My love is bigger than your love

Or, Like a daisy chain turning into an ourobouros.

Bloggers are inconsequential. OK, some are more consequential than others. It's just my opinion: clearly, I think that my blog is inconsequential, therefore.... But I imagine that 95% of the bloggers (the Matthew Klam article claimed there were 2 million in the US alone, an important-if-true fact for the Hemlock Society to consider in its next direct mail drive) write for an audience of ten people. (Actually, they *have* an audience of ten people and write as though they're Moses on the mount.)

The Happiest I've Ever Been to Score a 77

Out of sheer boredom yesterday afternoon (Mabel, I've reached the end of the internet!), I took the Skilled Worker Online Self-Assessment Education test, which is a determining factor in whether you're worthy enough to emigrate to Canada. Expatriation is something I'd entertained for a while after I spent Thanksgiving in Montreal two years ago, but had dismissed, given the rather lofty requirements the Canadian government has for becoming a naturalized citizen. It turns out, however, that if you can speak and read French and are not a serial killer that your chances of passing are pretty good.

Like I said, I got a 77. I may dig out my Sorels this weekend, just for fun.

Attention All Employees

All employee suggestions will be duly noted at Winkyshock.

Here's a tip

If you're trying to sell me on your book, don't describe it as "a novella in verse." That there's justification for this trapdoor I'm having installed.

We all have creamy skin and blue eyes, Klam

I found it hard to read Matthew Klam's article about political bloggers with any semblance of subjectivity, I'm afraid. I would like to know how my father would've responded. I felt as though the piece treated its subject matter with the same freakish, aren't-you-just-darling-you-little-retard tone as one would use in an article about the polyamorous, the animal husbandry enthusiasts, or the Civil War reenactors. I didn't like the article; I felt it meandered, and I resented the way it spoke of Ana Marie Cox, who is--regardless if you like Wonkette or not--a really lovely person, and I didn't like to see her characterized as a pallid Holly Golightly wannabe.

If you're interested in a more subjective look at the article, go check out The Situation Room.

The one funny image that stuck with me was the characterization of Josh Marshall as being perpetually dressed in wrinked clothing. This made me think of Leonard Neeble, the narrator in Daniel Pinkwater's Alan Mendolsohn, The Boy From Mars, who describes in aching detail how, as a misfit at Bat Masterson Jr. High, his clothes--purchased from the boys' "portly" section of the department store--seem to automatically wrinkle up on him the minute he gets to school.

[Incidentally there's an excellent searchable glossary of all Pinkwater terms here. Pinkwater saved my adolescence.]

Sparks

This past week, I have been experiencing constant miniature electric shocks in my brain as a result of the tapering of the meds. Apparently this is quite common. That doesn't make them easier to deal with.

They're not frightening or anything. Just annoying. And distracting. (The premise that some people theorize that they're akin to petit mal seizures isn't so heartening, but whatever.) At first they only happened when I turned my head suddenly or stood up too fast. Then they started happening every time I took a hard step (leaving the curb to cross a street, running, etc.) By Friday they were near-constant blips in my brain. Going to the gym proved to be overwhelming.

Imagine the feeling you get when you shiver (or, as a friend used to put it, when someone "walks on your grave") combined with the surge you feel when someone surprises you or you have one of those falling dreams. In small doses it was tolerable. Now, though the frequency of the shocks seems to be tapering off, it's making me crazy(-er).

The lucid nightmares are strange too. I've never had such inchoate feelings of foreboding in a dream. And even though I *know* I'm dreaming, because I have no way of knowing what, precisely, is about to go terribly wrong, I can't do anything about it.

Oh, and what's even better than the nightmares and the shocks are the crying jags. I don't think I've cried this much since Steve McQueen died. Things I've cried about this week:

• Missing the train


• Forgetting to buy cat food


• Looking at some friends' vacation pictures


• Losing my passport


• Watching Frankie Evangelista learn how to ride his bicycle

Darn tootin'!

We're not that bright.

[Thanks, Ang.]

Coming to a Mall Near You

The things I miss not working in midtown: "I could never do my work in an environment like this," she said, stepping outside for a break and lighting up a Capri 125. "Too much noise, too much energy flying around."

Do You Love Me?

There's a company who's spamming my webalizer stats. This is their phone number: (877) 962-5221. Would any of you like to call them up and tell them DO NOT FUCK WITH TEH DANA? I'd be much obliged.

Today I Met the Boy I'm Gonna Marry

Jesus God. It's a Hostess Wedding Cake!

