Army of Fun


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Friday, March 14, 2003

Random jottings. Oh wait, I didn't have to tell you that. This is a blog.

I like my shirts like I like my women (ok, ok, and boys aged 17-21): shiny. Nothing quite sets me aflame with passion like glistening sweat soaked skin especially if the shiny, musky perspiration is co-mongled with the earthy yet fresh scent of the outdoors, a preference which has led to several torrid affairs with mighty calved, tattooed bike messengers, and nothing makes me feel so good within my skin as draping that self same skin in a lustrous fabric. And so in pursuit of the sheen of happiness I have acquired quite a few of these glossy garments, closets full of them in fact. Kind of like Jay Gatsby's very large collection of shirts only faggier. If I were to invite you over to my house and then show you my shirts and toss them around the room in a manic burst of gleeful, giggling self-satisfaction you would probably feel uncomfortable and want to leave, but before you could make your exit--full of embarrassment for me and eyeing me carefully lest in my manic burst of gleeful, giggling self-satisfaction I decide to see what our blood and innards look like strewn around the room--you would note that my room, with all those many shiny shirts falling here and there, looked like an unlikely industrial accident somehow involving a sweat-shop and a Jheri-Curl factory.

When I want to peer into the darkness of my soul I just go down to my nearby BART station and jump on the train. I also take the BART to work which is admittedly problematic since that means my commute require a trip through the malefic nether regions of my psyche so it would do my co-workers well to keep me happily gruntled or else, look out! Anyway, as soon as I enter a BART station the sweat of anticipation manifests itself in my pits and begins to streak down the sides of my trembling torso. My jaw slackens, my eyes glaze over, and I leave this world to enter an obscure, befogged reality that I'd say was reminiscent of the films Dreamscape and The Warriors (truly a nightmare world I'm sure you'll agree). But then again maybe I say that just because this guy, who is in both the above mentioned movies, appears to me seemingly in the flesh, kind of like "The First" on Buffy come to think of it, and urges me to take horrific actions like throwing someone else or failing that myself in front of an oncoming train. He works up to it slowly with great patience and what could almost qualify as rational argumentation and then just as the pressure wave in front of the train strikes my body and I can't help but flinch and wonder what it would be like if someone were hit by a train he screams, "Do it! Do it now! You know you want to!" So far I've resisted and David Patrick Kelly/The First spends the rest of the trip taunting me, talking about that time my parents locked me in the shed for a week, and insinuating that my uncles molested me--shuffling me between them like their favorite deck of child porn playing cards that, by the way, featured them molesting me--and reminding me of that time two other boys and I cruelly and maliciously killed a turtle for no good reason (and god, I still feel really bad about that, so way to push my buttons of weakness evil vision guy), and calling me a pussy. He admits that last one, calling me a pussy, is pretty weak on those days when I find the strength to stammer out mumbled objections to him, but he says that if he keeps trying one day it will get to me and then he points out that my bizarre muttering is making the other passengers uncomfortable. "Look how they're all moving away from you," he says. "Why dontcha do something about it...pussy."

Finally, some music that I recently came across and really like: Broken Social Scene's You Forgot It In People
Fyrste, 2:45 AM

Monday, March 10, 2003

So, in a couple of weeks, just after the potential deadline on a new UN resolution regarding Iraq, I have to go out to Washington DC to attend a wedding. So what with the invasion most likely then ongoing and all I expect security to be tight and I doubt even my high-level government connections will help me avoid intense scrutiny at the airport. While I look forward to most of the intimacies of a personalized search, I'll happily remove my belt for anyone and the wandings set me all atingle, by the brave men and women who secure our airports, I'm less sanguine about the mandatory body cavity searches required under the Patriot Act if hostilities are underway. Very few people enjoy body cavity searches and unhappily for me I am not one of those people. I've considered the possibility of inserting larger and larger objects into my, uh, body cavity access way in order to minimize the shock and awe of the inspection experience, but then I thought that if my sphincter were too easily accesssible it might arouse suspicion and lead to some further unimaginably invasive searches. So now I'm not sure what to do.

Anyway, that unpleasantness aside it looks like I'm going to get to contribute to the national security and war efforts. Don Rumsfeld rang me up just the other day (I guess our mutual friend Dick Cheney told him I'd be out their way) and asked if I'd be willing to take part in a project vital to our national security. Naturally, I agreed to it. I've done some work for "Rummy" in the past, and though I don't know how my wearing an Hawai'ian shirt, ball hugging red shorts and a fake mustache as I scrub Rummy's toilet while he whistles the theme song to Magnum PI and intermittently warns me in a raspy and threatening tone not to "fucking look at [him]" helps national security, I am firm in the knowledge that Donald Rumsfeld does know and that's all that really matters.
Fyrste, 3:46 PM