a Chinese man holding a paper bag.  I had been hoping to see a Vietnamese man holding a bottle of vodka.  "Huh."  I said.  "Wrong Asian."

Bacchus was in the kitchen, and he was trying his damnedest to give me a dirty look but his face was refusing to cooperate.

Byrne paid the Chinese guy n the front porch for his bag of fried food, and we all sat down for the comedy stylings of Jeff Ross, Greg Giraldo, John Stamos, Gilbert Gottfreid, and Norm Macdonald.  During one of the commercial breaks, Byrne excused himself to go to the bathroom when a series of explosions went off in front of our front door.

"HEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!   HEY YOU FUCKEN FUCKERS!!!  OPEN THE FUCKEN DOOR!!!!"  Then the crash of fists being drunk driven into our front door.  "OPEN UP!!!"

The room froze.  Bacchus sat up with a face that nearly expressed concern.  Byrne appeared in the hallway, staring at the door.  Mike let out a "What the fuck?"  And I, because the moment was now, and there really wasn't anything else for me to do but be present for it, stood up, and walked over to the door.

An update about lack of updates.

I'm currently involved in writing a comic.  The kind you can find in your local comic book stores.  It's an already existing title, so nothing Insafemodey.  I'll write more about it when I have release dates, and, well, a physical copy of said comics (right now, there's no artist attached, just a publisher and distributor).

I'm writing a poem a day for the year 2009, and am only about 30 days behind in writing, but about 70 behind in posting them in the official forum (which, is, unfortunately, private).

I have two horrendously needy cats.  One in constant heat.  One in constant state of hyperactivity.

I have several awesomely needy boyfriends.  Several in constant heat.

I spend most of my not working time, either working on poetry/comics, or checking up on my Racist Grandma.

All my shows this year have been within the state of MA, and I don't have any plans for that to change until the fall/winter.  But it will change.

I also want to put together parts 5 & 6 of the Insafemode Journals.  And a pony.  A pony with a winning lottery ticket.  A pony with a winning lottery ticket who'll help me figure out exactly what type of person I should be dating.    I'll call him Merle Swagger. He will be the awesomest pony to ever pony.  (No ass jokes, please, those aren't ponies, they're donkeys)

During the last Depression
Roosevelt lost track of the White House's stability
He was so focused on war and the fragile economy
he didn't notice the ground sinking beneath him
not metaphorically

In 1948 Harry Truman was told The White House was no longer structurally sound
Floors swayed instead of creaked
The president's bathtub sunk into the floor
But The White House was such an institution
that Truman couldn't allow it to be demolished
so for four years he had the White House rebuilt from the outside in
while he moved into the house across the street

I wanted to build my arms into a home where you felt comfortable
but they weren't big enough
so I called them a lobby
My mouth was a door that locked when you twirled my tongue counter clockwise
Each key I cut for you was a work of art
you lost in other mens' pockets

I tried to build myself more solid
Tune out the echoes of plaster cracking
the cringe of metal driving metal into wood
as you drove nail after nail into my flesh
with no regard for my skeletal structure or artery placement

Hammers destroy as easily as build
The claw can't apologize
Just rip the nails out of you

The verb "to fix" can mean to repair
or to dishonestly influence the outcome of a game or trial
To fix can mean injecting yourself with a narcotic
It can mean to focus your eyes on something
or to castrate an animal

I was fixed by you somehow
I'll call it repair
So focused on being stronger
I failed to notice how weak I'd become

I had built myself backwards
A carefully crafted facade
without proper support
stairwells leading nowhere
my shoulders not level enough to hold you
windows to rooms no outside world should see

I'm sorry you couldn't stay here with me
You aren't the tenant I was built for
And honestly
you never took care of me the way that you should have
never bothered taking off your shoes before walking all over me
And eventually you decided I was
at best
a vacation home
a small cabin to visit when the gurgle of life grew too loud
and you needed a place to weekend or summer with no responsibility
Who cares if the spiders web the corners
How the inch thick the dust falls on my shoulders

And I let you do this

And would do it again

I am a repeatedly abandoned building
Even at the crash
Even though I can see myself becoming splintered
Foundation cracking
Support all but gone
I still try and kiss the wrecking ball
As it insists on swinging away from me

I started this story in August, and, during the great computer crisis of '08, neglected to continue it.  I'm continuing it now.  The links below go to the first three parts.  More is on the way.  Much.  Much more.  This story takes place, not now, but in August 08, and will be archived there in a few days.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

"I'm confused."  Mazarine says.  "You gave him the key?  Or you 'gave it to him'?"

"I can't mean both?"  I say.

We're driving home from Madison, and we're both stupid tired.  Poetry - sleep + driving - sleep + a large amount of cigarette breaks - sleep = me telling stories to keep myself awake.  Because, it's either that or sing along loudly with my Zune, which we'd purchased an adapter for on the Boston to Madison leg of the trip.  And I'm telling her the Sora story because it involves roads, and I'm seeing roads everywhere, which is good, because I'm driving, and not seeing the road = car crash.

"So, are you two, still an item or what?"

And I consider for a moment that my relationship with Sora is a Tremont Street.  A series of weird, unnecessary turns.  I don't think either of us ever really know whether or not we're together.  And while I've been driving excessively for the past year or so, only once or twice have the tires of the vehicle I'm driving ever touched down on Tremont.  "Not really."

