The Return Of The Emotionless Robot

Yesterday, I received an e-mail requesting that I be a part of one of the nationwide rallies to let the world know how upset we are that Americans were open-minded enough to elect a partially African-American president, but not open-minded enough to let gay people marry.  While I would certainly love to support the event, I have to work. 

Upon learning that I was skipping the event to sell comics, I received an e-mail from Well-Dressed Steve, calling me out for being a bad homo (it should be pointed out that Well-Dressed Steve, though a very dapper dresser, is 100% non-cock sucker):

Gay people rarely support comic books, literature in general, their friends getting married, and me.  Granted, the same goes for straight people.  Having worked in seven different comic book stores (all part of the same chain) for the last year and a halfish, I can tell you, there aren't a lot of gay comic book readers in New England.  And I know why.  There are very few gay male characters in comic books.  Plenty of lesbians, and bisexual women (even if you don't count porno comics), but, with the exception of yaoi, not a lot of gay men.

I don't read yaoi.  It's mostly two-dimensional, black-and-white cheesefests about older men "mentoring" then seducing and fucking younger men.  And, being Japanese, these stories often involve giant squids, sentient vibrators, and thirty-seven kilometer cocks.  Why would I want to read such drivel?  I mean, I already live this kind of drivel.

Mainstream American comics, however, don't have a lot of gay characters.  In the Marvel Universe (the one I obsessively read/collect) the few gay characters are all drama, no plot.  Northstar, a member of the little read/respected Canadian super team, Alpha Flight, infamously came out in issue 106 (1992) while rescuing an HIV positive baby, which may sound like a good story, but it wasn't.  Ultimate Colossus's coming out was handled a little better.  As opposed to Northstar's homosexuality coming out of left-field, there were many hints an innuendos in the sixty-four issued before he decloseted.  I won't even mention the fact that two of the three male gay teens in the Marvel Universe were originally named Anole (hasn't changed), and Assgardian (renamed Wiccan) {I've got no beef with Hulkling as a name).

Now, there are some specifically gay, all-gay, oh-so-gay comics out there.  The problem is, I haven't found any that I've liked.  Someone recommended Stuck Rubber Baby to me about a year ago, and I picked it up, and just didn't care.   I find it really difficult to get into biopic comics, unless they're really well-written, like Maus and Persepolis.  Which got me thinking that I only really like biopics about people surviving genocide.

Two weeks ago, I was reading Dave Eggers's non-comic novel, What Is The What, as well as a new anthology of illustrated journals of real-life refugees (mixed in with a few fictional ones) called I Live Here.  I was getting incredibly depressed, and not just because of the quality of Eggers's writing.  Too.  Much.  Suffering.  Luckily, right next to I Live Here on the new arrival shelf was Bottoms In Love, an anthology of gay comics by gay writers.

Man, that comic needed more genocide.  The art was cool, but the writing was hideous.  Awful.  Bad.  Gay.  Like the books you find in the LGBTA secton of Borders.  Too trite for the literature shelf.  If I want to see vapid, shallow, attractive men whining about how hard it is to find another vapid, shallow, attractive man, or how hard it is to be faithful to their vapid, shallow, attractive boyfriends, I'll get a gym membership.  Stay the hell out of my comic books.

Ummm...way sidetracked.  What I meant to say was Penguin Lust..  

So, I don't see gay people flocking to my rescue, should they vote to ban comic book stores. But being gay hasn't been banned either, just gays being married.  And while I certainly support gay marriage rights (and gay divorce rights), and while I  have already petitioned the IRS to remove the Church Of Latter Day Saints from their religious exemption status, since those M-holes have spent 14 million dollars influencing the government, ignoring the whole "separation of church and state" thing, which reminds me that hey, marriage is a religious institution, anyway, why is the government involved to begin with?  Ahem, Penguin Lust.

I will, unfortunately, not be present at any of the rallies this Saturday.  But Asterisk will be one of the speakers at the Boston rally.  And, I suspect, Ben will be speaking in Northhampton.  These are just two of the rallies taking place in Massachusetts.  I would now like to devolve myself to toilet humor, and let you know that one of the other MA rallies is taking place at *giggle* The Old *snerk* Creamery in *snort* Cummington, MA.  Thanks to Well-Dressed Steve for the heads up on that one.   

1.) I lost my favorite shirt.

2.) In the pocket of my favorite shirt is the key to my hotel room.

3.) Because we're in the penthouse, and you need a penthouse room key just to get on to the penthouse elevator (or to access the penthouse floor via the stairway), I can't even get to the floor I am staying on, to knock on the door, to see if my hotel roommate, Mazarine, is around to let me in.

4.) I could call Mazarine, but I don't have her number memorized. I do have it in my cellphone, but...

5.) My cellphone is in the pocket of my favorite shirt.

6.) I have imbibed just enough alcohol to be cranky about it.

7.) It is nearly 5:30 in the morning.

8.) After several hours searching for my shirt, I ask the concierge to give me another key. He does. When I go upstairs and in to my room, the first thing I notice is that there, on the bed, is my favorite shirt.

9.) I'm the kind of person who makes absolutely sure that when I remove an item of clothing filled with objects, I check all my pockets and transfer anything I need. Therefore, when I removed my favorite shirt in my room, I transferred the hotel room key to my pants pocket, which means that I had the key with me THE ENTIRE TIME.

When I still lived with Ben, he took a vacation to a woody retreat, and did a lot of acid. At some point, during the trip, he borrowed his friend, Lisabelle (last referenced here)'s cell phone. He was fairly certain he returned it, but when it was nearly time for he and Lisabelle to leave, she couldn't find the phone, and knew that the last time she had seen it, Ben was using it. To call me.

