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

The freakish carnival continues. I have spent the past few days bouncing from one social engagement to another. I do not think I have ever had more events packed into such a small span.

To begin: I am jaded. I went to see The Phantom of the Opera with a visiting out-of-town aunt. Piffle, is all I have to say. Plus, if you need to add reverb to the Phantom's voice via the mikes, chances are good that you need a new Phantom.

Brunching, as usual. And then two hours of Rollerbladey goodness. I swear, I could not have been more gay if I had tried. Shorts and a white tank top and rollerblades, satchel slung over my shoulder, zipping along the edge of Manhattan with my similarly-clad friends, occasionally taking a break to stand at the railing and look out over the water. I felt like the posterboy for some alterna-lifestyles cruise. And now today I am sore, sore, sore.

Coming home tired, wiped, worn out, knackered. So, naturally, it seems like a logical idea to meet up with CanadianBoy (the one from last Tuesday) to go to a drag show in the city at midnight. (I have to admit, I was intrigued by the concept of the show as much as I am with him -- a nice drag queen?? Amazingly, she proved to be exactly that.) I see chairs on the curb on the way to the subway, so I call home to report them -- and discover that ColoradoBoy (the one I met during my date with...what shall I call this one? BlondBoy?) had called in the intervening five minutes to see if I wanted to go out for a drink. As I already had plans, I declined, of course, but it seems that we will be dining together tonight, or possibly Wednesday.

And then the drag show, which was easily the most enjoyable one I have ever seen, mostly because I did not spend the entire time worried that I would be singled out for drag-queen-style abuse. Plus a thoroughly cartoony fellow that CanadianBoy and I talked to until almost 4 am. And then home and bed and up for work.

It is getting difficult to maintain this level of activity -- I did not have my usual weekend down-time, and am probably due for a crash any moment now. I am experimenting, however -- perhaps a kind of social "second wind" is coming my way. If it does not, I may have to invest in a stick, with which to beat off my various suitors. Um...perhaps that was not the most appropriate phrasing I could have chosen. Sorry..

And besides all of that, today is my two year anniversary in New York. Holy jumping Jesus in a sidecar.

My lovely curly blonded hair. Is gone.

Last night I lopped it off in the midst of an odd impromptu hair-buzzing party. It started with ColoradoBoy, who I met for dinner. When I saw him walking down the street, I made a startling discovery: ColoradoBoy is pear-shaped, in the sense that he is very thin from the ribcage up, and has a beautiful thin face and lovely sideburns (well, I suppose sideburns have nothing to do with pear-shapedness, but I figure a little description never killed anyone), but then directly below his ribcage he turns distinctly rounded -- it looks rather like two people have been cut in half and then joined at the middle.

Anyhow. We had a lovely time at dinner, and then went to cash my paycheck so we could get a drink. Yes, yes, a paycheck that arrived (gasp) on time and (gasp) with the proper amount on it and (gasp) I did not have to pick any locks to get to it. Then he suggested we pretend to be ghetto, something I am always excited to do, and we each bought a Colt 45 and drank them from brown paper sacks as we walked down the street. I would like to note here my discovery that Colt 45 should not be drunk from brown paper bags, or indeed, from anything at all. The aftertaste is still making me shudder.

At the bar we had a few drinks to wash the taste of the Colt away. And then ColoradoBoy brought up the topic of buzzing his hair. I, of course, was all for it, because I would get to be the one who did the buzzing, and there are few things as fun as chopping off someone's hair. So after a little debate, and a strange conversation with a few German Hispanic boys, off we went. And off his hair went -- and his head/face went from being Hot to being HHHot, which was nice.

So naturally we go back to the bar to show off his new 'do. And everyone loved it and agreed with me that keeping his sideburns intact was a good plan. And then after a few more drinks, he goes home and I go home, and then it suddenly sounds like a good idea to divest myself of my excess hair. So I bust out the clippers again and kissed my lovely golden locks adieu. And then I got to do the same to Sea, leaving one punkrock shock of hair long in the front and buzzing everything else, and he looks major badass. I do adore dramatic changes.

My penchant for dramatic change aside, I have not yet gotten used to the new shape of my head and I kind of almost want to cry when I look in a mirror, but then there is always a period of adjustment, and the last time I did this I thought it looked great, so I just need to wait for the new reality to set in and I can go back to unashamedly admiring my reflection.

Besides all that, a tiny part of me is worried that I have just shot myself in the foot -- I had almost convinced myself that my recent spate of good luck with boys has been a direct result of my magical new hair goo. Like Samson, my mystical newfound sexy, sexy strength may have just been shaved away. Perhaps I no longer have the power to keep all those plates spinning! Look out below!