It's Just Not a Good Week for Livin'

RIP Russ Meyer. He may be dead, but his art lives on. Long live the big bouncy titties.

Look out, Dale Carnegie

You might have seen me. I'm alway wearing Venezuela t-shirts and/or Flight sunglasses with earphones listening to rock and playing my imaginary guitar.

Waaah.

The only good thing can come from The Minor Fall, The Major Lift going into retirement is that the rest of us will all seem just a tad more wry and intelligent.

RIP

Goodbye, Skeeter Davis. (Incidentally, Bus Fare to Kentucky is a worthwhile read...check it.)

CLANG CLANG CLANG WENT THE TROLLEY

Oh my goodness. This is the best revenge evar: “If you all don’t lower your voices and cease calling me Satan, I will have to sing show tunes.” [Via mefi.]

Whoo-hoo!

Blogfucker is back, people! (Is it February already?)

I love seeing little girls cry

Great Armflapping Christ.

Pity the poor little girl who had her Bush/Cheney poster ripped from her pudgy, precious little arms by a mean, nasty Kerry supporter.

Oh no, wait. Pity her because her father is a douchebag who uses his children as props to orchestrate media circuses.

[Via Low Culture.]

Liquor in the front

Behold the cuteness that is David Williams, this year's World Series of Poker 2nd place winner. (Listen, you put me in front of a TV watching a show about a pasttime I couldn't even be arsed to pay attention to in real time, and this is what I come away with.)

NB: I can't be sure if he's legitimately attractive or if he just seems that way, given that he's surrounded by the ugly duality of both poker AND Magic players.

Porn and pastrami: A few of my favorite things

Al Goldstein: Unbreakable.

I'm sure that, on the lower frequencies*, she speaks for us

The Antigeist offers the definition of chivalry, which begins, as all great stories do, like this:

...I felt a bit of familiar pressure, you know, down there, I decided to release it --discreetly-- and enjoy some relief. I rolled down the window, raised one cheek, and let her rip. And promptly shit my pants.

No one will ever love you for your honesty

Although I'm (technically) a writer I'm completely incapable of composing a cogent, friendly remark to write in a greeting card. (Also, can someone explain why you're expected to make up stuff to say if there's already something printed inside the damned card?) Yesterday afternoon, for example, a folder containing a baby shower card for a coworker landed on my desk. I sighed and opened it up. Fifteen people had already written their well-wishes.

Something overcomes me in these situations. I sit there feverishly trying to decide what an appropriate note would be. How many euphemisms for "Congratulations on your new drain on the economy" are there?

If you fuck up, too, there's no turning back. For this reason alone, most of my inscriptions read as though their author is accustomed to speaking Esperanto.

"Best wishes on becoming a special mother!" I hastily wrote last night, knowing even as I clicked the top of my pen cap that I'd made some terrible etiquette error.

Ah, fuck it. I stuffed two bucks in the envelope and passed the card along.

After the show is the afterparty

Last night I tried to take my out-of-town guest to Freeman's. I figured it wouldn't be crowded on a Tuesday night. Wrong! The maitre d', who looked a bit like Jesus if he'd roadied for Lynyrd Skynyrd, told us he could seat us tomorrow. A ha ha ha ha ha.

So instead we went to El Sombrero. It's been renovated to look like a suburban Greek diner. Grain-alcohol margaritas don't taste nearly as good in a faux-finished setting.

I like a guy who can take a punch

Wow. How hot is Phil Toledano?

Rrrowr.

(He was interviewed on Gawker yesterday. Apparently he's also some kinda talented photographer? I skipped over that part.)

Of Cups and Cakes

Tonite Maud Newton, Emma Garman, and a bunch of people who didn't come to my birthday party are participating in the Cupcake Reading Series, which is at Lolita, which is on the corner of Allen and East Buttfuck. It will be a good show, and you should definitely go. And you should also stop by and carry me there. Thank you.

Hopalong

In the past week, I've seen three doctors. The first one told me that I'm too crazy to go off meds ("HA! But I've been crazy all my life, but only medicated for a year...Riddle me THAT, Batman," I replied). The second one decided that I either have cunt cancer or an alien invader. (More tests to follow!) Now the third one tells me I need orthotics. Which happen to cost $350. Fuck that noise; I'm 29, there's no reason why I'd need orthotics. I think it's foot cancer. It's spread from my cunt.

On my way to the doctor's I saw Eric Nies gaying it up on Astor Place. On my way back, I saw Matt Damon only 10 yards from that very spot. Coincidence? I think not.

