Self Portrait

Friday, Dusk

Direction

Dreams

I dreamt last night about a girl - woman, really - who was attractive, in a pinched, harsh sort of way. She had short dark hair and opaque brown eyes and I thought she was trying to seduce me, but no.

She implied I should do everything myself, with no contact from her.

I told M, in the dream, and M said, "that's what they do," meaning she was a dominatrix. But that wasn't right either.

I went to her place - a posh manhattan brownstone, with marble floors and ascending staircases - and was guided onto a small open platform just inside the entry, where most of my clothing was removed and I was chained, symbolically, to the guardrail of the platform.

The platform was mounted on a giant hydraulic lift, like a mechanic's, and when she gave the signal, it started to rise.

It quickly grew darker as we ascended and the gleaming marble interior fell away to reveal the skeleton of a vast, dark, industrial structure - all rusted beams and hanging, gently swaying lights.

As we continued to rise, however, it seemed as if things were somehow flipped around - as if we were going down into the earth. At the same time, things around me were regressing or falling apart - decomposing, even - but not in a disturbing way - more like in continuation of the organic process, a return to the soil.

Rusted beams became cracked concrete floors then dusty old attics and then straw-laden, oak-beamed barns, until finally the lift broke through the earth itself and clods of dirt rolled aside to reveal an open farmer's field in the early evening of late autumn.

As I emerged from the earth I noticed something at the field's end, what looked like two toll booths, only no pavement, just dirt, and there were peasants hurrying through and amassing on the other side.

I walked over to the gate and felt it - a tingling sensation, a call to action...

The peasants were being called, like salmon swimming upstream, to the imminent clash between old and new.

This was the gateway to revolution.

I walked through.

Much Ado About Nothing

Been up since 4 this morning, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Had fallen asleep on the floor again, last night, half on and half off the throw rug. I later awoke to M on the phone, talking to Shell about catching a trolley, and a whiff of something foul (a fart? my breath? old catfood?) then roused myself and stumbled off to bed.

That was around - well, I don't really know what time it was - but somewhere in the pm.

Then at 4 in the a.m., the ol' internal clock kicked in, and it was time to Rise -n- Shine!

I normally leave for the gym at 5, but with a little extra time on my hands, I was inspired to create a "play list" for my Ipod, in preparation for an ass kicking, blood-pumping, work out from from hell!

And then,
things just sort of dissembled...
into other things.

Yeah.

So now I'm sitting here listening to "My Dick*" by Mickey Avalon, as I type.

*I know, I know - but it's a catchy little tune and some of the lines are pure unadulterated, adolescent gold:

My dick - Size of a pumpkin.
Yo' dick - Look like McCauley Culkin.

My dick - Won't fit down the chim-i-nee.
Yo' dick - Look like a kid from the Philippines.

My Dick - Rumble in the Jungle.
Yo' Dick - Touched by yo' Uncle.

Pure poetry.

Yeah, so, it's nice to steal a little time away, screw the pooch, and pontificate on... well, nothing really.

Ah, glorious nothing.

Sigh.

And now I'm late for work.

M&A as per Shell

San Fran per M

F*cebook is Gay - Part 1

I joined F*cebook a few months back at the behest of my ol' friend, T.

He lives in L.A., works full time, is getting his master's -and- is somehow doing an additional 20 hours a week of clinical work in support of the degree. Plus he seems to fly to Ireland every other weekend. Month. Whatever.

Regardless, the boy don't sleep much, and as for catching him on the phone - forget about it.

So when he'd sent my third or fourth invite to join his F*cebook Network (or family, or whatever the hell it is) I caved in and joined.

(pause)

I have now been petted, poked, punched, slapped, tickled and I don't even know what the f*ck else. I've also been characterized, which is basically an unsolicited personality assessment -and- I've been invited to have my blood sucked by a vampire. By a man, as a matter of fact - who is straight, fer crissakes - at least, as far as I know.

(I should point out T was neither the "vampire" nor the initiator of all the aforementioned actions. Just most of them.)

Have you ever gotten an email from an old friend you haven't heard from in a while? You see its from that special someone and open it with anticipation - no one has the time to actually write a letter anymore but a quick note from one of your homeys can be a shining little gem in an otherwise dark day...

And then you open the email to find you are the victim of a mass forward*. No note. Not even a "Dear Ad-man."

*Oh, sure, it could be a really, really funny video. Like the one I just got the other day - "How men's underwear should be advertised" - where this hot chick is wearing men's underwear, only (and this is really going to make you laugh) she's acting like a guy - watching tv, scratching her ass - and then, finally, farting and smelling it!

Hoo boy! There's nothing funnier than a good fart joke, right?

What'll those crazy kids think of next? Jehova's Witnesses emailing themselves to your home?!

Anyway...

Now imagine a place you can go online where you can now find every mass forward ever spawned -and- the people who spawned them - all in the same locale.

Yup, that's what F*cebook is like.

And there are all these geeky little ways of contacting people and of talking about yourself - but they're not called "contacting people" or "talking about yourself" - they're given obscure, supposedly cool sounding little titles and functions, so you don't contact your friends, you poke them, or send them funwall friend requests, or a zombie invitations, or whatever else.

F*cebook is a social utility that connects you with the people around you**

Sounds just like a beer at the pub.

Without the beer.
And the pub.

And all those bothersome people.

(Beat)

But, like I said, my buddy, T, is on the F*cebook - with his long hours and his hard-to-get-ahold-of-ness - and it is a way of staying in contact, so I've been hanging in there.

Then, a few days ago, I got a new "friend's request."

It was from my ex-wife.

**M terms it the Dungeons & Dragons of the 21st Century.

Crack