Or, perhaps, the hair goo had nothing to do with it and I have sexy, sexy strength on my own, but honestly, what are the chances of THAT being true?

I hardly know what to do with myself when my idea of being "responsible" involves making sure I am asleep by 2 am, to ensure I will be rested enough to stay out until 4 am the next night.

Tonight promises adventure. The Shiv and I venture forth to a Nerve party. Yes, that Nerve. Thoughtful hedonism. Literate smut. All those wonderful things that make my day just a little bit brighter.

I have a change of clothes in my satchel. I have glitter to spread liberally upon the girl. I have cologne to spray gently upon myself. I have unrealistically high expectations to focus on. But really -- anyone who reads a website that features articles detailing the "Naughty Bits" of Dante is at least a little bit O.K. in my book. So despite worries that the person the personals gurus are pre-matching me with (yes, all attendees get paired up with someone, so at least there is one person there for whom there is a perfect ice-breaker) will be a cross between Chim-Chim and the Elephant Man, chances are fair that he will at least be able to hold a decent conversation.

In other news, I am feeling much more pleasant re: my new hair. A shower and a shave after work yesterday greatly restored my optimism regarding my own personal cuteness. I just have to adjust to the fact that I have a slightly different look now -- instead of the bleachyboy-with-stubble-and-much-shellac-in-his-hair look, I have the tough-vaguely-military-cleancut-with-big-blue-eyes look.

I can hardly believe that I spend my time thinking of things like that.

Also, being as busy as I have been lately, I have been falling behind in one of my favorite pastimes, namely, reading all of my lovely favorite diaries. Thanks, however, to the "cacher" and "before" and "tisket" and "previous" buttons at my disposal, I have been attempting to catch up. I did discover, through my reading and through a note, that Alterna-Me chopped his blondiness off too. Why are our hairstyles psychically linked?

I have so many snippets of story to share, I hardly even know where to begin. I'm not feeling the literal-consecutive-order-from-the-beginning vibe, and as the events of what I like to call "Fucking Insane Last Night (FILN)" might not make much sense without this telling-things-in-order thing, I might be in trouble. Alas -- I shall do my best with the glittering-scenes-caught-on-film-and-displayed-in-no-particular-order vibe. My apologies if it does not work.

We can start with how happy I am that I chopped off my hair. Had I not, the torrential downpour during the mad dash from theatre to afterparty would have given me that not-so-chic "hair gel gluing my eyes shut" look. And nobody wants that. As it was, I still had a touch of my "wicked shimmer" pomade running down my face, but it was a tolerable nuisance.

The Shiv and I often do not have the same taste in boys. But sometimes (my heavens) we do. I do not think there is a number large enough to describe how many times she and I both whipped our heads around in unison to look at a prettyboy.

My shirt was apparently made out of the same sort of stuff that sails are made out of. I discovered this when it was soaking wet and I felt like I was wearing a sail.

I really wanted to work my new tough-guy angle. I tried to look big and sneery for a few minutes, but then the thrice-damned DJ put on Madonna and my ridiculous, undeniable gay genes kicked in. I tried to not dance. I really did. It was that scene from "In and Out," except in real life and it kind of terrified me. A little wiggle. I shake my head, stomp my foot angrily, crease my eyebrows, and determine I shall look menacing. I tap my foot. I realize I am tapping my foot. I stop tapping, but then notice my head is bobbing. I frown and tell Shiv that I shall not dance. Not even to Madonna. Even though it hurts. She says okay, and then I instantly break into a full boogie (despite my previously stated intention of NOT FUCKING DANCING) while my mind screams silently from the prison of my traitorous homo motor cortex.

Five minutes into the party Shiv had already thrown her mack and struck some sideburned fellow full in the face with it. I do not think he was terribly interesting, as he could not seem to come up with much to say despite clearly herculean effort on his part, but just as clearly thought she was dreadfully pretty (which she damn well was. Is. Right.).

At one point, I actually uttered the phrase "dick blister." I had to mention that, but let it never, ever be spoken of again.

I do not start conversations. I will lean back and wait for someone to start talking to me. This probably goes a long way to explaining why I usually have such long stretches between dates. I came to the realization, however, that a) I will likely never see any of those people again, and b) tough guys walk up and hit on anyone they want to because they can. So I picked out my target, stalked over in my steel-toe boots, and without remorse or regret, I cruelly, ruthlessly, heartlessly told him that he had a really great smile. I got my flirt on with no mercy.

Canadian geneticists who affect Irish accents are interesting. We may have more guests for brunch.

I should mention at this point that my stated goal for the evening, the depth of debauchery I sought, was to kiss a straight boy. A hot one.

Did I mention that the fellow who had the great smile I mentioned above was a hot, ostensibly straight boy?