According to Ben, he spent the next hours cleaning the house they were staying at. Every couch cushion was flipped, and dusted for potential cell phone remains. Every jacket in the house was emptied of pockets. Every cupboard emptied, then refilled and reorganized. Every square inch of the house was covered. At this point, Lisabelle's poor pussy-whipped boyfriend was informed that he had to hypnotize Ben, to make him remember what he did with it.

The hypnosis didn't work, but during the hypnosis, Lisabelle put her hands in her pocket, where her cellphone had been the whole time.

Upon hearing this story straight from the twink's mouth, Sir Trick said "Wait. They thought to hypnotize you? She wasn't thorough enough to check her pockets, but she thought of hypnotizing you? Why not just burn the house to the ground, and use a metal detector to find it?"

I have spent the month of August trying to burn down my past and discover where I went wrong. While, technically, July is when I lost Ryan, August is when I lost dignity, Ben, Sora, my mind (when I moved to Arifuckenzona), the list is endless.

"Your life is a fucken novel on acid." JBob says. We've seen each other once in the past decade. About a year ago we met for lunch in Boston, just after Sora disappeared. We had a good time, and some good laughs (and I stewed about him being hotter at 31, then he was when we were in high school, sleeping in the same room). And since slam nationals were in Madison, where he lives, we agreed to hang out during the competition. The highlight for JBob was when, in order to psych me up for a particular poem, he got to repeatedly shove me, and slap me in the face. It worked.

"What do you mean 'my life is a novel on acid'?"

"Well, ok, you're part of this big weird community where most people seem to know you, and, at least on the surface, like you. But you've got two nemeses. One is this Punky Brewster looking gay kid with leggings, and too much eyeshadow. And then there's the thirty-five year old Gothtard who wanders around in his lame-ass black trenchcoat all the time, leering at you."

"You've got it wrong." I say. "Ben is not my nemesis, he's just...you know, Ben. And the Gothtard isn't my nemesis, I'm his. If I chose a rival, it would be someone who had a talent for what they do, or at least someone with dignity. That dingleberry doesn't even warrant a special name in my Livejournal."

"Well, that's because he already has a special name. A Blue Light Special name. In his case, probably a flashing blue light pulsing to the rhythm of some lame ass techno band from 1994."

We are walking to JBob's house. We are both fairly drunkwasted. We also spent some time in a Madison parking lot with a Boston poetry friend smoking a non-cigarette. I am vaguely aware of the turns we take between my hotel and his house. And when we get there, we resume smoking, and talking about high school, while the Olympic Opening Ceremonies play on his TV.

"I totally had a gay crush on Fledge." JBob says.

"Everyone had a gay crush on Fledge. He was cute, funny, and hung like a...like I'm too high to come up with something funny."

"Yea, but, I used to wait outside the showers to try and see him naked."

Well, this is uncomfortable. My hot, hilarious friend and former roommate is confessing a gay crush while we're both hammered and sitting on his couch. My hot, hilarious married to a girl friend and former roommate. God, I wish she was a bitch so I could sleep with JBob and not feel guilty.

Silence ensues.

"Well, I have to work tomorrow. So I should get to sleep. Do you want to crash here, or...."

"I'll, uh, I'll just go back to the hotel. Yea. The hotel. Thanks for having me over. This was" awkward hug "fun."

And he gives me spoken directions on how to get back to the hotel. Directions which I can't concentrate on because I'm thinking stupid stupid stupid just go back there and stupid stupid back to the stupid hotel but I think he was trying to no stupid stupid stupid just go. I've been walking aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, and thinking I'm hopelessly lost, when I look up and see a crowd of mostly-dressed-in-black-people in a circle around someone performing bad hip-hop. Clearly, I'm back in the poetry zone. And, sure enough, I see the hotel.

I want to turn around and go back

Jim, my roommate Byrne, and several other people in the poetry community seem to have the mistaken impression that I hate all Gay People. "And I don't mean you're self-loathing. It's just other Gay People you hate. I mean, if I were to make a pie chart of The Gay Community where the red part was people you hated, and the black part was people you liked, it'd look like a watermelon."

"To be fair," I replied, "the chart would look exactly the same were you to divvy up the straight people I did and didn't like."

But it's Pride Week, and most of the people annoying me are Gay. Here's the thing, I don't like PDA, even when it's hot gay guys groping each other and doing the type of kiss that surrenders to Germans. I don't like the huge rainbows, the Madonna karaoke or the horrible fashion shows with clothes designed by people who should never be given scissors within a hundred yards of curtains or bathmats. When gendercrash invited me to read for Coming Out Day, rather than Pride, I knew he understood me.

Ryan and I had a couple of hilarious conversations about how we hated melodramatic gay people. Which made his choice to kill himself rather than come out to his parents all the funnier. Ok, I didn't find it funny at the time, but it makes me giggle now. Ben and I used to riff on hating stereotypical Gays, too. And that was funny because Ben is as stereotypically Gay as you can get without bursting into Flamer (note, I am not calling him a Flamer...he's just sort of sparky). But it was Sora that I really bonded with on the loving homosexual men, and disliking Gays.

And while I may joke about not liking Gays because of their fashion sense, their musical taste, their propensity for PDAs, their coifs, their deliberately screechy octavoices, or their gonorrhea; the truth is none of them seem to know how to kiss properly.

Trey kisses like a damp sponge being pressed against your lips and slightly squeezed into your mouth. I met him, as I'm sure you're shocked to know, over The Internet. And his kissing was the only thing I could fault him on, but I haven't called him back.

Breezy uses his tongue like a woodpecker searching for ants at the back of my throat. I wouldn't have called him back either, but the thing is, he has this great apartment. I mean, the apartment itself is average. Not furnished very well, devoid of any art, but it's on the water, meaning bay breeze, which, given the current heatwave, is good enough reason for me to continue seeing him.

"So you're dating a guy for his apartment." Asterisk said. "I've done worse. I've dated people because I've liked their dog."

