| (no subject) |
[Sep. 15th, 2007|04:33 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Victor Berman's Arriving at Night | ] |
In the tiny, comfortably gentrified condo-and-Pottery Barn section of inner-city Portland, east of Burnside and west of I-405, the numbered avenues are intersected by streets named in alphabetical order. Although, in conversation, I've never heard it called anything but "the Northwest 23rd Avenue area" or "close-in Northwest", the regulation-green signs planted throughout tell us that city planners would like us to refer to the area as The Alphabet District.
"I don't understand why they call it that", announced the chattier half of the newlywed tourist couple riding in my back seat. "It'd make more sense to call it, like, the Numerical District, or something... because, like, if you look at the names of the avenues, it's, like, 18th, then 19th, then 20th, then 21st- you know, numerical order."
I burst out laughing. It was the kind of joke I always appreciated more when I was stoned, and I wasn't. Still, I admired his delivery, fittingly deadpan as it was, and I wanted him to know it.
It wasn't until several increasingly awkward moments of uninterrupted silence that it dawned on me that maybe he wasn't, like, joking.
I looked into the rear view mirror to find both groom and bride staring quizzically at my reflection. "Yeah," offered the wife. "Why not the Numerical District?" |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 31st, 2006|08:52 am] |
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As it turns out, I'm not quite dead. So I may as well write some more. |
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| Go Ask Thomas |
[May. 25th, 2004|01:07 pm] |
Please dig:
From here on out, it's total candor- unbridled, artless, and filter-free. No more hemming. No more hawing. No more cutesy euphemisms. I figure if I'm honest with a bunch of random strangers, I'll eventually be able to be honest with my friends. And hopefully, sometime before rigor mortis sets in, I'll learn to be honest with myself.
So consider this your warning. Starting next post, it's gonna get gritty. Take me off your friends list if you're easily shocked or repulsed, or if you like to harass your fallen brethen with sermons and catchy inspirational slogans. You're welcome to judge me as much as you like- just keep it to yourself.
Gawkers, oglers, like-minded pervs: Welcome to my cesspool. |
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| ...and those who can't teach, critique |
[May. 7th, 2004|10:09 am] |
It's settled. The more brilliant the lyrics of a given female singer/songwriter, the more likely she is to have irritating vocals. On the more benign end of the spectrum, there's Kristin Hersh, and Shannon Wright, who writes like a talented version of Tori Amos and somehow manages to sound mousy and ferocious at the same time. (It's not a pretty combination.) Somewhere in the middle there's the chick from Múm- and, my roommate insists, Ani Difranco (though I can only agree that she's irritating). Far down at the most torturous/brilliant end, crammed against the genius Jean Smith of Mecca Normal, there's Joanna Newsom, my new favorite idiot savant.
Newsom is the best kind of songwriter: she's prodigiously clever and gut-wrenchingly doleful at the same time. From "Swansea", off The Milk-Eyed Mender (released this March): "How I would love to... gnaw on your bones so white/ and watch while the freight trains...paw at the the wild, wild night..." And from "En Gallop": "Never get so attatched to a poem/ that you forget truth that lacks lyricism/ and never draw so close to the heat/ that you forget that you must be old."
Too bad she sings like a dumpstered fetus.
Check her out. |
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| chic yeasties |
[May. 2nd, 2004|09:28 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | teeming | ] |
| [ | music |
| | six organs of admittance | ] |
One of the main perks of being HIV+, it turns out, is that now I never have to grow up. It's not that I'm going die any sooner- just more compulsorily.
Anyway, enough poignance. Lately I've been okay. To celebrate my enduring juvenility, I've been packing my sinuses with snot-tainting powders and gleefully gobbling opiates, handful after clammy, mucid handful. But not excessively.
Also, I've been fucking around on my 4-track a lot. I've written and recorded something like 40 songs since I was diagnosed six months ago. None of them are about AIDS, but one's about anal warts. And one's about the Tri-Cities. Which actually could be about AIDS, if you wanted to read it that way. Where it says "I am a feisty lumberjack from Kennewick" in the first refrain, you could substitute "I am a feisty lumberjack with Karposi's Sarcoma".