I think the story would be much much better if I could now relate how we made out in a shadowy corner. Sadly, all I can say is that despite his declaration that he was "looking for titties," he did flirt back rather well, and asked me to continue talking to him on the way to the bathroom and then held open the door so that we could continue talking inside. And no dirty-bird thoughts assuming I so much as peeked while we were in there. Shortly thereafter he went back to talking to a girl who, presumably, had "titties."

One wonders how the evening would have turned out had I peeked.

I am constantly saving the Shiv from old men. This usually involves me sweeping in with drinks in hand, pretending to be her boyfriend who was just away for a moment at the bar.

Three different people asked me some variation of the question, "You're gay, right? If you don't mind my asking?" Sigh.

So apparently these old men think that the Shiv just has a confused boyfriend.

Sigh. SmileBoy was really pretty.

I ended up getting a silly awkward millisecond-long I'm-not-really-kissing-a-guy-because-it's-for-a-laugh kiss from the Canadian geneticist. Not quite what I was looking for, but I can safely say that I accomplished my goal of the evening.

I think the key here is to pretend that every club I go to from now on is a Nerve party. There is sort of an assumption among Nervey folks that everyone else at the party is going to be okay with being flirted with. I have a theory that the same holds true with people at other places. We shall see how the theory hold up in practice.

Recent Funny Things:

A man just walked by my cubicle. Coral jacket, tan pants, green vertically-striped oxford shirt, and blue-and-yellow-horizontally-striped knit tie. I even think he was not dressing up for Halloween, although I cannot be sure. Apparently, according to overheard gossip after he left, he is a major head decision-making kind of guy. I wish he would make the decision to get a personal shopper. Or at least get someone else to pick out what he wears in the morning.

On Friday, my job at work was re-designing this website's table format. Apparently some big decision-maker (hmm, I wonder if it was the same guy as above, and if so, why we should be doing what he says in any matter of design) decided he did not like the "stripey" look -- apparently alternating lines of grey for financial data tables are too dull even for a financial institution. Who knew? So I redesign things, make it a little more spacious, use a tasteful dotted line to separate rows. And I show my supervisor. And for some reason, I discover the following line coming from my mouth: "These tables are so light and airy, they will float right off the screen to rock your face." It took me all weekend to realize I actually said out loud. I mean, in the privacy of my own whacked-out skull, sure...but yikes. I think it may have been the funniest thing I have ever said in my entire life.

Recent Exciting Things:

Rumour has it I may be receiving an iPod for my upcoming birthday. If true, it will be cause for monumental rejoicing.

Brunch saw the arrival of an old roommate who somehow has been living in New York for almost a year without my knowledge. He is twenty two. And BOUGHT an apartment. And is renovating it himself. With his Master's in Architecture from Columbia. Apparently nobody told him that twenty-two year olds, new to the city, are contractually obligated to rent tiny apartments and dream for years of putting in new tile to replace the avocado-green disaster that is their bathroom. Twenty-fucking-two. Sigh.

The Canadian who came to brunch has apparently been rejected by The Shiv, which I find exciting because brunchtime conversation included a bit about how he actually prefers the look-and-feel of the Windows interface over that of the Macintosh. This opinion is so very laughable, and shines so poorly upon those who hold it, I do not mind in the slightest that he has been banned from our table in future.

Civilization III. Yes. Sea and I have been playing it in 6-hour shifts.

This week also promises a few more outings with the two boy-plates I have been spinning. I find that dreadfully exciting.

And finally, a little note of exultation just for me (and possibly for those few people who admit to playing D&D): This weekend contained my favorite bit of gaming of all time. Wherein we got all "meta," and were spoken to in real-life as if our real-life selves actually were facets of these world-saving heroes, and were told that we would be transported back to the "magical" versions of ourselves as soon as we walked out the apartment door. And (with apologies to Lerner and Loewe) for one brief shining moment -- I thought I could really do it. Really and truly the doubt and science and realism melted away and I felt that surge of excitement and power churn up and I thought it could actually happen. Thanks, Bear. I always did like moments of wonder.

Today is a Listening-To-Cher kind of day.

I am feeling extraordinarily productive. I am finally doing all kinds of paperwork that is months and months overdue (you know, things like setting up a payment plan for my defaulted student loan). A big boss came by and asked me to work on a section of the website, and when I didn't know right away which section he meant, my intermediate supervisor leapt to my defense, explaining that I am working on eight different projects at once. (This intermediate supervisor is the same one I warned about the face-rocking web pages on Friday.) I woke up a few minutes early, all on my own, and made it to my office early today, much to the shock of everyone around me. Today is the kind of day that makes me feel like flying.

