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First impressions are important, especially when it comes to novels. I have fantastic visions of Danielle Steele and John Grisham cracking cats-o-nine-tails on the backs of a dozen minions, pressing them to think harder, to think outside the box, for that one perfect opening sentence that will draw the reader in with a tantalizing taste of things to come.

But if there were a competition for the best opening passage ever, I think Gore Vidal would probably win for Myra Breckinridge:

I am Myra Breckinridge whom no man will ever possess. Clad only in my garter belt and one dress shield, I held off the entire elite of the Trobriand Islanders, a race who possess no words for “why or “because.” Wielding a stone axe, I broke the arms, the limbs, the balls of their finest warriors, my beauty blinding them, as it does all men, unmanning them in the way that King Kong was reduced to a mere simian whimper by beauteous Fay Wray whom I resemble left three-quarter profile if the key light is no more than five feet high during the close shot.

Now that’s some fancy writin’, ain’t it?

When goddess gives you lemons, make lemonade, right? Same goes for corks, apparently. (Courtesy of the delightfully wacky Mr. Pants, who also links to a video clip of Jenny Jones when she appeared on Star Search sporting the biggest hairdo west of Marie Antoinette’s rotting corpse).

Last night, I took a bus. I used to take them all the time to get back and forth across the city, but now that I both live and work in the same neighborhood and I have my own wheels, I rarely see the inside of a bus or streetcar.

I wasn’t particularly happy about riding the bus. I would have preferred to be in my car, but as vehicles made in 1987 tend to do after 13 years of service, it had broken down. I had it towed to a garage miles away because it’s the only reputable one I know.

[ Of course, I’m probably being too judgemental of the other garages I’ve tried. I’m a faggot and I don’t know much about cars–though I’m always willing to learn–and I feel intimidated by these painfully hetero working-class men covered in grease. It’s like I’m back in high school and although the meatheads aren’t really taunting me or anything, something in their eyes tells me they’re thinking, “Fucking pansy. What can I do to make his life miserable today?” But that kind of defensiveness, it’s just the way I am and since I don’t believe in psychotherapy, I’m probably not gonna change anytime soon. Whatever. ]

Anyway, the car’s not the important part. The bus ride is. I walked out of the garage and over to the bus stop, and there, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I stood around doing nothing. No meetings to attend, no speeding through traffic to get where I’m going, no hammering out grant applications at the last minute to meet deadlines. Just waiting. And waiting. And idly chatting to the other people waiting for the bus. And reading a great book. And getting frustrated when busses would pass on their way back to the station, not picking anyone up. And being relieved to see the right bus finally heading our way. And the smell of the ice-cold air conditioning inside (though the weather was bearable since it was dusk). It would have driven my boyfriend completely insane, but for me….

And on that ride back home, the quality of light in the trees, the color of the sky, the sounds of the bus hulking through early evening traffic–it brought back a flood of memories: back to when I first moved here, and I took the bus all the time, and everything was new and exciting, and I was making friends and living like a kid who’d just graduated from college, and it seemed so long ago and so beautiful I could have cried. It’s like revisiting your old high school or just trying to look at a very familiar place as though you were just seeing it again for the first time: the scents, the colors, everything new and crisp. I don’t get bogged down in the nostalgia; I just like to let that feeling, that buzz, flit around in my stomach for a while and I smile.

“I thank you in advance for your swift attention to this matter and remain, sincerely yours…”

I could write it in my sleep.

I typically don’t have much of a sweet tooth; if anything, I’m addicted to salty things (get your mind outta the gutter, Betty). So why is it that I’m suddenly craving king cake? It’s not even in season (Epiphany through Fat Tuesday). Of course thanks to the tourism industry, Gambino’s makes ’em year-round, and since they’ve got a shop Uptown, I could swing by and get one on my way to class tonight, but, well, it’d kinda be like having a yule log at a 4th of July picnic: a total turn-off. I feel the same way about cereal for supper. (Sorry, Jonno, but I do.)

Over the course of my life, I’ve had to come out several times. There was the homo coming-out–I enjoyed that one so much I did it several times: once when I was 14 (to a junior high pal and his older sister’s homo friends), then again when I was 19 (to a new group of homo buddies), and then the big one when I hit 20 (I was about to be outed to my then-girlfriend and chose to do it myself before things got nasty). Of course, I’m of the mind that if you’re a homo, you’re sorta coming out every day, so I guess I’m still in the process.