And while I've never dated someone for their dog (and I do love dogs), I did threaten to break up with someone when their ex-roommate got custody of their awesome cat.

But it's not just the apartment. Despite his being the sort of Gay you can see from space even when your eyes are closed and you're facing in the opposite direction, staring into the sun, he looks really good naked, and since he has no roommates, we spend a lot of time naked in various rooms. But we're not dating. I know we're not dating because both of us had sex a few hours before we met up (with other people, natch), and then a few hours after we parted ways.

Clem was the guy a few hours earlier, and he received kisses exactly the way a closet case kisses back when they're about to freak out. Our sex didn't really last long. We'd been trying to meet for months. And by we, I mean he. I gave up on him after the first night of his utter wishy-washiness. He wanted to meet. He wanted to bottom. He had the night off, but, horrors, what if someone saw me go into his house and knew I was A Homosexual? What would the neighbors say? (I surmise they'd say "Yawn. He could do better.") Three months and eleven potential meet-ups later, he sent me his address, and I hopped on a bus that connected with another bus, and yet another bus that dropped me off in his neighborhood. We made very small talk before we went into his bedroom, where he closed his shades, turned off all the lights, and took off his clothes. When I tell you he had the tiniest penis I've ever seen, I'm not trying to insult him. As much as I can appreciate a good looking penis, it's not the part of the body I'm most looking for. His ass was assdequate. But barely had he slid his skivvies around his ankles, when he started stuttering. He had one hand on my cock, and said "Your c-c-cock is so big. I can not b-b-bottom for you." Which is flattering, but not at all true. Not even remotely true. So I started putting my clothes back on. "I can jerk you..."

"No." "You can't." "You've got a car, right?" In the movie version of my life, I'm smoking a cigarette. Perhaps two cigarettes.

"Yes. I have car." Apparently, my cock was also so big he forgot how to use articles in his sentences.

"You're giving me a ride home then."

And he did, without question. And as soon as he dropped me off at the house, I e-mailed Breezy, and he took care of my Indigo Testicles. And I took care of his. And he took care of mine. And I took care of...you get the idea.

When it was finally well past time for sleep, Breezy plopped down beside me on his bed, and grabbed my arms around him. Which is fine. I can be rather cuddly when the mood strikes, much to the chagrin of Sora, and the amusement of Zach. The latter referring to me as a Reverse Teddy Bear. "A big furry thing that never lets go." Breezy was the first guy I've ever thought of as aggressively huggable. Every time I was certain he was asleep, and I tried to move to a more comfortable position, he would wait for me to adjust, and then commandeer both my arms, roll his neck under my chin, and slide his butt up against my cock, which is a pretty surefire way to get me to not move too much for a while.

"Where are you going?" He asked when it was time for me to head home, shower, and consider going to work.

"Home."

"Not yet you're not." And he was correct. Three times.

When I got the e-mail from Diego, telling me he would die without a sperm transfusion, I wondered if meeting him was a bit over the top. True, I hadn't been laid since Wednesday afternoon, but it was only Friday afternoon, and I had a show to go to Friday night. But he was insistent that he come over. he was insistent about everything. Kissing too desperate. Mashing of mouths, yanking of head. It was like kissing a fish that kept flopping around to different sides of your face. "Am I too rough?" He asked.

"No." You just suck at this.

"I am ready to be-" don't say it, don't say it, don't say it "taken by you, Big Boy."

Sora developed a sense of dirty talk sometime after the first year or so of our on/off/on/off/off/off/on/whatever dating cycle. I think this goes back to a conversation we had where I mentioned liking when a guy was vocal in bed. But what I meant was guttural, or pleasured, not loquacious and porn talky. But Sora gets away with it because I like him & he has a sexy voice. Diego...Diego doesn't fall into either category.

It's not just the bad kissing, the bad porn talk, or the everything else. Diego proved something I suspected, but didn't know for sure. I'm not into black dudes. It's not a racist thing. I cold surely fall in love with someone black, and I can damn sure realize when someone black is hot, but I'm just not into them, precisely the same way I'm not into women. They can get me hard, they can get me interested, but they can't make me come. Diego tried and tried and tried and tried, until Byrne knocked on my door to let me know it was time to go to the show. I don't think he heard what we were doing (and if he's read this far, I'm sure he now regrets it). "What do we do?" Diego asked. "You have not--"

"We've got to go." I said. "Sorry, I didn't realize this would take so" epically "long."

"I will call you later." He, I hope, lied.

"You are such a whore. Again." Dmitri said, when I relayed the stories to him. "Who killed himself this time?"

"Ouch. No one. I mean, I'm sure someone, but nobody I know. It's just..." Oh shit.

Trey kisses sponge, Breezy woodpecker, Diego cinder block, Clem like a terrified mannequin. Diego is too needy armed, Trey too non-existent. Diego too existent. Clem not enough anything. These ass shaped men trying to fit themselves in my heart slot. And, in theory, the piece should fit. Not perfectly, or even well. But they should drop into the too big space for them, and slide around like the last pretzel in a kiddie pool sized bowl. Everything about Breezy is nearly acceptable except that he isn't Sora.

And, fuck.

The best thing about having your perfect boyfriend commit suicide a month into your relationship is that you realize pretty quickly that there's no way you can improve upon your relationship or bring things back to the way they were. He's never going to be nearly as responsive, even if you dig him up and put a tape recorder in his chest. He's never going to kiss back, or silently judge you for your horrible necrophilia jokes. Ok, he will always silently judge you for your necrophilia jokes, because silent judgment is one of the few things corpses are good at. But, I digress.

Sora is, thank everything, in no way shape or form dead. Nor is he, nor has he ever been perfect, as my friends frequently remind me. But he kisses properly, which is sometimes enough. And we've become accustomed to our cycle of whatever it is we do or don't. And Zach was right about me. I'm just this big, furry thing that never lets go.