I wanted a bagel with lots of cream cheese yesterday. The deli from which I buy these things was closed at the precise moment I wanted to buy something from it, leaving me to get a sad, squashed Nutrigrain bar from our vending machine. Nutrigrain bars suck in that they are completely devoid of cream cheese. Happily, I made up for it by eating a bagel with lots of cream cheese today. (See?? That's ANOTHER thing I have acocmplished!)

Watch out, world! I am not lazy today!!

I recently cashed in a big heavy bag of spare change in order to get a small amount of light, papery things that will buy me food. I ran my money through a machine that sorts it for me (and takes a percentage, of course) because I will be damned if I am going to spend my Saturday afternoon rolling coins into those silly cardboard sleeves. The leftover coins kept popping out of the reject slot, and to my amazement, I had somehow amassed a fair collection of foreign money. I have been keeping it in my satchel ever since. My logic runs like this: if someday I happen to get abducted by someone (or something) and then the someone (or something) drops me off somewhere far, far from home, my collection of outlandish money just might save my life. I have enough on my person to buy a Snickers bar in Canada, France, England, the Cayman Islands. Alternately, I have enough to buy a life-sustaining gumball in the Netherlands or Poland. If I were feeling particularly resourceful, I might even be able to sell a few coins to a shop, as I have a 1917 British penny, with Ye Olde King George V on it. A similar coin is currently selling for twelve dollars on eBay.

My satchel also contains a pen (useful), my passport (useful), my checkbook (worthless), a book (absolutely necessary), a cherry flavored Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop™ (tasty), and a collection of necessary beauty products such as cologne, Carmex, eye drops, a tin of pomade, and an emergency tube of glitter. The fact that I am carrying an emergency tube of glitter just might make me the queerest boy in the known universe, but hey -- what if I am abducted by someone (or something) that is as enthralled by shiny things as I am? (And I am really enthralled by shiny things.) I just might be able to use those sparkly silver motes to help effect a desperate escape.

I just went into my satchel to see if I had any American money with which I could buy a Twix bar. For some reason, all three quarters were huddled together in one narrow crease, keeping themselves (and several defenseless dimes and nickels) safe from the encroaching foreign currency, the elitist bastards. They seem to have left the pennies to fend for themselves. I did not know that the quarter hated the penny so much. Or maybe the penny is just a lot braver.

Rather than dwell on the fact that I just was informed that my job will only last another week or two and not until September or October as previously informed, I will dwell instead on these:

I was hungry. But then I made some Cajun rice and it is good and I added a dash of Angostura bitters which really is an absolutely AMAZING seasoning even if nobody but me uses it in food.

I have a new e-mail friend who rocks the proverbial Casbah.

StyleGirl keeps throwing vodka/cranberries at me. Well, not THROWING, really. More like gently handing.

I just finished a fucking great book (Lamb, by Christopher Moore) which was the Gospel of Biff, Christ's childhood pal. Fucking beautiful, and it helped wash the awful taste of Anne Rice's The Witching Hour from my mind.

StyleGirl did dishes and told me I could not soak the pot I'd just made my rice in, as it would disturb the water-to-soap-against-dirt ratio in the soaking mugs she had going.

I have some Vengaboys to listen to.

Saturday I'm going to see Into The Woods. Watch me breathe in the Sondheim. Go on, watch me.

The Bear has finally started entering things. 'Bout damned time, and he's damned funny.

I get a paycheck tomorrow.

Those are good things to dwell on. Good things. Good things. Good things. Good things. Om.

Oh, oh, oh Totoro! The cutest movie ever made in the history of the universe. See it. Find it. No matter what else you ever do, GO SEE "My Neighbor Totoro" NOW!!! Aieeeee, it's so cute!

And I made guacamole that rules. Bear and Shiv and Art and Sea and FormerRoommate all watched the movie.

Moreover, here is a recipe that is amazing:

Francheezie:
Take a hot dog, split it open, fill it with American cheese, close it up, wrap it in bacon, and fry it. And then put it in a bun and eat it.

Today at work I did about 4 days worth of work in five hours. I rocked, I rolled, I listened to the Vengaboys.

Tomorrow I have to wake up early to wait for the cable guy again. My stupid brain makes me wonder if the cable guy is going to be hot. Once a really hot plumber came over. It did not turn into a movie suitable for direct-to-video release, but maybe the cable guy will be different. One must be prepared for these things.

Oh, lovely lovely Saturday!

I am typing this in the dark as there is SOMEONE snoring rather loudly in my bed right now, and I would not want to disturb him. I just got home from a simply divine night out with the Shiv, and felt I had to trancribe events while still fresh in the brain. Please excuse any dark-induced typos, which shall surely be remedied soon anyway, as I am a typo-exorcising freak.