Which brings me to my question: How do I post my mp3s online? Can I do it for free? There must be some easy way to get strangers to recognize my musical genius without having to actually perform for them. I'd be happy being just marginally famous, in any case. I realize that perhaps this is beyond the realm of knowledge of either of my loyal readers. But I have faith. (Links to decent related websites would be much appreciated.)
Thanks. |
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| guesstimate thyself |
[Feb. 7th, 2004|12:52 pm] |
I went to some kid's house, 2nd day high. Never would've gone to meet him if we'd talked on the phone beforehand; too fem, too Radical Faerie predictable. Cute enough it turned out though. Fuck was decent, once he agreed not to close his eyes.
Smoked pot, got depressed, stared forlornly into dust motes. Like last time, and before, and before. I read my lines as if in tongues. The meaning is gone, or was imagined, like the moral of a heartbeat.... How big is the part of me that fools? How inert is the part that believes between blinks, or with fingertips? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 23rd, 2004|09:13 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | it's just gas. | ] |
| [ | music |
| | tin hat trio. the rodeo eroded | ] |
So... I was going to complain about some stuff, but I've changed my mind. Despite the generally fearsome quality of my life as of late, there are still things to be happy about. The getting of head, for example, is still a pleasant passtime. Ditto for assplowing. Kerry's still in the lead. Human babies are still cute as a motherfuck.
And tap_yo_ass still loves me.
I'll update soon. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 4th, 2003|10:28 pm] |
So this is what it feels like to be friendless... it feels like nothing, really, except I'm bored a lot. It occured to me a few minutes ago that I don't have any friends, but it was the kind of revelation that enters your mind unsolicited and reveals almost nothing about your current situation, or where it is you fit into things. Like having it suddenly dawn on you that you might never make it to Prague, or realizing that you might aptly be described with the word "mousy".
I used to have friends. In fact, I distinctly remember making a couple of friends in Portland. That was my mission here, actually: to make friends I could stick by, and who'd stick by me. (That, and quitting speed.) No more Drug Buddies. No more fond acquaintances whose names I'd forget with the first round of Pabst-- Friends. Just friends.
Things started out really well. I met a couple kids through LJ before I even moved here. My first couple weeks in pdx I stayed in the basement of one guy I met via LJ, and I met this one dude, Del, who seemed awesome... we just kind of fell out of touch, the way people do. Neither of us are to blame; it just happens.
Then, out of desparation, I took my first job at Club Portland, this creepy gay bath house in the creepy gay bar part of town. (It turns out this wasn't the best way to keep my mind off meth.) I don't work there anymore, but my subsequent jobs haven't been much better.
So, it's been six months, and I feel even emptier than when I started out. I'm going to live with some hippies in southern Oregon, maybe get things straightened out, maybe start wearing patchouli and grunting flowery aphorisms into my tofu. Who knows.
Anyone need some barely-used dishes? You haul 'em, they're free. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 28th, 2002|04:55 am] |
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Whatever happened to the Colgate Pump? |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 17th, 2002|03:59 am] |
| [ | music |
| | mecca normal. what about the boy | ] |
Look at me. I'm horny and grumpy at the same time! It happens a lot. The combination used to confuse me- my face would screw up and I'd cock my head all sideways and shit- but now I've wised up. Now I realize feelings just happen, for whatever reason, usually a conspiracy of some kind, and often involving beer or unpleasant pharmaceutical combinations, or maybe these are excuses you subconsciously design to obscure the fact that you're just plain fucked. My point, I think, is that you just fucking deal with them (the feelings, I mean). You dig?
Think I'll go jack off and glare at myself in the mirror. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 26th, 2002|07:04 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | viscous | ] |
| [ | music |
| | the notwist. off the rail | ] |
Three weeks ago I became the newest member of the Chimney Sweep Squad at Club PDX. (We don't actually sweep chimneys, but "Jizz Mop Brigade" doesn't have quite the same ring to it.)
I didn't take the job at Borders, in case anybody was wondering. My decision is fully justified. Ask me if I think I'll regret it, or cluck your tongue about "lost opportunities", and watch how I shrug all carefree-like and then later I don't show up at your potluck.
Anyway.
