I came home and began scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. That obsessive/compulsive thing, I guess. It was the perfect end to my workday: tactile, humbling, and somehow authentic. Like touching the arm of your closest friend when he’s telling you how bad things really are.
I took extreme delight in the fact that I was able to marry an old bottle of Windex with a new one without spilling a drop.
Sounds like I’ve got a Mammy Complex. What, exactly does that imply?
Must work. Must finish writing grant proposal begun three weeks ago. Must not succumb to the alluring scribblings of a freekalicious goddess, who, incidentally, created the unquestionably fabulous “Winter Steel” series for MTV’s Liquid Television.
I tried to be all cute and clever (well, maybe not so clever) by posting some fathers’ day love to my dad
and my daddy
on a super-duper daddy page, but it wasn’t working–probably for a number of reasons. Notably: 1) it’s a sickeningly cutesy pun, confusing my dad and my daddy, when, truth be told, they’re completely different people and play very different roles in my life; and 2) I don’t think I’ve ever had a picture taken in which my father and I are embracing, and it looked so lopsided–it still does–with Jonno and I showing obvious love on a ritzy red background, and my dad just sort of standing there, alone in a field up at the farm (actually, my brother’s in the pic too, but I cropped him out since he doesn’t make sense, visual or otherwise).
[ Side note: Part of this dilemma has to do with a weird sense of empathy my mom instilled in me as a kid–one of my personality traits with which I’m most happy. Specifially–and this is going to sound silly to most of you–I feel sorry for my father, just because he looks so alone in the pic. These feelings have nothing to do with real life (my dad’s hardly ever alone these days, and when he is, he really relishes it), it’s just something about the sight of him that makes me feel sad. It’s as if the picture is actually him and he’s looking at me and saying, “Why haven’t you called? Why haven’t you visited? Are you doing okay?”
This kind of empathizing (psychoanalysts would probably call it a sort of displacement) often gets me into trouble. Case in point: once, when I was a kid, we’d gone fishing up at the farm and caught about a dozen bream. My granddaddy ran a general store in this tiny, tiny town of 200 or so (where I was related to just about everybody–very Eudora-Welty-“Why I Live at the P.O.”), and while my daddy and my brothers went inside to grab a coke for the half-hour trip home, I couldn’t stop looking at the fish. They were in a bucket of water back in the truck bed, still swimming. I felt so sorry for them, when in fact they probably weren’t feeling too bad about life in their new-found home. Their thoughts were probably more like, “Smaller, okay. Crowded, yes. But no snakes or beavers. That’s a plus.”
Almost without thinking, I grabbed the bucket, ran across the road, over a really treacherous cattle-gap, and across a quarter-mile of pasture to a small pond. I got right up to the edge and dumped the bucket out, and some of the fish wound up floating upside down, but I think most lived to see another day. Then I raced back to the store, threw the bucket in the truck bed, and sat down in the cab, waiting for everybody to finish up inside (why they hadn’t already come out and discoverered my treachery, I don’t know). When they finally emerged, there seemed to be some real confusion, especially on David’s part (he who was cropped) about what could have possibly happened to the fish. Of course, all the details eventually came to light and my brothers were furious but my daddy and granddaddy just kinda laughed at my chutzpah (they would have called it gumption). Besides, bream are pretty bony anyway.]
So, somehow all this has led me to the realization that even though I’ve scanned and posted quite a few pics recently, I don’t have nearly enough photos of the people I love. That’s not to say I haven’t tried. Every January 1, I promise myself I’m going to do two things: a) I’m not going to avoid people I know when I see them on the street or at the grocery store just because I don’t wanna get bogged down in conversation, and b) I’m going to take more pictures. I’ve failed miserably at both.
Grab your digital cameras now, guys.
I love you dad. I love you Jonno. I love you granddaddy, wherever you are.