Into The Woods. Not divine, not divoon. This easily enters the realm of divoonimus. One of my favorite ever shows to begin with, and a lovely restaging and retooling on top of that, and I am good to go. Vanessa Williams as the Witch left a little something to be desired in Act I, but redeemed herself in Act II, particularly during "Last Midnight." Mmph. So good!

And then dinner at Carmine's, where Roos' mom created the night's signature quote: Friends don't let friends drink White Zinfandel. Plus mind-numbing pesto amd frozen Cosmos. How can one go wrong?

A few stops at neighborhood hangouts later, The Shiv and I find ourselves talking to a friend of mine who happens to work at Island Records. "Give him my demo CD!" she cries while he is away. I hold the CD, and not wanting to seem totally obvious, I fawn over the CD and show it to IslandRecordsBoy, saying, "Oh look! I haven't seen Shiv's new CD with these flashy labels and such! How cool!" (I already have a copy of my own with flashly labels.) So he expresses interest, I press the CD upon him, and a record guy has her demo.

Color me pleased with my impromptu deception.

New slang phrase: "I'm totally feeling you on the [insert topic here] tip.

Usage: You: "Hey! Do you want some Chinese food?" Me: "Yeah, I'm totally feeling you on the Chinese tip."

Alternately: Me: "Hey, you feeling me on the take-out Chinese tip?" You: "Why yes, I would love to get take-out Chinese for dinner this evening."

Apparently the lingo-sponge that masquerades as my brain picked this up from Finn without telling me. I have since spread it, virus-like, to the Shiv (see item 3).

This weekend I became the best shopper ever. I base this claim on the fact that I just picked up 4 tumblers and a decanter, all Wedgwood crystal, and a wooden-with-brass-railings serving tray, for sixty dollars. I reiterate: My deal-finding acumen is not to be denied.

My brunching friends and I (you know the crowd by now) have decided to buy a corner brownstone, refurbish it, live in it, make it utterly fab, and rent out apartments to other lovely people. Some of the apartments have big round rooms and I desperately want a round room. I have visions of sanding and refinishing floors dancing in my head. Anyone have a few million dollars they feel like throwing our way?

I am the last person left in the office. I even got here early this morning. I am a temp, and the only person left doing work. Something about that just feels cosmically wrong.

What feels cosmically right about the situation, however, is the extra money that I will get from the situation. Especially given the I-will-not-be-working-here-after-next-week thing.

So, of course, I am doing what I do not normally get to do in the office -- namely, turning up my headphones as far as my much-abused eardrums can stand, as I do not have to listen for someone to call my name and assign me a new project.

Good god, I am the worst rebel in the history of the world if my idea of acting up once the boss has left is to turn up my headphones.

I would like to take this moment to make a few notes:

1) Content Management Systems (specifically, CVS,) can suck my ass. I hate them.

2) I am completely and utterly enamored with the idea of new people moving to New York. You all know who you are.

3) I agree with Sea that our game rocks.

I am not entirely sure, but I think I was a participant in a Girl's Night last night. A few tubs of Ben and Jerry's, an adorable movie, and everyone passing around the nail buffer. My fingernails are really quite impressively shiny today.

Afterwards I was called by Colorado Boy, asking for a drinking partner for the evening. I had not planned to go out again, but it was hot and I was sweaty, so air conditioning sounded like a remarkable idea. He and I stayed far too late, talking to Edible Eddie (the barfolk named him, not I) and listening to Dolly Parton. I really like this new trend of having gayboy friends -- it's a completely new development in my life. I have always had a stable of straight boys and a slew of girls (a share of which are, of course, homogirls) and I love them all to death, but just plain ol' gossipy going-out-drinking hanging-out-with-on-Sunday no-stress gay boys are greatly appreciated. The whole shared-experience concept is key -- it has something to do with being able to discuss, say, Ryan Phillipe's pert little bottom without feeling all token-queer-on-display. (Bring him up in a gay bar if you ever want strangers to join your conversation. I mean, Ryan Phillipe's assets are just the kind of topic that gay boys everywhere can really get behind.)

So I stayed out too late and had to wake up poor, wonderful StyleGirl because I had gone out in such a rush I left my keys at home. And today I feel vaguely dipped in molasses -- every movement I make seems delicious and slow and deliberate, in the sense that would be better suited for a steamy veranda and possibly a mint julep but more likely a glass of whiskey. If only I could be a professional raconteur...

I cannot read the screen very well right now, so I will keep this brief.

