Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

"LEO (July 23-Aug. 22):

Happy Valentine's Day, Leo! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love how well you're maintaining your sanity as you weave your way along the curvy uphill path with the wasteland on one side and the fake paradise on the other. I admire the fact that your sense of humor is expanding, not shrinking, in the face of floods of ambiguous data. And I adore the fierce poise and openhearted skepticism you're able to muster as you struggle against all odds to be true to yourself. You're my hero, Braveheart."

My Voice horoscope. I would think it rather good, were it not for the fact that I have just finished spending several days doing precisely the opposite of what it claims. My sanity was not maintained as I strode between waste and false paradise. My sense of humor grew nowhere, despite a virtual torrent of ambiguous data.

I take comfort in the fact that as this is a horoscope, it is meant to be (at least nominally) a portent of things to come. I therefore look forward to my promised period of grace and poise.

I rebel against today. I speak not of the "Hallmark" nature of February 14's significance. That has been done before and I'm tired of being cliché.

I comment merely on the fact that I refuse to sink back into the mire from which I recently dragged myself. I will not look at pink hearts and begin to pine. I shall not ruminate on friend's romanticisms and clench my teeth.

Instead, I focus on the positive. The office coffee (A topic upon which I too often harp, I know) has been brewed today by someone who is not afraid of it. An unexpected and completely wonderful loan of ten dollars will allow me to buy lunch and actually eat today.

This positive outlook still does not negate the oath I made to myself three years ago. I declared that I would never again spend Feb. 14th both single and sober. As I am most definitely single, and presumably will be so this evening, I have a date with my liquid lover. Never let it be said that I break my promises.

I find it amazing how much thought goes into the topic of money and food, especially when one has neither. The fact that ten dollars rests in my pocket buoys up my heart, puts a spring in my step. I have ten full dollars of purchasing power today, and it is this realization that shows me how important purchasing power is to my self-image. I understand it is de rigueur to look down upon capitalism, but that is difficult to do while weighing in my mind the benefits of lasagna at Isadora's Diner versus a chicken sandwich at Ranch 1.

(Side note regarding Ranch 1: the chicken sandwiches are tasty, true -- but I tend to think of them not so much as a chicken sandwich, as a vehicle for consuming honey mustard sauce. Then again, were the world mine to direct, *every* food would have a "slathered in honey mustard sauce" option. And a "covered with avocados" option, as long as I dream of Utopia.)

When I got home, I enjoyed a brief respite from the usual chaos, as all three of my roommates appeared to be engaged elsewhere. At times I'm astounded by the group of people we've collected: the dominatrix, the art student, the union worker, the web programmer. It sounds like the cast to some wacky new comedy on UPN or the WB.

The art student is dating the dominatrix. The latter moved to New York to bask in the brilliance of the former's personality. The union worker sleeps in the living room, in a pseudo-room with walls constructed of bookshelves. I (the web programmer) occupy the room with windows; I rule a kingdom of down comforters.

I have proved true to my convictions. Granted, I had very little say as to whether or not this occurred. However, Brigid called during her long journey home. Announced that she was bringing home a bottle of Jack.

I was pleased.

I have spent a night engaged in wholely pleasurable pursuits. I have watched figure skating. I saw Tim Goebel win a bronze medal. I have drunk Jack Daniels. I have bleached and then subsequently dyed my friend's hair bright purple. I have eaten from the wellspring of English cuisine (oxymoronic as it may be). And now I am on my way out.

I spend an evening with the more adventurous of my roommates.

There will be reports in the morning.

Maigera is my favorite person in the world right now. I wish that she were here so I could tell her in person how pretty she is.

It is past 4 am. I should be sleeping.

Were this a night during which my sense of both a) responsibility and b) self-preservation were operative, I would be asleep.

Instead, I am writing a missive to you fine folk in Diaryland. My self-appointed mission, that of being not wholly sober, has been accomplished. I kissed a boy.

That is not quite fair -- he was several years older than I, and I am loath to call anyone in that particular age range a "boy." Nevertheless, kissing did occur. I feel a mild spark of righteousness, as I was able to tell said "boy" to go home.