1) The official excuse: After two weeks at the Borders de Santa Fe, I couldn't stomach the work any longer. I'd rather die scraping jizz from a wall with a putty knife than spend another day selling middlebrow romance novels to the middle-class wives of middle-aged middle managers.
2) The slightly embarassing truth: I was broke. Broke as... as... as a motherfucker. (When in doubt, I like to stick to the classics.) Broke as Fuck, Hell, Shit, and The Dickens, all passed out together in a puddle of fortified vomit.
If I'd taken the job, my first decent Borders paycheck would've arrived approximately one month after I spent my last three bucks on discount smokes and a B.K. Broiler. And when a would-be colleague told me about the guy who got fired for sponge-bathing in the men's room, I decided not to ask the supe how she'd feel about me setting up a pup tent near the espresso stand. (Whatever- not like I'd turn tricks during business hours or anything...)
Club P., on the other hand, offered payment following each of my first three shifts (-at which point my bosses would decide whether or not I'd make a good Team Player). Plus, I'd get tips while attending the front desk, provided I could conjure enough coordination to bat my eyelids at the customer while shoving his key/towel/condom beneath the bulletproof window, all while purring seductively under my breath.
(FYI no.1: Don't try this. It seems like it might work, but really, you might purr too emphatically and choke on your gum. And just because you hide in the bathroom for like fifteen minutes doesn't mean the customer's going to give up and come back later when you've composed yourself. He'll just be annoyed and not tip you.
FYI no.2: Actually, in this line of work, tip-coaxing is no sweat. All you have to do is look bored or annoyed while you're keying in the transaction. If the customer thinks you're playing hard-to-get, or acting coy, the tips will come in thick, crumpled wads as big as ferret heads. No lie.)
So, anyway... I had some more profound insights to share, and maybe later I'll remember what they were. Word. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 16th, 2002|01:47 am] |
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Why explain it, if you can unsay it? |
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| penile dermabrasion and xenon |
[Aug. 28th, 2002|03:24 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | slaphappy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | lambchop. up with people | ] |
So here I am in Portland, which everyone refers to half-mockingly (or maybe lazily) as "PDX", which is apparently not some kind of inscrutable hepcat acronym, like I thought- instead it's aviation-industry shorthand for Portland International Airport, like "LAX" on your ticket means you're flying into L.A. (Duh, I guess. Color me abashed. Then maybe later we can play that game where Aunt Bea sucks Fonzie's dick in my parents' bathroom. I call Fonzie.)
Another observation: A person who says "PDX" when they're talking about the whole city (not just the airport, which here is called The Airport, just like in any other city) usually seems to be dropping a kind of code, understood by a or airport-jargon-savvy elite, translated thus: "Me and Portland? We hella tight." It is a pronouncement of capital intimacy, the blithe evocation of spousal domain.
Anyway. Just finished a six pack of girly malt, plus a raspberry cider, plus I'm a lightweight and a pussy. Should probably finish this tomorrow. Hella drunk right now. I keep dropping my fucking thesaurus. |
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| turquoise stains on my underwear |
[Aug. 21st, 2002|10:37 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | flaccid | ] |
| [ | music |
| | astor piazzola. salt loaf tango | ] |
Fuck Santa Fe.
Seems kind of criminal for a city engulfed in such gorgeously, nauseatingly open skies to harbor such sheltered, money-grubbing, thick-skulled townsfolk.
Imagine spending your days and nights locked in a permanent tourist season in the middle of Westlake Center. A toxic mess of ethnic shanties to the north and south; a desparately hip honky villa on the east side; in the center, high-rises, dully elbowing the debris, housing those who believe emptiness is indigenous to the landscapes of the ignored. To the west is the kind of beauty that you want to punch, and that, vanquished, leaks from the curl of your fist.
Santa Fe is like that, except instead of high-rises (thanks to a city ordinance), there's a bunch of quaint adobe tourist barns, each painted one of 27 city-sanctioned shades of beige. Turquoise is everywhere, having recently eclipsed the quartz crystal in terms of marketability on the new age housewife circuit. Just west of town, there's assloads of bumpy, hikeworthy, colon-cleansingly beautiful mountains. Skiers like to ski there until dusk, then glide back into town in their teal-and-canary SUV's. To avoid them, I go hiking at night.