Last night I had the exciting experience of wandering the streets in the dark, with no contacts, wearing sunglasses. New York can be more than a little bit intimidating when one is walking through it and cannot see it. Apparently there is some sort of cut on my EYEBALL that is preventing it from doing those things eyeballs are normally expected to do; namely seeing, being white, and not fucking feeling like it is going to explode. Three hours in the emergency room yielded some doctor-induced hardcore pain meds that seemed to do nothing but make the skin around my eye go numb, a few prescriptions for eyeball-Vaseline (every FOUR HOURS for the next TEN FUCKING DAYS) and a few days worth of anti-pain drops.

But of course, being the rockstar that I am, I went out with the girls to Manhattan and proceeded to get hammered. In my sunglasses. In the bar. In the dark.

"...You are blind as a bat and I HAVE SIGHT!"

Yes, folks. You heard it here first, Fulminous has once again entered the realm of the visually-oriented. Pewter, slightly sparkly, rectangular frames now adorn my happy happy face. No longer will I have to recognize my subway stop by the color of tile on the walls. No longer will I have to sit a foot from the TV and squint, just to watch Six Feet Under with my roommates. No longer will I have to wonder if the boy in the kicky tank top I just passed was cute or not. I can SEEEEEE! I once again have crispy hair and I am not squonching up my entire face every twenty seconds -- all is right with the world.

My weekend was a cornucopia of events that seeing would have made a lot more fun. I went outlet-mall shopping, first of all -- and trying to find a pair of pants in my size, locating them on an overflowing rack by touch alone, was certainly a challenge. I ended up buying a shirt with a plaid pattern that makes me look vaguely like a hip farmerboy (in keeping with my new clean-cut tough-boy image), and I am pleased to report that I like it as much now that I can see it as I did when I had to guess.

In other news, prepare yourselves for a Special Crossover Event in slightly less than two weeks' time. I never get out-of-town visitors, and to receive one of this caliber is well nigh unprecedented.

I am sure that any fellow office-monkeys can sympathize: one has more than one supervisor, each with conflicting orders. Usually I manage to tread some safe-ish middle path, juggling my time so as to look like I am working on both people's pet projects simultaneously, like the multi-tasking virtuoso that I am. I have recently discovered a new permutation: One supervisor, the boss I really like, has told me that my assignment here will end at the end of the week. The other supervisor, the boss I secretly refer to as Monumental Assface, has told my placement agency that I will be staying another two weeks to work for him.

There is not really a middle ground between "Come in to work" and "Do not come in to work."

And as near as I can tell, given the way office politics work, and how they seem of utmost importance to the people playing them, is that the boss I like is the correct one. Which really I cannot complain about too much -- I do not know if two weeks of working for Monumental Assface would even be worth the trouble. Of course, ask me again in two weeks when I have no income, and I may be singing a different tune. One that goes "La la la, I wish I were working for Monumental Assface, la la la, Because I have no money, la la la, (key change) la la la, I have no food either, la la la, and I will soon starve to death, la la la LA LAAA."

In other news, my obsession with The Vengaboys continues unabated. The Shiv introduced us a few weeks back, and I cannot force myself to remove them from my CD player. Someday, I too will be Going To Ibiza. I have no idea how they managed to elude me for quite so long. All the same, it is far beyond time to have a new CD to shuffle into the mix and then start obsessing over. Ahhh, new CD -- wherever will I find you?

I also cannot stop looking at things. As in, I stop what I am doing and marvel at the fact that I am looking at a single, discrete line, rather than a vaguely line-colored blur. I feel like I am an alien in some very touching movie, where I cannot get enough of you humans -- I would have lines like "Such indescribable beauty, and yet such cruelty at the same time. You humans are a marvel of contradictions," or something of that ilk -- and I spend all my free time looking at simple household objects with a charming quizzical expression.

P.S. Harry and David's Chocolate-Creme-Brulee-flavored coffee takes me to an entirely new world of caffeinated joy.

I just want to be sure you know:

I detest when people use speakerphone for the sole reasons that a) they are too lazy to pick up the receiver, or b) they just think speakerphones are a pretty neat idea. If one has a legitimate excuse, such as a) a call involving more than two people, or b) no arms, I can see it. But using it just to use it? Never.

Particularly anoying is when someone uses their speakerphone to call someone quite literally three cubicles away, so everyone (namely, me) is subjected to not one voice, not two voices, but three voices coming at them -- two conversationalists and one speakerphone echoing everything a split second after I heard it the first time.

Three cubicles away. I mean, honestly.

I am currently reading "The Perfect Heresy," by Stephen O'Shea. A lovely popularized history of the Cathars of Languedoc (read: southern France) circa 13th century. They held all sorts of evil views, mainly centering around the natural equality of men and women, living lives of simple asceticism, pacifism, and the like. Radical firebrands, really -- it is no wonder the Catholic Church felt they had to be completely and utterly eradicated, the nasty heretics.