I shall leave you with my righteousness intact. I am certain that the injustices perpetrated by my morning coffeepot will be enough to make me declaim loudly my problems with the world. Until then, I bid you adieu.

I watched the birds fly today.

Above my randomly-aboveground subway stop, they circle, every morning. Tawny backs and wings fluttering, then edge-on slashes like a childish letter M to signify the concept of "bird" in a drawing. Pale bellies, and the round is completed with another jagged M.

I wish I knew what they spent so much time circling.

Today brings with it a host of happinesses. The same brave soul who brewed my caffeinated beverage of choice yesterday was back again this morning, boldly adding enough grounds to the filter to turn the water brown. Bagels waited, with concomitant tubs of cream cheese. And glory of glories, a paycheck, delivered in an hour. Think of all the honey mustard sauce I can buy then.

I contemplate my adventure from last night. I am reassured that although some people may not find me kissworthy, some people do.

We kissed outside. Apart from the safe haven of the bar; we kissed on the street. I think I was more interested in this act of societal rebellion than I was in the kiss itself -- despite the liberal air of New York City, that sort of publicity spawns a host of anxieties. Granted, it was 4 am and foot traffic was light. But when someone hurled imprecations down the road regardless, I just pulled him closer. I disengaged a moment later, walked home, feeling more self-assured for having done so, having flirted with my own insecurities as much as with another man.

There is a certain power in doing something not entirely safe, and getting away with it.

I'm happiest when I have too much to do.

Tomorrow is a housewarming brunch for a friend, so I overextend myself and plan both a quiche with ham and an Eggs Florentine casserole for the non-carniverous. I have no time to make either. I squeeze it in regardless. I will wake, I will prepare, I will bake.

Another friend had her first solo show today, wrangling chords from her guitar and sweet vibrato from the chapel of her throat. I had no time to attend, but I was there anyway. There is a distinct pleasure in taking a cab when I know that I could walk - but as they say, time was of the essence.

More friends had a gathering in Westchester. The ringleader is housesitting, a cavern of a home, a strange amalgam of southwestern and Scandinavian themes. Clean, straight, unadorned lines, picked out against the skyline in adobe. Ikea meets Santa Fe. I had no time to join them, but again a cab rescued me, delivered me to the embrace of a northbound train, just in time to pull away in a hiss and a clatter of bells.

My dearest friend has a problem - a rebellion of the heart, an opening of the eyes, in which she sees her girl in a new light. One adult, yearning for grown-up things; the other, an adult trapped in childish reverie. Amidst everything else I do, I had no time to talk. I wait until Sunday afternoon, when at last a break in my schedule will allow me to listen. My guilt gnaws.

Perhaps having too much to do can stifle as much as it can exhilarate.

My roommate loves so differently than I. She loves brightly, fiercely, passionately. It can be summoned up quickly, leaving her in the fire's embrace after a single shared glance. Likewise it can end just as rapidly, banking the flame to a single lonely ember of friendship, a love tempered by knowledge and sadness.

Sometimes I feel as if I am a shadow next to her. She lives her life exuberantly, jumping head-first into life changing decisions, ruled by her heart. I am slow to act, reluctant to make decisions -- but when finally summoned, my love resists snuffing, leaving a hot core burning within me long after the object of my affection has quit the scene.

I think that my latest near-miss still affects me more than I am willing to casually admit. I so rarely make the first move, place the first call, that a failure makes me even less likely to do so in the future. I was (eventually) turned down so gently, with such patient understanding, that I vacillate between a surge of double-intensity feeling for him, and indignance at his condescension.

A commercial I saw today asked me the question, "Why do you sometimes want to be alone, but never lonely?" It struck me hard; struck me as particularly poignant, as well as apropos. Perhaps later I will allow myself to realize that the perfectly obvious answer negates the wittiness of their phrasing.

Another night approaches, filled with strange dreams I can ponder and comb for hidden signs and meaning. My dreams are most vivid during times of emotional upheaval - and the sheer volume of nocturnal imaginings lately has left me quite unsettled. Think of me tomorrow, and wish me luck in unraveling strange portents.

