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[via twitter] |
You there! The doyenne with the Pantone book and the head full of ideas about what makes a gala invitation fabulous! The agent with the wacky-pet-trick act that you think would fit perfectly into a classical music concert series! The network administrator who thinks you're doing me a favor by offering to upgrade me to Windows XP Pro! Stay outta my way today... Grrr.
9:23 AM
As a kid, I enjoyed reading. It was probably your typical fledgling-homo-trying-to-escape-reality thing, but whatever: I loved books. As I got older, I developed a similar fondness for writing. I don't know where it came from: I just knew I liked it. Even now, I don't like to analyze it too much for fear I'll pick it to death. Let's just say I enjoy the look of words and the sound of language. When I got to college, things changed. Bad news: I had too much crap to read, and most of it was about as engaging as the small print on my student loan applications. Good news: I began to realize that there were first-rate American writers other than William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and Eudora Welty--even folks from (gasp!) outside Mississippi. Among those authors, one of my then-favorites was a now-obscure poetess named Amy Lowell, who penned little diddies like this:
The nice thing about Amy (Ms. Lowell if you're nasty) was that (a) she wrote beautiful, image-heavy poems (Hello? That's why she's considered one of the foremost writers of the Imagist movement?) that often had a bitter, accusatory tone attractive to sophomores, and (b) she was a big-boned, cigar-smoking, combat boot-wearing les-bean, which, as a newly out homosexualist, gave me the wiggles. Even though I've, er, moved on, shall we say, in my literary tastes, every so often, I like to crack open one of Lowell's oeuvres and peruse a page or two. To be honest, it's as much about the beauty of her language as it is about me: her poems remind me of the way I used to be, the things I used to like, the way I used to think.... Proust had perfume, I have a 300-pound dyke. And apparently, I'm not the only one.
3:32 PM
I love Carnival. Okay, I despise the frat-boy/bead-flasher mentality that suffuses the Bourbon Street corridor in the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday. And I could do without the parking problems caused by Toms, Dicks, and Harrys from Keokuk to Kookamunga driving down "to see the Mardi Gras" in their RVs. But other than that, Carnival's great fun: the balls, the parties, the parades, the costumes... Here, we can be kids as long as we want. This morning, thanks to my bio-mom, Callie, I learned that my love of Carnival is hereditary.
2:11 PM
Okay, so, like, Emily Post would probably advise that blogging your boyfriend's blog--epsecially when it's like the cheerleader/quaterback-popular kind of blog, and yours is just a namby-pamby shadow of an online stickypad, meaning that anyone who's come to you has already gone to him first--is un peu gauche, but screw it. On the off chance you haven't perused his site in the past 24 hours, here are two very important bits of news I feel obligated to share: 1. My sister is fucking fierce. 2. Ronald Firbank has risen from the dead, and he's writing obituaries.
9:34 AM
I always wondered when and how they were gonna make "THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY" into a Mentos-style, pan-lingual icon. Although they could be the signs for "NO SQUARE-WIGGED LARYNGITIC DIVAS ALLOWED" and "PLEASE KEEP FLOWERPOTS OFF TODDLER'S HEADS WHILE SHOPPING AT HOME DEPOT." Maybe.
10:21 AM
Now that's something you won't hear on Words from Unity. Truer thoughts were ne'er expressed...
5:16 PM
By and large, I love my job. I work for a small organization, so everyone there has a lot to do, and we all pretty much focus our own thing and get together once a week to update the others of our progress. It's the exact opposite of micromanagement--a very efficient way of doing business, if you ask me. And even if you don't. There are, however, two women in the office who...well, they don't annoy...they amuse me, let's put it that way. They amuse me because they're so...predictable? No. Chatty? Kinda. Easily excitable? Bingo.... Take last Friday. I'm sitting at my desk, doing what might be called coding or possibly piddling, depending on your point of view, when in walks one of these two gals to tell me about the whole duct tape/Visqueen/FEMA business. And then naturally the other one overhears (like I said, it's a small office) and joins in the conversation. Next thing I know, they're dashing out to the hardware store, convinced that terrorists are going to dose their bedrooms with lethal amounts of strep or flu or incephalitis. I chuckled to myself (as I often do), downed some coffee, finished my "work," and went home to enjoy the last relatively low-key weekend I'll have for a while, intent on reading, napping, and lollygagging on the couch. On said couch, however, in the midst of a series of the aforementioned naps, I was awakened by odd gurgling noises coming from the stomach of our oldest and dearest hound. He didn't look particularly nauseous or anything--well, no more than he usually does--but when I let him out, he went straight for a grassy patch of yard, and chowed down on clover until I very nearly dragged him inside again. This happened again and again until yesterday afternoon, when it finally just stopped. None of which gave me pause in the least--until I read that others were having the same problem. Which makes me wonder if the boogeymen/terrorists haven't been even more devious than any of us had feared and begun their next assault on the Great Satan by giving our pets upset stomachs.... Monstrous!