A homeless man flung an avocado peel at me from a church stoop. It slimed my sneakers. Where am I, the fucking Amazon? Perhaps if I were more flight of foot I could have dodged it. Kudos to him for his aim, and for choosing such a nutrient-packed meal. He must've read the Post this morning. Hopefully he shat on it thereafter.

Roderick Johnson

There's an article in the most recent Out magazine about the torture and neglect of Roderick Johnson, an openly gay Texas inmate. Unfortunately it's not entirely reproduced online, but here's part of it:

When Roderick Johnson was transferred to the James V. Allred Unit of the Texas prison system four years ago, nothing prepared him for what was lying in wait at the maximum security facility. Like every new arrival, he went before a Unit Classification Committee, which would determine his placement within the prison. Since he was an openly gay man, he asked to be placed in the separate “safekeeping” unit for vulnerable individuals. The committee chair’s response to Johnson’s request? “We don’t protect punks on this farm,” he said, and assigned him to the general population.

Correction

I realize now that I do know more than one person with a pushished book: my pal Jonathan, who is interviewed on LAist today, has one too. He is probably the only person who's worked for Gourmet AND knew Tupac personally. He is also responsible for chaperoning me through my most memorable meal ever.

The man knows every edible part of the frog, people.

More reasons to love Grant Barrett

In addition to being the first of my friends to have a real-life published book on the market, Grant now has the dubious distinction of being the first of my friends to be referenced in the Times' On Language. Thankfully Safire was away this weekend. I reckon he's rolling over in his grave (I mean, he IS undead, right?) knowing that his fine column was sullied by such a declasse topic.

Go Grant!

Feed Your Head

Does the NYT coat its "Sophisticated Traveler," the advertising insert disguised as the second part of the magazine section, with some super-glossy varnish? It literally came shooting out of the paper like it was spring loaded.

Anyhoo. This piece was the most unintentionally hilarious article, about visiting a shaman in Peru to rid oneself of migraines. In it, our heroine shares a dugout with a Chomskyite, gets stared down by a cigar-smoking 5-y-o with a Barbie purse, and has visions of meeting Walt Whitman.

Yes, we'd ALL love to meet Walt Whitman, I'm sure. But I were situated in a hut in the middle of the Amazon, 14 hours by boat from civilization, surrounded by a bunch of men on hallucinogens, the last person I'd want to conjure up is the Grandfather of Assfucking. Seriously. Death by Unga-Bunga, anyone?

Of course she was murdered, Nate. She was the most annoying woman on the planet. Sheesh.

Back from doing sweet F-A this weekend. Well, no, I went to the storage space. But other than that. N and I made our semiregular trek to LIC, the bar on 46th and Vernon. I hesitated on the median at 11th Street, Sunday Times in my hand, because I had a fleeting feeling that I should run back to the apartment to fetch a notebook just in case I wanted to write. I decided against it, and N helpfully reminded me that I could always write on a cocktail napkin.

I could fit everything I've written in the past year on a cocktail napkin, come to think of it.

Everyone should go to LIC on Sunday afternoons. Not just because it's the best bar in the neighborhood. Because the bartender there is really, really nice and she gets bored, particularly if the vets from the SRO don't come over to keep her company.

How Fantabulosa

The Bible translated into Polari

Squirrels From Hell: This Weekend

Man oh man, tomorrow night the Squirrels From Hell are playing at 169 Bar, at 9:30. Also there will be free Jack Daniels at a designated point in the evening. Have you gone to see SFH yet? No? You're crazy.

In Life

It's one of those beautiful fall days. Sky's blue, it's still warm. Someone walking down Broadway commented to me, "Remember last time we had a September day like this?"

What the hell kinda thing is that to say to a stranger? It's funny how, elsewhere, New Yorkers have this reputation for keeping to themselves and avoiding even eye contact but the reality is that we are a city of poor-impulse-control blabbermouths. Sometimes, riding on the subway makes me feel like Clarice Starling dodging Migs' carepackages.

Get Low

Sometimes I find topical items I want to discuss and then I forget about them until it's too damn late. I mean, I totally had a huge post written about how JT LeRoy is a hoax, and I never got around to posting it. Just wait, JT. My day will come.

But anyhow, I was really into this idea of the "down low" culture, and the backlash against it in the "black" media. It seems like a lot of people whose opinions I respect doubt the veracity of such an epidemic. But all that was like a month ago. I gave up on discussing it.