For years, I've had a No Fly Over rule with another gay, redheaded poet from Boston, Asterisk. This rule made dating in Boston increasingly difficult, as he has slept with everyone who's ever even thought the word Boston. It's one of the reasons I'm glad things with Ben never worked out.

A few months ago, Ben, Asterisk, and I were involved in a spoken word show. Among the crowd was an amazingly hot guy that Ben was trying to bang. "He grew up in France." Ben said. "He was going to be a prostitute, but he had a curfew."

When Asterisk started hitting on said Curfew Boy, I was legally obligated to chastise him. He and Ben had both ripped me apart over Sora, who was eighteen to my twenty-nine. Asterisk was comfortably in his thirties, and Curfew Boy was eighteen. Barely.

And, despite some major triangle trauma (by the time it happened, I was, fortunately, well out of range), Asterisk ended up with the guy for the night. (Ben ended up getting him several times later.)

But before Ben slept with him, Asterisk was chiding him about how good Curfew Boy was in bed. "Man, that kid's ass tasted like gold."

"Eww." I said. "Who wants to lick gold? Now, if his ass had tasted like Golden Grahams, you just get me a spoon and some milk, and I'll be over that."

The last couple of Thanksgivings, a bunch of my poet friends and I have gotten together to have a family-free holiday. We have lots of alcohol, tell lots of raunchy stories, and eat a lot of amazing food. This year, my former roommate, and former romantic foil, Ben joined in. The favorite story of the day was about the Mr. Hot Positive Load. We, in fact, referred to Thanksgiving as Hot Positive Loads Of Food Day. I was almost thankful that I had fucked Mr. Hot Positive, as he'd given me a great story. He had also, however, bruised my ribs while riding me. I thought that was his final gift to me. I was wrong.

The day after Thanksgiving, I was preparing to take a piss when I saw a thick yellowish liquid on the head of my cock. Now, after nearly a decade of very carefully protected sex with many, many people, I've never had an STD, but I knew immediately that I had one then. So I entered my symptom online and took an educated guess that I had gonorrhea. I made an appointment at an STD clinic, and sent off an e-mail to Mr. Hot Positive's Myspace Profile. It said "Hey. You should e-mail me. There's something we need to talk about before you sleep with anyone else."

He responded by defriending me. So I left a comment for him. "Thanks for the STD, jerkface. Get tested before you give it to someone else."

How was I supposed to know his mom and his sister read his MySpace page?

Oh, right, he'd told me before we met.

Whoops.

He replied with "I don't have any STDs. Why are you being such an asshole?"

Now, I had only had sex with two people during a two week stretch. Mr. Breedme and Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I had inserted my penis (fully condomed) into Mr. Breedme for a couple of minutes, and then made him leave. Also, Mr. Breedme said he hadn't gotten laid in years, and given his appearance and self-esteem, I believe him. Mr. HotPositiveLoad is a big slut (I realize this is the proverbial pot calling the proverbial kettle Cookware American) who likes to have men pee in him. We had fucked and whatnot for hours, and while I had been very careful with condoms, there had been some non-latexed oral that would lead me to believe he, and not Mr. Breedme was the one that gave me The Applause. But if I'm wrong, then Mr. Breedme gave me The Applause, and I probably passed it along to Mr. HotPositiveLoad. Either way, he had gonorrhea.

By the time I write out my kindlier than it should be e-mail, I discovered he had me blocked, changed his MySpace profile to private, changed his name, gotten rid of his picture, and changed his age and location.

I'm pretty sure that doesn't change the fact that he had The Applause.

Around about this time, my penis started to hurt. I already had an appointment at the clinic for the next day, so I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing I could do. I made it a point to not pee very much, as the idea of having hot lava shoot out of my cock has never been very appealing to me.

Ben called. He was running a show at his college, and his host had bailed. He wondered if I could come host the event. Seeing as I had a show there myself the next week, I agreed. I wrapped some Kleenex around my cock, and shuffled off to the train. An hour and a half later, I reached my destination (late), and Ben picked me up. We drove about 100 MPH all the way to the show (about another hour of travel), where I waddled into the lecture room. In order to host, I had to walk up and down the stairs of the lecture hall every five minutes or so. My ribs were bruised. My cock was ON FIRE. The Kleenex had shifted to somewhere around my kneecaps, and my penis, dripping hot lava out of it, was now scraping against my jeans.

The show lasted about two hours. So I missed the last train home. Meaning, I would not be able to make it back to the city in time for my appointment.

I was not very happy.

Ben got on the phone to his sister, who is a doctor. The conversation that I heard went something like, "Well, it's my friend Safey. He's got The Applause. Uh huh. Well, he's not going to make it in for his appointment at the clinic, which means he's not going to get any medication for at least another couple of days, and I was wondering if you could prescribe me the drugs, and I could pick them up first thing tomorrow, and give them to him. Well, it's kind of my fault he isn't going to make it to the clinic. I know I'm not supposed to ask you about drugs, and I normally wouldn't, but do they really think someone is going to recreationally take antibiotics? Thanks. Thanks. No, really. I'm sure he appreciates it."

Ben went to sleep a bit later, while I kept waddling back and forth to the bathroom to survey the damage. I may also have put a voodoo hex or two on Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I barely got any sleep, as the pain was...and the gross was...and ewww.

First thing the next morning, we took a trip to the pharmacy, where Ben picked up the prescription, while I waited in the car. "You know that the lady inside totally thinks I'm the one with The Applause." He said, fluffing his hair at me.

I did. And it amused me.

I took the pills immediately, thanking any deity in the vicinity that, if I had to have an STD, it, at least, was one that you can knock out with one dose of pills, and not have any sort of recurring rash or quickened death.

Ben then drove me, and a few of his friends to the restaurant/poetry venue where I work. I was dreading going up and down the stairs all night, carrying plates of food; and was overjoyed to discover that the kitchen was closed, and I would still get paid, even though all I would have to do was deliver the occasional drink from the bar to one of the nearby tables.