I am wearing yellow today. A lemony, buttery yellow, a baby-chicken yellow, a spring yellow. I wear it in protest of wintertime. I wear it to call up the warm winds of a new season, hoping that old Aeolus will see me and be tricked into sending away the cold gusts from the North.

I tire so quickly of winter, of these dark months. Give me hours of sunlight, give me evenings reading a book on my roof, a bottle of something chilled in hand. Give me nights with the window open, give me days of languid perspiration, riding the subway for hours reveling in the air conditioner on board.

In the early months of the year, all I want to do is nest. Curl up by myself, hibernate, eat potatoes and yams to store up energy for the long stretches of night. I sleep too long, dropping off early and waking up late. I grow lethargic, knowing I have responsibilities yet dismissing them with the wave of a torpid hand.

My ally against utter inactivity is, as always, my corporate coffeepot. That, and the color yellow.

I have a goal.

Last night I experienced a startling epiphanic moment. It feels right, it feels...true. Without getting too detailed, it involves the French Culinary Institute, me, a restaurant, and a conjoined antique bookshop. I can see the vision, the floor plan, the decor, the menu so clearly, it is almost as if the idea already existed full-blown, and was waiting for me to notice.

Since I arrived in New York I have been without purpose. Perhaps not entirely without -- it is always an admirable goal to pay one's rent on time, and one that is not always attainable. Long term plans have not factored into my life, aside from a vague sense of "Doing Something Interesting Someday." This may very well be the "Something" for which I wait.

A small stumbling block: my plan rests wholely on the possibility of financial aid. Twenty-five thousand dollars is a concept so imaginary to me, they may as well ask me to pay in Santa Clauses. I refuse to let such a small detail deter me, not when I suddenly burn with such enthusiasm. Mark my words - in a few short years, I shall be the toast of the town.

A breath of sweet, rain-scented air greeted me this morning. A lovely change from the usual melange of garbage and car exhaust that usually heralds my arrival to the outside world. I take it as an omen for a good day.

I put too much faith in omens. I scan ten different horoscopes every week, read my fortune cookies looking for true wisdom. I think I do not look for honest prognostication as much as I look for evidence of magic. I had a conversation with myself yesterday in which I planned out what I would say if I ever woke to discover a fairy sitting on the tip of my nose. It boiled down to the simple "What took you so long?"

In the elevator ride to the 21st floor, two young sisters argued over who got to push the buttons. I can recall when I experienced genuine excitement, had fun doing things which now seem so commonplace and habitual. While I may have given up the visceral thrill I received when I pushed buttons, I refuse to give up the similarly childlike anticipation of wonder.

I could not stop smelling people today. I did not surreptitiously sniff the back of their necks (although secretly, I have been known to do just that to boys at the bar). I just happened to walk though many clouds of people-scent.

It happened most often in the elevator. Apparently elevators are factoring heavily in my life these days. I would get on and smell someone. I could put them in different categories: sweet, citrus, sour, pine, floral, eau naturale. I have always been keenly aware of my olfactory sense -- it plays a major role in attraction to anybody. It makes me sad when people wear colognes that do not suit their body chemistry.

I am astoundingly excited about my culinary school plan. I should receive financial aid info early next week. I will be a chef to make other chefs tremble. I will also never lose my penchant for overly-grandiose statements.

It was as if the three of us were not in the same room, not sitting in the same booth at all. Instead of having a conversation over slowly cooling french fries, we had three completely independent monologues, each vaguely related to the other like different scenes in the same play.

Everyone was rubbed raw, emotions worn outwardly. Mine, because I find a week of continual excitement and planning the future to be taxing, and now a weekend of inactivity looms, all my plans spun out into long golden strings of hope that temporarily have no more flax to feed them. Theirs, I do not know, but can only assume due to a long string of fight-fuck-fight-fuck that tires even me and I am only an observer.