Then Brent Staples of the NY Times wrote an editorial in yesterday's paper about combating AIDS in prison, and in arguing for the distribution of condoms he commits the logical fallacy of disputing the concept of "down low":

The hyperbole and exaggeration surrounding the "down low" has taken the public health debate in a counterproductive direction. It has spread paranoia and pushed a much-needed discussion about bisexual behavior further underground. Moreover, it has kept the country from focusing on the long-neglected connection between H.I.V. and the prison system, where infection rates are high and unprotected sex among male inmates is far more common than prison officials care to admit. Men who have sex with men in prison pose an enormous threat to women when they return to the outside world and heterosexual behavior.

Take, for example, this essay, which states:

Let's be clear. Because of the sexual politics of America, much less of the black community, it is very difficult to be anything other than straight-laced, heterosexual and black. And because of that weight, there are indeed a number of people who are closeted for fear of losing their loved ones, losing their social connections, losing their jobs, and even in some cases losing their lives. This is a serious matter that should be discussed in churches, in schools, in homes, and in businesses, as well as in organizations like the NAACP and the Urban League.

Where the hell are the numbers? Where the hell is the theory?

Because, it's the elephant in the room! Is it true that homophobia doesn't exist in the black community any more than it exists anywhere else? This Village Voice piece says no, and refers to an article in the Public Opinion Quarterly.

Let's go check out the article in question [It's tricky to get to, btw, but if you search the term homophobia you'll find it]:

Blacks are 11 percentage points more likely than whites to condemn homosexual relations as “always wrong” and 14 percentage points more likely to see them warranting “God’s punishment” in the form of AIDS, but no more likely to favor criminalizing gay sex.7 More blacks than whites would remove a progay book from their public library (by 6 percentage points) and would not allow an admitted homosexual to give a speech in their community (by 4 percentage points).

[Incidentally, Brent Staples is still my favorite over at the Times; I have tremendous respect for anyone who terrorizes Saul Bellow.]

Excess Feces

'i'm only cutting poop! there's nothing else here.' well, that and the stench got everyone else's attention in the lab. i ran for the nearest garbage can to bring to the table, and dr. poop shoveled the excess feces out of the body. [Via Little Fucking Ray of Sunshine]

Memory Loss Sets In

I'm sure this has nothing to do with the unhealthy quantities of alcohol I consumed this weekend (mostly with my father; yes, while Bill Clinton was having his arteries roto-rootered, I was enjoining my father--who happens to be 6 years Clinton's senior--to hoist pint after pint on Sunday afternoon. Hey, I started a parenthetical note back a ways, didn't I?), but does anyone remember what I promised to do tomorrow night? I believe I have agreed to attend something? Crap.

Moving on, there are other actionable items bubbling up this week. On Thursday, it's a pre-emptory party for Sweet Action Number 3. There's no cover and apparently if you bring in a photo of a naked boy you will be entered into some raffle. (I have extras if anyone needs them.) It's at Pianos, around 10 pm, she noted without judgement.

Also, on Friday, powerHouse books is celebrating the release of Too Fast For Love, and there's an afterparty at, uh, Lotus, sponsored by Ben Sherman. (Yeah, I don't get that either.) Here's the invite, kids. Go crazy.

Briefly

I'm a little woozy this morning. What kind of idiot has a birthday party on a Thursday night?

::snaps fingers, points to self::

This guy.

Last night was a whole lotta fun. I was going to post pictures but as it turns out there's one of me and then like 20 of what appears to be closeups of someone's ear. That's the last time I pass my camera around.

What Did Your Last Servant Die Of?

Whoo-hoo! The Wedding Present has returned. [Thank you, Dust Congress, for the only thing that cheered me up today.] [Well, that and this.]

Urge to kill...rising

[The monkey babies, Dana, think of the monkey babies]

Vidiot got me all incensed, dammit. Read this!

HASTERT: Here in this campaign, quote, unquote, "reform," you take party power away from the party, you take the philosophical ideas away from the party, and give them to these independent groups.

You know, I don't know where George Soros gets his money. I don't know where—if it comes overseas or from drug groups or where it comes from. And I—

WALLACE (interrupting): Excuse me?

HASTERT: Well, that's what he's been for a number years—George Soros has been for legalizing drugs in this country. So, I mean, he's got a lot of ancillary interests out there.

Cheney's snarling overbite ain't got nothin' on this

We Gonna Play a Little Game Called Tag

If you are looking for a reason to avoid GW's acceptance speech tomorrow night, maybe you should come to my birthday party. Chips, dips, chains, whips...you know the drill.

OR, you could celebrate my birthday in spirit by listening to this.

[If anyone has the the original Clovers version of that, drop me a line.]