I still decided that this was a sign that I shouldn't be meeting strangers for sex via The Internet anymore. So I was pleased to receive an e-mail from Duke, a couple of days after a doctor confirmed I was "cleared up". After all, I'd fucked Duke once already, so he was hardly a stranger. Also, I hadn't even been able to masturbate while I had The Applause, as even brushing the tip of my ON FIRE cock against a sheet caused incredible pain. I could tell by the way he kissed me when I got to his house that we were going to have loads of sex to make up for the last couple of weeks. But while they would certainly be hot loads, and I hoped they'd be positive loads, I was hoping they wouldn't be hot positive loads. Near as I can tell, they weren't.

Also, the next week I had my show at the college, and it went very well. My ribs felt a lot better, and I was definitely Applause free (though many people clapped during my show). I had Ben call his sister and let her know how much I appreciated what she did, and that I think of her every time I pee, and it doesn't hurt. I hope she understands that's supposed to be a compliment.

When Ben and I were living together, we formulated the ultimate revenge plan. We would steal someone's iPod, write down all the tracks on it, delete the iPod and then refill the iPod with nothing but Cher's "Walking in Memphis", but give each track a title from the original iPod playlist. We decided this was one of the cruelest punishments imaginable (The worst punishment being a friend of mine's idea. Every year, she and her best friend would try and give each other the worst possible birthday present, and the receiver of the gift HAD to use it. One year, her friend gave her ONE Celine Dion ticket, so she would have to go see that trainwreck, but wouldn't have anyone to share the horrific experience with).

Having driven from somewhere around Waco, TX to Arkansas, I was tired. So I slept through most of Ben's drive through Arkansas. And when I saw we were hitting the border of Tennessee, naturally, I grabbed the iPod and turned on some Arrested Development. When the song was over, Ben grabbed the iPod and began singing Cher's "Walking in Memphis" just like Cher. Creepily like Cher. Exactly like Cher. I'm not sure that's a talent, but if it is, he is very talented. This was not as creepy as when he sings old Fleetwood Mac songs exactly like Stevie Nicks, but it's close. Creepier was when he started singing Notorious BIG songs in the Cher voice, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Ben and I drove around Memphis for hours. There is no free parking in Memphis, and the hotels are spread out. Sadly, there weren't any hotel rooms available in Memphis because it was Elvis week.

When we decided to get back on the highway, Ben suggested we go to Nashville, and hang out there. "I don't know why you think we'll have any better luck there." I said. "It's also Dolly Parton week."

It wasn't.

We found a hotel, ordered a pizza, made plans to hit up a gay bar, and promptly fell asleep.

The next day's plan? Knoxville. Ben would hit up a gay bar (he's opposed to clubs because of the loud music and the fact that most people in clubs are...well, club people), and I would catch a bus home to Boston, so I could be to work on Wednesday night. It was a good plan, so I knew it was going to go awry.

We arrived in Knoxville in the early afternoon, we circled Knoxville over and over looking for hotels, but we only saw a too expensive Raddison that overlooked the Woman's Basketball Hall of Fame. There is almost no parking in Tennessee, apparently, so we parked roughly back in Nashville, and walked to the information center of Knoxville. The really nice woman behind the counter suggested we stay out of town, or at a place called St. Oliver's.

We couldn't find St. Oliver's for a long time, due to construction in the area, and our general inability to read maps. When we did find out, Ben went in to ask how much rooms were.

"We have $55 rooms, $75 rooms, and $200 suites." Said the concierge. "But all of our $55 rooms are full."

"Well, I'm a videoblogger recording a road trip of some of the nicest hotels in the country." Lied Ben, in a stroke of utter brilliance. "If I give your hotel a good review, could we get a $75 room for $55."

When the concierge immediately agreed, I thought he might be really stupid. But when his hot young boyfriend picked him up from work a few hours later, I realized he was just looking out for some fellow queers. God Bless Tennessee.

Hotel St. Oliver is filled with beautiful French furniture, a piano that doesn't quite work, and every cool amenity you can expect in an old hotel, with the exception of a wireless connection.

The concierge gayve (no, it ain't a typo) us a tour of the hotel, showing us plans to build lofts into certain rooms, different wallpapers they were considering during renovations, etc. At some point during our tour, Ben realized that our room keys opened every door on our floor. Stroke of Ben's brilliance #2.

After the tour, we went out in search of food. But it was after seven, when they roll up the streets of Knoxville. We found only one food place open. A brand new bar/restaurant/music venue/art gallery/hair salon/spa called World Grotto that had just opened. The owner made a killer salmon sandwich for Ben, while I scoured the place for inspiration.

At around tennish we headed to the bus station, where I was to pick up my travel stipend to go home, and then...well I was to go home. A 24 hour bus trip. Not nearly as fun as the two day Boston to Dallas trip, I was sure, but close. Now, the stipend was sent at 9:30. It was a check for $150. The ticket home would be about a hundred, giving me plenty of food spending money for the trip. The money was in the computer at the bus station's Western Union "but there's a password on it. You got the password?" I did not. So I called the person who sent the money, who, naturally, did not answer his phone.

He called back at 11:55. Ben was understandably antsy. He had plans to go to a gay karaoke night and go hotel with a nice little TN guy. Being the good friend, he decided to stay with me until I had the money. While we waited, he played video games, and I fretted. There wasn't supposed to be a password on the account, but after I handed Ben's phone (my phone doesn't work in eastern TN or western Virginia, or the Carolinas) to the Western Union lady, she smiled and printed out my ticket. I thanked the sender, and gave the phone to Ben. "You good?" He asked.

"Yeup." I said, without betraying my sense of impending doom. "Thanks for waiting with me." And I hugged Ben goodbye.