8:12 AM
You know, in my salad days, something like the Lysistrata Project would have really pumped my 'nads (to use an expression popular in my salad days), but today my woodie for political activism has gone as flaccid as Bob Dole's pre-Viagra wang. And on top of that, I've got my own show to worry about, and well, they're doing the whole damn thing on freakin' Lundi Gras! The cards are stacked against me. And, uh, I guess I'm getting old.
10:56 AM
Like I said, I have these tics, these things I do in broad daylight that drive me nuts. They may seem like nothing to you, but I know what I'm doing and I don't like it one bit. The least innocuous but most irritating tic I've got is wincing. Yeah, wincing. I know it doesn't sound that bad. It doesn't look that bad, either. I just kinda squint my eyes, maybe shift in my seat a little. To the person I'm talking to, it probably looks as though I've got a very minor pain in my leg or something. No one would ever get the impression that I've totally tuned them out and that my mind is now entirely focused on events that happened in the long-distant past--that I've dredged up some goddess-awful memory and am fixated on it, thinking, "Jeez, what on earth made me do that?" It's like I'm watching a movie of myself that no one else can see, and I cringe at the awkward parts. There are five very specific incidents in my life that make me wince when I remember them. In chronological order:
Since three of the five incidents detailed above involve hard liquor, maybe cutting down on my booze consumption would prevent me from having too many more embarrassing moments to relive in the future. But of course, if were a good listener and my mind didn't wander so much, I wouldn't be dredging up these thoughts and wincing, now would I? See, that's the problem: I'm a Leo with ADD.
1:06 PM
So, like, yeah, I got rid of the frames. They're functional and all, but messy. I'm not completely happy with the way it is now, but it's better. In other news:
2:32 PM
Mary Ann Esposito can do as she pleases. Mary Ann Esposito can mix peas and jello and, say, lobster tail, and it will come out fine. She doesn't have to worry--she's Mary Ann Esposito! Mary Ann Esposito can make a mess in the kitchen and not look back. She can take eggshells, for example, and throw them on the ground, and dance the hoochie-coo until she's overheated and passes out, and it's no big deal. Her interns will pick her up and take her to the emergency room. And when they're done, they will come back and clean up the eggshells, too. Mary Ann Esposito doesn't have to worry about such things. But she should. Mary Ann Esposito probably wears a wig. I mean, come on: who has hair like that outside of a Williamsburg synagogue? I hope she washes it regularly--dirty wigs smell very bad! If she goes too long between washings, she will find herself without interns. No one will want to help her produce the show, and she will have to do all the cooking and cleaning and camerawork, which would take a really long time. It would take her a whole month to make one tray of lasagne! Trust me on this one, folks. Mary Ann Esposito probably gets recognized in restaurants, but not for being Mary Ann Esposito. She looks a lot like my third grade teacher, Mrs. Rogers. If I saw her, I might be tempted to go up to her and say, "Hi, Mrs. Rogers. I thought you were dead!" I'm sure other people would do the same thing Mary Ann Esposito, Mary Ann Esposito, Mary Ann Esposito. So many vowels. Consonants, too, but lots of nice vowels. And they're nicely placed. Mine are in the middle of my name, which doesn't help much. Mary Ann Esposito won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight? Mary Ann Esposito won't you come out tonight, and dance by the light of the moon? Mary Ann Esposito has left the building.
8:31 AM
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