Or, I stay at home and wax poetic all over my keyboard. Think I'll go steal a washcloth from my roommate- this shit gets sticky when it starts to cool.
***
Tomorrow I leave for Portland. I'll miss this place, maybe. Ah, the memories... poignant... bittersweet... like earwax licked from the ear of a Keebler elf... |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2002|06:40 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | thirsty | ] |
| [ | music |
| | mingus. the black saint and the sinner lady | ] |
And now I'm over it. I'm still turning tricks, but my perspective on my actions (and their perceived implications) has changed quite a bit over the last few weeks. I don't see the romantic/pathetic image of a Hustler when I look in the mirror now; I see me, maybe a couple blackheads, an obdurate nosehair asking to be plucked (which I can never bring myself to do, because nosehair plucking is the single most disgusting thing I ever witnessed my father do when I was a kid- he'd jerk his head back, snort meatily, then casually flick the hair behind the nearest piece of furniture. My sister found this hilarious, but she's kind of slow. I was as repulsed as any normal person would be. Whenever I dropped something behind the couch, like my gum, or a magic marker, I considered it gone- there was no droppable item so indispensable I'd risk fetching it from the thick of the nosehair forest below).
Looking back over last week's entry, it occurs to me that maybe I should delete it, or at least exercise some heavy self-censorship- especially now that I'm going to be using this website as a resource for finding a new place to live. Of course, editing it for improved palatability would defeat the second main purpose of my having an online journal to begin with (the first being the tantalizing opportunity to join a big public circle jerk)- to write with unabashed honesty! to abuse myself with affectless candor! (Obviously my two main purposes kind of tie in together.) Where else is one free to put so much on display, with the promise that at least one or two people are bound to enjoy looking at it?
So. Probably what I'll do is wait to see if anyone responds to my housing requests, and if they don't, I'll delete my first posting. I have 10 days to find a place- maybe now isn't the time for cathartic purging. I should probably play up the charm, underscore the integrity, deemphasize the ho bit (got a job at Borders, so that should be over with soon anyway... not like I'm into crack or anything).
The Greeks believed that each man had access to a finite, personal supply of crocus blossoms. (The crocus was a Greco-Roman symbol of honesty and integrity.) Used sparingly, a man's crocus stash would last him a lifetime; however, if a man was too honest, and depleted his supply prematurely, he had to spend the rest of his days telling fibs, practicing fake-outs, and generally kickin' it in Sketch City, which is a really creepy place to kick it when you're incontinent or senile.
Anyway, there are some other details to the story which I'm forgetting, but I guess the moral's pretty clear regardless, and it's hard to light the pipe and pull it out of the little stem with one hand without supporting the main part of the bong with the other hand, which I can't do if the other hand is typing, so... |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 6th, 2002|06:11 am] |
All of a sudden I'm a ho.
It's not something I'd given much consideration. Frankly, a month ago, I never would've suspected I could keep my dick hard in such disagreeable locales- the passenger's seat of a turquoise Ford Festiva, the suckling mouth of a fragrant old hippie... But, wow. Look at me go.
Two weeks ago I bought a webcam. I discovered, within hours, that I like letting strangers watch me do my thing. I sat on my mattress, legs spread, with the camera perched between them like a wide-eyed frozen canary. The strangers offered encouragement. "Stroke it," they typed into boxes on their computer screens. "Stroke it, dude. Bro. Homeslice." They wanted me to think they were young and str8-acting sk8ers. I knew they weren't, but I didn't care. It was exciting not to care.
And then I ran out of money. It just happened, suddenly. I got laid off from my job, and I hadn't saved money, because I never save money. Rent was due. And on August 20th, my sublet ends, so I'll need 1st, last and deposit for a new place. Plus there's cigarettes. And my Dexedrine prescription. I can't face anything without Dexedrine.
So now I'm a ho. I've turned three tricks so far. The first was the Festiva, the second was the hippie, and the third was a disenfranchised kid who paid me to hang out and talk Star Trek. And at least, I think, as each mouth pulls me in, I'll have money in my pocket, I'll have stories to tell. But right now I'm fucking terrified. |
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thomasx's journal