I was not good.

The lady behind the counter frowned at me. "So, I just emptied the cash drawer a couple of minutes ago."

I smiled and nodded.

"So I won't have enough money to cash your check for a while."

"A while?" I asked.

"Check back in a half an hour."

I did. They hadn't sold a single ticket. "What time does the next bus that you sell tickets to leave?"

She smiled and said, "Eight thirty tomorrow morning." The bitch smiled. Fucken August.

I called Ben. Collect because my fucken phone still didn't work. He had already met someone, but was going to drive back to the station and pick me up.

"No, don't worry about it." I told him. "I'll just walk back to the hotel, and wait for you there, it should take me about an hour. And I can wait. Don't rush back."

It was a fifteen minute walk. So I decided to kill some time at The World Grotto, where the owner made me a free chicken sandwich and a few Captain and Cokes. I told him I would plug The World Grotto in my blog. Plug, plug.

At around two-thirty Ben and a very cute guy in glasses stumbled toward the hotel. Ben apologized profusely for making me wait, despite the fact that I told him to take his time. The cute boy introduced himself to me and asked "How old are you?"

"Thirty." I said.

"Cool. My last boyfriend was thirty-two, but he told me he was twenty-six."

"Ah ha." I said. Unsure why he was telling me this.

"So I aspreschiate your honesty." And we entered the hotel like the scarecrow, the tin man, and Dorothy. I won't say who was who.

Ben's flash of brilliance #3: our key opened all the rooms on our floor. One of the $200 suites was being renovated, but the bedroom was fine. So he and the boy would take the suite, I would sleep in the room, making sure to wake them up at eight, so they wouldn't get caught by the concierge when his shift started at nine.

Ben went into the bathroom for a few minutes, leaving Boy and I to small talk in the room.

"So...I never do this sort of thing." Boy said. "I'm kinda drunk. I never. I mean. How old is Ben."

"Twenty-three."

"Cool. I'm twenty. So...I...uh...this...are gonna have a threesome?"

No. No. No. No no no. Or as Ben would undoubtedly say "Nooooooooooooo."

For the record, I don't think Boy was hitting on me, he was just drunk and confused. And incredibly lucky he ended up with Ben and not some asshole who was going to take advantage of his drunkenness. Well, I mean, Ben was taking advantage of his drunkenness, but in a way that had been agreed upon before drunkenness ensued.

The next morning, I woke up as Ben and Boy were entering the room. They had not been discovered. And while they crashed in the bed, I made my way to the bus station, blasting a prereleased Jared Paul CD (amazing, amazing, amazing). I took off my headphones when I got to the ticket counter. The station was empty save me, two people chatting on the far side of the station, and the lady behind the counter. I put my discman down. While the lady and I were talking, apparently, a tribe of Knoxville Ninjas entered the bus station and stole my discman. Seriously, there was no one within range to steal it, but during the minute and a half it was on the counter, it disappeared. Poof. Fucken August.

I must still look like a poet. Or a drug addict. The two aren't necessarily indistinguishable. But while I'm waiting for the train home from Sora's, a guy offers me some trees for some haze, and I don't think he's trying to solve global warming.

I have no trees. The only haze is in my mind, because I didn't sleep much last night. It was my turn to sleep on the floor, and my body clock is more of a blinking digital 12:00 VCR flash (which I suspect is the real reason DVDs were invented).

I get on the train and am surprised to see an old friend back from Africa who shares smacknothing talk with me between Providence and Boston, where I pack, and go to meet another bus. The beginning of my trek to Dallas.

I noted several years ago that Cerberus is actually a Greyhound. I think if Americans were serious about rehabilitating criminals, instead of sending them to jail, they'd put them on a bus for a week. This theory is shot to hell when I discover my first seatmate is fresh from jail and headed to rehab I said no, no, no. He entertains me with the level of lies I haven't heard since I deported Elvis almost a decade ago. And then I fall asleep. Wake up in New York. Grand Central Fuck Yourself Port Afuckenkillyourselfthority. The 9:15 bus I'm supposed to take doesn't exist. The next one is, of course, 11:45, and it will be pack packed. And, of course, the really obese woman in front of me clicks her seat back against my knees, and a woman and her toddler squeeze in next to me. And the baby rarely cries but she kicks and grabs my arm. And the mother's knee is in my hip, and it's like this all the way to fucken Richmond Virginia.

Richmond to Roanoake to everywhichwhere Caroliginiasee, the bus is a hive of crackheads and loud women and crying oh my god kids. And somewhere in Tennessee Nate gets on. Nate. Nnnnnnnnnnate.

If I wasn't stupidly Sorafied (he is not stupid, I am not stupid, I am using it as in wicked, as in hella, as in completely), I'd have noticed sooner how unnervingly sexy he is. Not beautiful like Sora. Not hot like...hot people. He looks like what would happen if Gary Sinese got Tobey Maguire pregnant. And he's of course Irish, and is reading The Hitchhiker's Guide, and I am reading The World According To Garp, which makes us best buddies because obviously we're both nerds who are Irish who listen to The Dropkick Murphys and The Pogues. And everything is a racist joke to him, except the religious ones. And hours pass. He is showing me pictures of his fiancee, asking if I approve. And she's obviously also Irish, and pretty, and, sure I approve of why not her?

"It's just..." and he stares at me, "I've always had a thing for redheads..." And the stare keeps lingering there, like someone sprayed Axe bodyspray in a microwave.

"O...k. I don't really have a type, in that way. But. Good for you."

And he is a kicked puppy that I keep feeding and at my god every stop he wants to know what I'm buying and oh man I'm tired but the conversation and the sleep can't coincide and he has so much to say and instead of a knee in my hip, it's a tongue in my ear, and not in the cool way that Sora does it.