I’ve also come out in other ways: as a bear-lover (and I don’t mean Smokey), a social smoker (which makes me like a bisexual–neither camp wants me in their ranks), and here, on this website, I came out as a former D&D player (I could link to the archive file, but I’m not quite that masochistic). I only wish I could have come out as a deb–though now that I think about it, I look kinda crappy in white. Maybe it’s best I skipped that one.

As some of you might have guessed, today I must come out again. No, I don’t get into scat–despite some rude accusations from certain email correspondents who shall remain nameless. And I’m not crossing back over into heteroland anytime soon…. Any guesses?

None?

Okay. I’m a gamer. A pretty avid one at that.

Now, I don’t get into the mindless sort of shoot-em-up kickboxing stuff, and I don’t even look twice at the sports games, but give me a good Tombraider, and you’ll have just managed to shut me up for the next eight months.

My latest obession is Thief 2: The Metal Age. It’s got all the things that really get me going, notably good graphics and a low-kill/high-puzzle factor. But I gotta tell ya: the controls SUCK. They’re all over the map. My poor qwerty keyboard can’t handle it. But of course, that’s how I know I’m really hooked: my fingers are tied in knots, yet I still keep playing.

Why did I choose today to come out? Well, the office is really quiet right now–just a few people passing up and down the hall–and the only noises are the sort of sniffling and scuffling you hear in the game while you’re waiting for someone to turn their back so’s you can sneak into someone’s bedroom. Everyday sounds I’d normally overlook now have me pressing ALT-W and holding my breath. If it’s that engrossing, it must be pretty good, huh?

I’m okay with my game-lust, I guess. Just don’t tell my mom. She still remembers the happy day I finally gave up the Atari and the Intellivision (am I dating myself?). She’d be so disappointed.

So. Seven hours after I began redesigning our company’s website, I decided I’m really kinda fond of the original. So I trashed it. All of it. (Well, I’m not that impulsive. It’s sitting around in a junque folder if I should ever feel the urge to tackle it again.)

Must…avert…gaze…from…monitor….

Naked Killer: better than Office Killer (sorry Goddess Cindy) and way better than Killer Klowns from Outer Space, but not nearly as entertaining as Return of the Killer Tomatoes (“They are gardeners and carpenters. They are not tomato men.”) or a rousing rendition of “Psychokiller”. Nor is it as enjoyable as Heroic Trio, the best of the supadupafly-kung-fu-fashion-lady as highly-seasoned-killer genre goes (if there is such a thing–and I think there is). But of course, when I’m looking for fashion and murder in the same place, I prefer the oh-so-rare Modesty Blaise (Whither Monica Vitti? Whither?) or the 1990s PVC-totin’ equivalent, Aeon Flux.

[Editorial query: Why do fags feel drawn to strong, deadly, wacko women? It’s like Ab Fab‘s Edina says to her gay ex-husband when he and his partner get excited at the impending arrival of Patsy’s supposedly fierce sister: “You boys are so predictable. Give you a well-dressed woman with a drug habit and you’re falling all over yourselves to get to her.” (Or something like that. I paraphrase.)]

I did, however, see a very real, very admirable woman this evening in a documentary on PBS. Edith Heap is a Londoner who worked for the Royal Air Force during WWII. She served as a “positioner,” which basically meant that she stood around a large map of the countryside listening to Air Force radio and moving little markers about to denote planes’ positions in the sky. One day during a battle skirmish, she heard her finance shot down. There were no screams from his cockpit or anything, just another pilot describing the plane plummeting toward the ground. Without knowing the plane’s call letters or anything, she knew it was him–just knew.

When the modern-day Edith spoke about that feeling of intuition and the mourning she went through, even though the ordeal took place more than 50 years ago she quickly choked with tears. Couldn’t speak. And she was furious at herself for getting so worked up about it. Such a strong, common sensical woman. She reminded me of my grandmother, a farm-running, gun-toting, fish hook-baiting woman whom I miss very much. If I ever find myself in such a trying situation, I hope I’ve got the chutzpah to pull through it level-headed.

Ouch. Early night, but still…. Ouch.

Every Saturday at 6:00pm, I’m reminded that this is the embodiment of evil in America. But they’re so gosh-darned cute and campy, how could you ever destroy them? Well, short of jerryrigging a flamethrower, locking the entire cast in the basement of an abandoned building, and toasting their overwrought vocal cords. I guess that would work.

In other news, my buddy Lesley finally made it to town. I should probably go ahead and position the Advil bottle close to my side of the bed. It’ll just make tomorrow morning more a little more bearable. (Funny how those sommelliers like to drink a lot.)

And somebody finally washed the dishes and put the new roll of toilet paper on the dispenser. Frat points: -20.