It makes me realize just how strong is my natural predilection to cheer for the underdog. At every turn, even though I am perfectly well aware that the Catholic Church wins in the end and goes on to have a little tea party called the Inquisition, I keep crossing my fingers and hoping that the Cathars and their friends manage to get a few good hits in against the crusaders. If I am watching some kind of sporty thing (a rare event, I grant you) I almost invariably want the team who is behind when I start watching to rally and come out on top. There is just something about the struggle against overwhelming odds that really plucks at the ol' heartstrings.

I think a big part is that I mentally cast myself as the protagonist. It is very easy to feel like the underdog in New York -- well, anywhere, really -- given the banal details of moneyjobfoodrentbillssafety and the ease with which one can feel beaten down by everyday living. Since I want to conquer overwhelming odds stacked against me, the odds that say the mark I leave on the world will be vanishingly small (and by all the gods I damn well will win), it is pretty simple to see why I identify with my brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, the Cathars.

In completely unrelated news, I have just learned that the fire alarm in my building (which is currently being tested by the FDNY) may very well be the most genteel, urbane fire alarm I have ever heard. No nasty loud overbearing "BAAAAZZZZZZZZZZZZ" here -- it is more a little "boong boong boong." Rather like a polite cough, actually.

Normally my subway ride home takes somewhere between half an hour and forty-five minutes, depending on how zippy the conductor feels that afternoon and how many people try to squeeze through the doors after they have started closing. Yesterday, my commute took a full hour and a half. Apparently one line (the A/C/E, for those in-the-know) had problems so it was rerouted onto my line (the F, again, for those in-the-know). Naturally, this slowed down everybody, but it also had the unexpected benefit of ushering into my life the worst conductor in the history of conducting, who reminded me sharply of a certain librarian.

A sample: "Gemmun. Ladies n Gemmun. Due to line. 8th Avenue line. Due to 8th Avenue line 6th...Due. Due to 8th Avenue at Canal line problems, we are congesting delayed due to rout rerout onto the 6th Avenue F. We will shortly. Moving. Gemmun. Thank you Ladies. Gemmun."

This same speech was repeated at least twice between each station and twice at each station, always with some new permutation and combination of the salient points, and more people grumbling and complaining in Deep Brooklyn accents. "He must be some kind of IDIOT. I mean, he must be some kind of MORON," wherein the Os in MORON somehow sound rounder than Os anywhere else.

This got even better after we had finally gotten moving and someone hit the Emergency Brake: "Lay n Gemmun. A brake this train. Due to a brake this train on. Train is, due to a emergency brake somewhere on this train. Crew is investuminvestumigating. We will moving. Please be patient, Gemmun. Er, Layees n Gemmun."

We got to hear that one at least five times, as the train stood there, leaning at rather a rakish tilt. I felt like Timmy trying to find out who fell in the well.

P.S. Just as I finished writing the previous entry, I received the following e-mail in my corporate inbox:
"Good Morning Everyone,

I was just informed by the Building Manager that the 1290 building will be conducting their fire drill today before noon. This fire drill will entail having all employees evacuate the building facility.

Please do not alarm yourselves from the gathering of individuals that will evolve from this drill during this time."

Thank goodness. If I had not read that, I may have said something like this: "Oh dear! A gathering of individuals is evolving and evacuating! This will entail having me alarming myself!"

(blink blink) 'Nuff said.

I am feeling prolific today, so I will share with you this heartwarming story.

WARNING: The following story contains references to a penis.

So I woke up this morning to three alarms going off in tandem. Mine, StyleGirl's, and See's. We all got ready together and walked and got coffee before our respective commutes. It fucking ROCKED and I think we should make a habit of it.

The monkeywrench in this new morning routine concerns my underwear. I started to get out of bed but suddenly realized that I was no longer wearing my underwear. I had gone to bed wearing it, but it had apparently disappeared. And I had that perennial boy's problem concerning waking up -- and I did not really want to introduce my roommates to my morning hard-on. [Ed: See, there is the penis reference about which you were warned.] So I crouch along wrapped in my comforter to turn off my alarm and leap back onto my bed, looking around for my underwear. It is NO. WHERE. Not in gap between bed and wall, not on pile of clothes, not wrapped up in comforter. And the morning problem is not going away because I keep thinking about it, and it certainly was not like anything could be done about it, what with roommates waking up and checking their email on my computer which is right across from my bed. So I am stuck there. Which I would not mind, except I do not get paid for being in my bed. I mean, I'm sure SOME people get paid for being in bed (not MY bed, just A bed somewhere), and while I would rate my own prowess in that arena next to any of 'em, *I* don't get paid for it. And so I am annoyed and frustrated and vaguely embarrassed so I flop over with a huff of annoyance and suddenly discover that my underwear are, in fact, underneath my pillow.