"And I'm a soldier." He says. "So when I say Fuck Bush, I know what I'm talking about and" yip yip bubbledy bloo. And he keeps touching my leg, which is not his beautiful fiancee. And all I want to do is sleep, and I don't think I've eaten anything since my God Boston.

When he switches buses in Texarcana, he takes down all my info so that we can keep in touch. I can't imagine what I'll say if he ever actually calls or writes.

And blissful then sleep until Dallllllllldallllllldalllas. Where poets and old friends and a camera await me.

While the national poetry slam starts in Austin on Tuesday, there is a pre-nationals invitational tournament in Dallas on Sunday night. So I left Boston a little oh god too early. And the rest of my team doesn't arrive until Monday, so instead of competing, I volunteer to record the event. Put down poetry book, pick up tripod and video and lay down on weird angle floor. And so many people I've not maybe purposefully maybe not seen for a while. I am called by hot_rod_poet's name no less than a dozen times (mostly by the same person). This is because all white people from Boston look alike. Even though, according to my last show in Boston, I am actually a 6'2 black man named Wiz.

After the show and some requisite drinks and food, I hang out with my not teammates (another team from Boston comprised of people I have previously been on teams with), and then there is...then there is drunkoolery. And beer? "I want a beer." Someone drunk drunk tipsily tells me.

"I" of course "don't have any beer." I look around for support. There is drunk boy, drunk boy's nearly as drunk friend, Asterisk, and Insaferubenmode, a friend of mine who (obviously) has nearly the same name.

Drunk Boy invites all to get beer with him at the gas station across the street. When Asterisk, Insaferubenmode, and I decline, he says "Anyone who doesn't get beer with me is gay."

He is, in fact, two thirds correct. But Asterisk looks mock horrified and Drunk Boy says, "Oh, you know I'm kidding. I'm as bisexual as they come."

And his friend says "On your face."

And Asterisk and I are of course obliged along with Insaferubenmode to begin BeerQuest. Which fails. But I do get to see Drunk Boy climb a pole and run super speedy across the street and then Asterisk says "I couldn't fuck him. When he gets drunk his eyes go crazy, and I can't tell if he's looking for me or looking at me." And there is much laughter, and you know, I hardly ever spend time with just Asterisk, and we amuse ourselves muchly.

Then Asterisk goes to sleep, and I grab my bathing suit and head to the pool where Drunk Boy, Drunk Boy's friend, pageloads of LJ friend/poets and some sort of family reunion that has nothing to do with poetry but who have decided to record some video of performing poets who are swimming and making, according to the management, too much noise, since the pool is supposed to have been closed for three hours so be quiet anyway.

And it's not that I was looking to see Drunk Boy naked, it just sort of happened, and good for him and good for whichever sex and whichever person he ends up with because well, yea, good for him and everyone involved. And I am involved, but not with him, with Sora and. And. Well, you know. He's no but who is Sora.

And it occurs to me I should have been sleeping hours ago. But the pool. And the computer. And Dallas. And LJ poet friends. And the maniac from Albuquerque (not a slam poet) who is in town for American Idol with his band, a novel he's working on, his website, a team of flying reindeer, the blueprints to Fort Knox, and a whole other wagon full of bullshit if anyone believes the first few piles he shovels at you. And, you know, naked on your face.

And in a few couple maybe less than one hours I'm off to Austin and don't ask me how but you know it will happen and more poetry and dizzy and blur and more naked would be great and I wish Sora were here (though he needn't be but I wouldn't mind naked), but rumor has it Ben is coming in how did this happen stead.

This is meanfunny I guess but I don't know where Ben is planning on staying. But I have an idea. I brought some masking tape. I'm thinking of taping off a section of the hotel room I'm sharing with Wiz, fifteen inches by four feet, and labeling it "Van Seat" in honor of the "bed" I slept on in his house.

It was more comfortable than Sora's floor (but that's not my usual place when I stay over), and didn't smell as badly as the Greyhound seats, but it was still you know a too small van seat for my long legs, and really I just always need an excuse for something to do.

The drunkest girl on Thanksgiving has just confessed to starring in pegleg pirate porn. Eyepatches, splinters, and a one eyed parrot that says Polly want a crackwhore. In addition to peglegs her pussy has been filled with jello, Monarch Penguins, and the continent Pangea. Her gynecologist started examining her in 1994, and hasn't been seen since.

She's the one responsible for the undercooked turkey, which has been undercooked perfectly. No salmonella, no cold bits, just decidedly nothing burned. The lead singer of Siege made the stuffing. Elinor hosted the event. My esteemed new roommate and general badass poet, Mike brought the alcohol. I drank the alcohol. At least half a bottle of Absolut Rasberri while we ate, told stories, watched South Park, and petted the thirty million dogs that live in Elinor's apartment. I also made the instant mashed potatoes without fucking them up. Much.

On Monday, I went to the comic book store to sell some books I've never had any intention of reading. After the manager spent roughly an hour and a half talking about how her psycho ex was stalking her, she asked me how my boyfriend was. My boyfriend, Ben. I now hate her. I may or may not have called her from a payphone a few minutes later and claimed to be an angry drag queen who wanted his sweaterdress back.

thanks to John Powers for suggesting looking up old entries on Archive.com.  I wasn't able to find many, but I did find this one.  I've kept the original comments below

• </a></b></a>trespassor

  7/13/06 08:37 pm (UTC)

   

   

  This is so very overdue, since I do read your posts and don't respond: you're made of 100% awesome.
  
  OT, do you have any books in print?

   
  • </a></b></a>insafemode

    7/20/06 08:48 am (UTC)

     

     

    Just a few poetry books that I need to print out for shows. I'm also doing some Insafemode Zines. I've been threatening to do them for a year or so, but with my roommates away, and a few days off from work, I may actually get them done and out this time. I've got your address & will send some things your way, hopefully soon.
    
    Oh, and Sora says I'm only like 79% awesome, 11% convenient, 7% punctual, and 3% aware. But thanks.