And, yet, he's the first person I IM when I get home.  I tell him most about my trip to Wisconsin, and he tells me about work, and then we discuss missing each other.  And then I sign off.  And I click on Craigslist.  Because I miss him.  And that is never enough.

 

My nose is running for President of my face.  I'm in a grocery store, basket full of bagels, cream cheese, and juice.  Tissues.  God, do I need tissues.  So, I go to the paper goods aisle, and begin staring down the long line of facial tissue boxes.  Out of nowhere, the mostly dormant gay part of my brain  says I need to get a box whose pattern will mesh most with the colors in my room.  And, I think, Hey, this is progress.  I could set up a much nicer vibe to my room than the current Pile Of Laundry And Cat Toys  (And Cat) ambiance.

This is when I realize, I have no idea what color anything in my room is

2009 has thus far not been a year I want to post about.  But, tonight, old school (actually, it's more of a middle school thing) Insafemode people, is going to be a fun night of poetry show.  Why?  It's the Champion of Champions Slam at The Cantab Lounge, and, for the first time ever, I'm defending my title against Ben, aka the user formerly known as Unsafeload, aka my ex roommate who own(ed?)(s??) a fanny pack, aka some guy I totally didn't at all have a thing for and can't imagine why you would have thought that based on reading this journal.

There will be theme rounds, a general mocking atmosphere, and $100 at stake for the winner.  There's also a strong possibility that Sora, Steggy,  and  CSB (and that really is an old school reference, haven't talked about him in about five years) are going to show up, as well.  I think that's the highest volume of people I've mentioned in my journal being in one place, like, ever.   I should totally invite Mr. Hot Positive Load to give the night extreme awkardness, but my masochistic tolerance index is low today.

But, really, you should just come to see me take out four years of frustration out on Ben (who, admittedly, hasn' been frustrating me in any way whatsoever for over two years).  And for good poetry.  And drinks. 

More info at Slam News Dot Com, as well as directions and stuff.

Hope to see you there.

A group of poets were discussing ways to be on the cutting edge of new fiction, when one of them came up with the idea of rewriting classics word for word, but inserting the word black into them, thus COMPLETELY changing the tone/perspective of the book. His original idea: Do Black Androids Dream of Electric Black Sheep.

So, Jim and I have been spending the evening coming up with other books that would be forever change by the addition of that one word:

Mein Black Kampf
Their Black Eyes Were Watching God
Something Wicked Black This Way Comes
Skinny Black Legs And All
Even Black Cowgirls Get The Blues
Little Black Women
The Black Things The Carried
The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Black Galaxy
So Long, And Thanks For All The Black Fish
I Know Why The Black Caged Bird Sings
Heart Of Darkness
The Autobiography of Black Malcolm X
Dreams Of My Black Father
To Kill A Black Mockingbird
A Series Of Unfortunate Black Events
I Did It Black : OJ Confesses
The Jungle Book
Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Black Secrets
Harry Potter And The Half Blood Black Prince
Men Are From Mars, Black Women Are From Venus
His Dark Materials
The Illustrated Black Man
The Five Black People You Meet In Heaven
The Black Great Gatsby
The Complete Black Idiot's Guide To Slam Poetry
The Dark Tower
Uncle Tom's Black Cabin
A Black Child's Christmas In Wales
Yes, Virginia, There Is A Black Santa Claus
Come On Black People: On The Path From Victims To Victors
A Black American Werewolf In London
Twelve Angry Black Men
The Black Communist Manifesto
Black On The Road
Lord Of the Black Flies
Black Beauty
The Black Cat In The Hat
Choose Your Own Black Adventure
Are You There Black God, It's Me Margaret
Black Like Me



While some of these titles are just amusing, I think some of these books would be very, very interesting. In particular, I'd like to see a scottwoods poem called "Do Black Androids Dream Of Electric Black Sheep?" I mean, I haven't heard a bad Scott Woods poem yet (which doesn't mean they're not out there, just that he, wisely, only shares the good ones more than once), and think he'd come up with something pretty amazing with this title.

edited/added from lj users' comments:

Moby Black Dick
Black Generation X
Hope For The Black Flowers
Lady Chatterley's Black Lover
The Black Bible
The Good Black Earth
A Black People's History Of The United States
Chicago Manual Of Black Style

Bugz (she has them in her brain)
Shut The Fuck Up (self-explanatory)
Molly (From The Haunting of Molly Hartney)
Rosemary (the one with the baby)
Regan (Mcneil from The Exorcist)
Tupac (suggested as an alternative to a name to appear later)
Afeni (which would make her kitten, Tupac)
Mia (what they called her in the pet store)
For The Love of God Shut The Fuck Up, It' Three O'Clock In The Morning
Emily Rose
I Want A Refund
Maiow
Brrrrrrrrrrrraiow
Underfoot
Selina (as in Kyle, this is the one I'm leaning to at the moment)
Are You Seriously Still Maiowing At Me?
Mystique
Malebolgia
Sniffy (aka MADcat from Inspector Gadget)
Delia (I had a Koosa named Delia when I was a kid))
Nigger

I've also been taking care of one of her kittens at the store, an adorable little martiany thing that I have named Yoda Vader, as she has a huge Yoda head and ears (complete with big tufts growing out of them), but a respiratory infection that makes her sound like His Darthness.  The repiratory thing is apparently genetic, and thus, came from her as yet unnamed mother, who now breathes like a normal cat. 

My cat?   Totally haunted.  Completely.  Utterly.  Haunted.