Get back! Touch myself! Ungh! Ungh! Owww! I love the ambient shit (courtesy of mr. pants). If it didn’t irritate the hell out of that guy on the other side of my living room (and most of our guests), I’d be listening to this 24/7. Frankly, I think they should all be glad I’m not partial to that hi-NRG-techno-bubblegum-retro-disco- Nicki-French-Abagail-bullshit–the stuff that’s been keeping me and some homies out of homo bars for the past several years.
Hey, wait a minute! Was that anti-gay rhetoric I was just spewing? Was I dissing my rainbow brothers? Was I speaking from a privileged position within the gay ghetto that allows me to sneer at queer culcha? Wow. I’m sounding like a bitter queen, ain’t I? I agree with Steve: too much sissyfighting can make ya’ mean.
P.S. Pick on “Sassyfrass” and I’ll learn ya’ good.
Okay, 24 hours later, I’m already addicted. There’s just something intriguing about a site full of people pretending to be little girls, when we know good and damn well that “Muffy St. Jacques” is probably someone’s grandfather. And, you know, although the chat window’s small for loquacious types like me, you can kinda talk to people here–unlike the chat rooms on AOL, which are either stuffy or slatternly and nothing in-between. And even though you don’t get to see the other folks online, looking at an avatar is sorta close. Well, sorta….
Still, something about the whole endeavor seems vaguely unsatisfying. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s timed, or maybe it’s because I feel compelled to maintain the illusion of being Soleil Moon Frye (the erstwhile Punky Brewster), even though I’d rather come out as a penis-wielding, testosterone-laden nancy boy who can nevertheless sissyfight with the best of ’em. Maybe they should offer a few different versions of the game–like one in which you play a prepubescent drag queen. That would be a game worth getting into.
Um, okay, I understand the “fag” part’s an insult and all, but what’s “floating” got to do with it? Is this yet another example of yankee colloquialism don’t understand (e.g.”I don’t know from borscht”)? Or is this hip 5-0 lingo, like all that fancy schmantzy CB jargon my dad used to like so much?
Zoinks! I’m on a roll. I managed to scan and post some pics today. Click on the “sPics” link on the left-hand menu. (If you came directly to this page, scroll down to come on home.)
Anyway, enjoy it while you can. Knowing my attention span, in another week I’ll probably be all like, “Blogwhat? Sturtlewho? Huh? Wazzat?” The formaldehyde is being prepared, even as we speak.
It’s my personal opinion (and Susan Sontag’s, too, I think) that homos have pinned their hopes for mainstream acceptance on two things: 1) being different (e.g. Ms. Aviance), and 2) possessing impeccable taste (South Beach not included). In the end, however, it seems there are certain inalienable traits we faggotinis share with our breeder brethren–notably the absurd lengths we’ll someties go to maintain an aura of self-sufficiency. Case in point: as Jonno can testify, if I’m lost on the higway, I ain’t about to stop for directions. Directions are for pussies. Right?
Luckily for those around me, I’ve gradually given up my aspirations to complete self-sufficiency. I no longer fantasize about fixing my own car with rubber bands and a wad of chewing gum on the side of a desolate highway just north of Bumfuck, Egypt. Nor do I believe I can rewire our new house on my own. In fact, I’m gonna pay someone good money so I can sit there and watch. (It is June and all. I might suddenly be called down to the pool). There is one thing, though, that I’m pretty picky about: I insist on cutting my own hair.
Now, okay, before really special occasions, I’ll swing by the barber shop (no hairdresser salons for me) for a little hot lather on the back of my neck, but by and large, I think a guy ought to be able to cut his own hair. So I do. And Jonno usually laughs at me, until he realizes he’s gonna be the one who has to come into the bathroom and fix it. It’s kinda like smoking: I’m not sure why I do it, ’cause it’s kinda ridiculous, but, you know, it feels good. The vibrations on my occipital. The sound of a #3 guard chopping through inch-long hair. The look of the hair falling on the porcelain of the bathtub. Little pleasures.
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