I have no idea how they got from their usual resting place (that of girding my loins) to their new home (that refuge of tooth fairies everywhere). It was mystifying. And then I had to try to put them on surreptitiously under the covers so my roommates would not see me being all nakey, because we are just not like that.

Then I sat up and put on some pants and all was, once again, right with the world.

I cannot believe I just actually used the word "loins" in a sentence.

This may very well be the best song ever written in the history of the universe.

Isn't it nice

Sugar and spice

Luring disco dollies to a life of vice

I could make a film and make you my star

You'd be a natural the way you are

I would like you on a long black leash

I would parade you down the high street

You've got the attraction

You've got the pulling power

Walk my little doggy

Walk my little sex dwarf

We could make a scene

We'd be a team making the headlines

Sounds like a dream

When we hit the floor you just watch them move aside

We will take them for a ride of rides

They all love your miniature ways

You know what they said about small boys

Sex dwarf

I'm in my Jaguar

Look it's so huge

It's big and it's gold with my dumb chauffeur

Looking to procure

Run a little doggy

Lure disco dollies

Run my little sex dwarf

I feel so lonely

Get my little camera

Take a pretty picture

Isn't it nice

Sugar and spice

Luring disco dolies to a life of vice

Sex dwarf

Isn't it nice

Luring disco dollies to a life of vice

Sex dwarf

We could make an outfit for my little sex dwarf

To match the gold Rolls and my dumb chauffeur

We'll knock 'em cold

Knocking 'em cold in black and gold

We can have playtime in my little playroom

Disco dollies

My sex dwarf

And my dumb chauffeur

I would like you on a long black leash

You can bring me all the things I need

Sex dwarf

Isn't it nice

Luring disco dollies to a life of vice

Sex dwarf

Apparently I was attacked last night -- something calling itself the "Frantic Bundle Of Fun" lodged inside my head and refused to let go. The aftermath has left me vaguely bleary-eyed and slow on my last day of work.

The attack occurred at some point yesterday afternoon -- I started feeling the willies and the wig-outs, a few loopy-loos, and a slight onset of the crazies. Ask The Shiv. Then I get home, decide that because I live in a blast furnace, flannel sheets are no longer appropriate, and go haring off into the night in search of nice light sheets and possibly some socks as EVERY SINGLE SOCK I OWN has holes in it.

My search was successful (bless you, Century 21), I ran around like a madman in the torrential downpour that opened up as I left the store, plus I bought a delicious red satiny t-shirty button-uppy kind of thing, which I promptly wore to meet the aforementioned Shiv and Company. Much laughing and wackiness ensues, including me making sexyfaces at Wang and being pouted at.

A short while later I am at my neighborhood watering hole, and -- well, somehow I ended up trading clothes at the bar with one of those I-go-to-the-gym-FIVE-TIMES-a-week guys. I traded clothes. Stripped down, may I repeat, AT THE BAR.

I have discovered that I really dislike when someone else looks better in my brand new shirt than I do. 'Course, he looked awfully nice while not in my shirt, too. Trading back seemed kind of anticlimactic, but it had to be done, no matter HOW he looked in my clothes.

I feel like such a mental case for being sad about leaving this job. All day it has been, "Oh, this is the last time I start up WebLogic!" "Oh, this is the last time I go to the Bread Market Cafe for my sandwich." "Oh, this might be my last iced coffee I make here." Awww, and as I was typing this my cool boss just passed out ice cream bars.

To divert my attention from that, I will offer here a few random tidbits concerning me, seeing as how this is a diary about...well, me.

Favorite quote of recent days: "If there was a magazine or a TV show called 'EXTREME COPYEDITORS,' I would be on it." --See

Amount of sexy I look in my new shirt: Ninety-kajillion.

Am I absurdly narcissistic: Apparently.

Do I love dwarfs and people who love dwarfs: Hell yes.

How sure I am that I should use "dwarfs" instead of "dwarves": Not very.

Most shocking thing I have heard in ages: My mother telling me, "It's liberals like you who..."

Superpowers I want (in order of preference): Teleportation or maybe flying, time travel, and invisibility. Except maybe most of all I want my own personal sound track.

Song that is constantly, always and forever running through my head and has done so for years: The cat's theme from Prokofiev's "Peter and the Wolf."

What I hate most: Waiting.

What was I voted to be in high school: Most Likely To Be Arrested By His Father.

Sea just gave me a two minute backrub that left me in tears. Like, the good kind of tears. Like, the "every-bit-of-me-is-giggling" tears. It was an event that requires immortalization in the pages of my diary.

The way to a Leo's heart is totally through his shoulders. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to drape myself languorously on the Klaus.