     
    • </a></b></a>trespassor

      7/20/06 05:11 pm (UTC)

       

       

      >_>
      
      Hey! I thought you were at least 7% latino? XD
      
      Depending on what you've got available, I was hoping to purchase several of something at some point.
      
      And yay for Sora, for being mathematically correct. :P

       
      • </a></b></a>insafemode

        7/20/06 05:13 pm (UTC)

         

         

        Latinos are known for their punctuality, didn't you know? That's the 7%. ;)
        
        When I figure out what I'm printing out this week, I'll make a post about it with prices and such.

         
        • </a></b></a>trespassor

          7/20/06 05:21 pm (UTC)

           

           

          You're so cute.
          
          Thanks very much!

           
• </a></b></a>evilauntie

  7/14/06 07:40 am (UTC)

   

   

  I will marry you for the Philip Glass joke. I laughed loud enough to startle the cat, if that counts.
  
  Squishing cream between two frozen chocolate coasters is the closest thing I have to life. At least it's cool in there.
  
   
  • </a></b></a>insafemode

    7/20/06 08:50 am (UTC)

     

     

    I've been told I'm not allowed to marry anyone this month. Not because of the stupid political debate, but because I'm already living with someone who might have an issue with bigamy. I think he's just being closed minded.

     

    • Reply
    • Parent

• Found Conversation

  </a></b></a>pop_o_pie

  7/16/06 04:59 pm (UTC)

   

   

  I got pointed to your journal from a post on OKCupid. I love this post which reminds me of the love/hate relationship one has to negotiate to live in Boston and ride the T. The sorority girl babbling reminds me of a found conversation I transcribed in San Francisco: free of her ol'man for a little while she's whoring around going to Nassau for a week Anyhow, point of discussion had to do with who should have the headache and who should top from the bottom and who is really more obsessed with her tits Anyway, you should see her new bathing suit, color's just gonna' drive him wild M. Stressenger, San Francisco, April 1984 Thanks for the visit, I love your stuff...

   

  • Re: Found Conversation

    </a></b></a>insafemode

    7/20/06 08:52 am (UTC)

     

     

    Thanks.
    
    Sometimes listening to people's bizzare conversations is the only thing that keeps me from avoiding public transportation.

Socialist Steve, the guitarist in Celeste's band, has dreadlocks the way Allston has bedbugs. Ben has decided that the dreadlocks are a separate, sentient life form. He firmly believes that the reason Steve is always late for rehearsals is because of his hair. Oh, he's not grooming it. It's just that while Steve is tuning his guitar, and getting ready to leave, his dreadlocks are playing XBox. When he says "Hey...guys? I've got to go, or I"m going to be late." They reply "ssssssss ssssssssss ssssssss" which is Dreadlock for "Fuck off, if I don't help Ryder shoot the guards, I'm never gonna get past this mission."

Tonight, Steve is on time, which is good, because this will be one of the last shows the band has before Celeste moves to LA. The show is in a huge house in Jamaica Plain. The kind of house with constant parties, a sweat lodge, and a stripper pole. I am sitting on a couch with Sora and Lola, who are discussing how cool it is that they're both Puerto Rican, when Ben walks in the room and announces that he's high. This is glaringly obvious.

Shortly after Ben's arrival, a band begins to play. I whisper back and forth with Sora and Celeste. Ben stands in front of us, swaying, but not to the music. At one point, he walks over to the couch, says something to Sora and walks away.

"That, DOUCHETRUCK!" Sora says, gets up, and leaves the room.

I put my head in my hands. Celeste rubs my shoulders. I count to ten, and prepare to go after Sora. But before I can get up, Sora is back. He grabs my right hand, opens up the palm, and places a tiny orange squirtgun in my hand. I shoot him the Velociraptor look. He takes the gun, and fires it at the back of Ben's head, then quickly, moves it into his pocket.

Ben touches the back of his head, looks to his left, sees Socialist Steve, makes a disgusted face, then turns back to watch the band.

Sora squirts him again. Ben glares at Steve, then stumbles over to us and says "His hair is PEEING on me."

Sora says "ssssssssssssss."

This goes on for about ten minutes, at which point Ben leaves the room. Sora and I follow. The three of us end up on the porch, where someone is passing around a hookah. While I am inhaling, Ben begins a rant on Socialist Steve's hair, which somehow ends with him talking about how I'm dating a toddler.

Sora pulls the squirtgun out of his pocket, and says "Bad Ben! Bad!" and squirts him like a cat.

"Oh. You. You little. I thought." and at one point a noun comes out of his mouth, but it is entirely unmemorable.

A short while later, we go back upstairs, watch Celeste's band, and drink.

When the show starts to die down, Sora, Celeste, Steve, and I head into the kitchen to get more beer, and make snide comments. Ben is already in the kitchen talking to someone "...and I totally shouldn't be eating chips because they're not on my 700 calorie a day plan, but I can't seem to stop myself, they're just so good, of course, I'm a little high right now, but, you know. Did I mention I'm in a band? We just had a show a couple of months ago, and"

"We?" I interject. "You're the only member of your band. Remember? No one else in Boston is talented enough to work with you."

"You just. You shut up. Why don't you take your little THING there, and."

Sora takes out the squirtgun again. "Bad Ben. Bad!" And he squirts him.

Ben's eyes explode. "STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!! I'M NOT FAT!!! WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME FAT???"

And the room goes completely silent.

"Ummmm." Steve says. "No one called you fat."

"YES HE DID!" Ben screams, then takes a deep breath. "All night long, he's been following me around, squirting me with that ridiculous little gun, and calling me fat."

"Actually," Celeste says "he's been calling you bad. And then squirting you. Like a cat. Like a BAD cat."

Ben turns red. Steve shakes his head.

Ssssssssssssssssssssssss.