Intruding upon our three discrete bubbles of consciousness roughly pressing against each other, a coarse presence, our neighbor at a nearby table. The very archetype of macho, crudely shouting orders and thrusting himself into our fragile triumvirate. "What a huge cock he is," I declare, and it is this thought that temporarily binds us together, allies against a common foe. When he leaves, our merged auras dissociate, and we are again left to fend for ourselves.

I have hardly moved today.

I have not been sick in ages. I take great pride in my immune system, and when it is compromised, I feel both sick from the illness, and vaguely ashamed that I have allowed myself to become ill. I have coughed so often and so hard today that the back of my head aches from the tension.

I spent the first half of the day wrapped up in my down comforter on the couch. Then a friend calls and says she's going to come over, so sadly, I had to put on actual clothes. Well, pajamas, but I feel that those count as clothing, especially as I wore them across the street to the deli later in the day. Then I had to put on real clothes that I'm not embarrassed to be seen outside in, so I could talk to my local neighborhood bartender about a counter-protest he is organizing for March 9th.

Counter-protest skinny: The "Reverend" Fred Phelps, everyone's favorite hatemonger, (see www.godhatesfags.com for reference) will be staging a protest in NYC that day. Apparently, he as it all figured out -- the New York Fire Department's policy on gays and lesbians (or, their "fag cesspool," as Freddie calls it) is partly responsible for what happened here in September. God is punishing "Fag New York" and "Fag America." Why anybody would think to protest the universally admired FDNY at this point in time is beyond me, but protest he shall. And I shall be a member of the counter-demonstration. I'm nervous and excited at the same time.

I find it interesting that I still have to be vague and say things like "What happened here in September." I can not quite bring myself to use words any more concrete than these, for fear of dealing with all of those emotions all over again.

I break my illness-imposed silence to share a few observations I have made over the past few days:

a) Were I a superhero, my fatal weakness might very well be Thin Mint cookies. I have sucked down four tubes of that Girl Scout Goodness in two days. A supervillain might someday be on the rampage, Super Me the only thing between him and total world domination, and I would stop at the store because I heard there was a sale on Thin Mint ice cream -- and all would be lost. Moral: Do not trust me with the task of saving the world from supervillains.

b) I heard the phrase "You're cooler than the other side of the pillow!" a few days ago. At the time, I thought it was merely clever. Now, after several days wherein the coolness of the other side of the pillow against my fevered cheek has been the only thing that keeps me from devolving into gibbering madness as I cough myself to sleep, I find that phrase to be imbued with a godlike intelligence and prescient charm. Moral: Every new idea is genius, given the proper circumstances.

c) My Village Voice horoscope yesterday left me breathless. I shall quote it for you here:

"Chances are you're not a mystic. Perhaps you don't even believe in invisible phenomena like telepathy, auras, angels, X rays, and radio waves. Nevertheless, you're now in the midst of a delicate spiritual mission involving factors that are imperceptible to the naked eye. You may have felt no more than odd tugs so far, but luckily I'm here to tell you about the secret that's behind them. At the moment of your conception, you see, a genetic potential was programmed to switch itself on in February and March of 2002. Ready or not, Leo, you're about to come into possession of a previously missing key to your destiny."

I am very excited about the possibility of destiny-keys. Naturally, I apply this horoscope to my recently acquired plan to attend culinary school this summer, and I stand amazed and gratified. Moral: Astrology works better than Prozac sometimes.

d) These diaries are remarkable for several reasons, but primary among them is the fact that they allow me the opportunity to see that I am not alone with my problems. Were I writing this diary a few years ago, you would hear about how often I missed my classes (it was a good week if I made it to one). I would recount the letters from my mother that somehow managed to convey utter disappointment in my status as a human being, not to mention a son. I would describe my lethargy, my lack of will to do anything productive. Thankfully, my diary is being penned now, long after those events, long after I changed careers, changed cities. I have, against all odds, *somehow* managed to become a successful member of society. I have plans and goals and excitement and friends and fun, and to top it all off, I often call my mom just to chat, and on occasion get through an entire phone call without feeling defensive about something. I find that time, patience, and distance are the three essentials for coexisting with parents. Moral: Perhaps if you don't have energy to do things, it means you should really be doing something else.