September 2003 Archives
September 28, 2003
If you type the wrong thing into your web broswer, Verisign has decided to be your benefactor and suggest alternatives. So nice of them, don't you think?
How long until these alternatives are for sale? Are they already?
And it's not perfect because of taste or smell.
The temperature is perfect.
When I raise the spoon to my mouth, the soup steam fogs up my glasses. When I swallow the soup, it warms my throat. And hot enough, that I've broken out into a mild sweat.
I think I'm over my cold - but I have a cough. That's progress, as far as I'm concerned.
This is the only enjoyable thing about getting sick - is getting better.
September 27, 2003
I remember being little and hearing, “Feed a cold…starve a fever…”
I also remember my mother telling me that you can sweat out a cold. At this moment, I am sitting in my messy room wearing as much clothing as is humanly possible to wear. I refuse to get sick. Rather, I refuse to get sicker.
On the plus side...fevers are slimming...
I respond to illness in two distinct ways. I embrace the illness – very Camille – very dramatic – very I - am - too - weary - to -come - to - the - phone …* * hacking cough * *….. if - I - do - not-awaken - from - my - slumber - it’s been - fun …* *sneeze* *…..speak - fondly - of - me ….or, conversely, I will run around at hyper speed, doing MORE than I normally would, resisting the thought, the notion, that some stupid virus has decided to attack my immune system.
Once, in college – I had an abscess in my throat. It was this infected mass, that the doctor said he would lance if it didn’t heal over the weekend. Well, do you think that stopped me from going to an amazing after party? No!!!!! Decked out in my best disco glam, I walked into this freezing warehouse and went straight to the bar (this was when they still had bars at after parties…pre-energy bars….pre-Rave...and when a Saturday night without drinking was unimaginable). In fact, by drinking straight vodka – the abscess vanished, and although extremely hung over, that irritating infection was gone. I’m not planning on hitting the bottle tonight, but I didn’t sit at home, either.
Tonight I went to a swell art opening and to a Drag Queen Bowling event. Both were very fun, since I was souped-up on Dayquil and the Chinese herbs that my sister, the acupuncturist, sends me. Now I am home, considering my recovery strategy. I have hot tea, and I just drank this Echinacea/Goldenseal herbal mix and took some more Chinese herbs…. I love Chinese herbs. You get to take 5-7 pills three times a day. Very sparkle, Neely, sparkle – but instead of being quaaludes, it’s some forsythia bush/peony seed natural combo.
I am off to bed, convinced I will be better in the morning.
recently gave this book to two friends. One,
I've know for 12 years, the
other, less than six months. Both are creating new lives, in a new home
and a new apartment, respectively.
Now, perhaps many would question, why in the world would you give someone a book on Zombie Survival Skills as a housewarming gift?
I would say, "Why not?"
It is nearing Halloween, if you've ever been to a gay.com chat room or the Complex (I'm not putting hyperlinks here - you do the work!), you've definitely encountered a Zombie.
And finally, Thriller was an important moment in my life....and nostalgia is a lovely thing. Zombies may be the Living Dead, but they certainly can cut up a rug....
September 26, 2003
September 23, 2003
ENFP - "Journalist".
So... I took these tests.
And I think I'll take them again in a week or so. Funny thing about these tests is to what degree does one answer truthfully, and to what degree does one endeavor to pick the answer that would make himself (or herself), and others happier when reading the results?
September 17, 2003
Strangers sitting in empty room in that bus station again. I’ve been to a place like this before. Like the Arcade in Nashville – like the interior spaces at the Farmers Markets here in St. Louis. But somehow different. Lots more yellow, or sunshine…..but the color is different, somehow….faded like the faded colors of movie flashbacks.
A scary house with enamel cast furniture in England. American-something-or-other style furnishings, very rare – and a long haired lady or man – in long johns walking up the stairs from the basement – making a scary face – his/her hair wet seemingly out of place amidst all the antiques. I think it’s a ghost. This place is haunted and someone will die. A chair’s seat is cast metal hands, a verdigris set of out-stretched palms. Sit here. The fingers will curl around you and hold you down.
An Indian doctor who tells me that it’s all in my head. I can make things better with reflection and thought and he walks through a door that had a big padlock keeping it shut. The door remains unlocked and I walk into a room, a house….a space that I haven’t been in before. Synthesizer against a corner, navy blue sheets on the bed, turquoise shades and sunshine streams through the windows. I look around for a bathroom, but I change my mind.
IMs on laptops. Some sassy lady named Beverly is chatting with me. In her profile, she’s riding a horse and has an outfit that reminds me of an African Joan of Arc. Always read someone’s profile – you’ll find out more than you expected. She has a big pointy stick.
Spring/summer/fall/….lots of sunshine.
Cold in my dream…….and then the stupid cell phone rings…some burly-sounding fella looking for Charlene. Who the hell is Charlene?
I love remembering my dreams, though. Usually I don’t. Mr. Burly might
have done me a favor. I remembered a lot this morning.
September 16, 2003
I thought about writing last week. I thought about it a lot. I just couldn’t make myself do it. The words sat there, percolating….unformed…uncertain….A few happy thoughts and feelings, but a lot of unhappy ones, too. Sometimes I’m not even certain why I am even feeling what I’m feeling (on any number of subjects), and that makes communicating about those subjects, and frankly….everything….much more difficult.
I’ve just been chugging through life this past week, without really pondering the impact of my words or actions – stuck in an torpid stupor of physical inactivity and mental lethargy. Feeling some regret for some of my actions, and feeling stupid for not taking action when the moment was appropriate.
And now….when the urge to write strikes and I summon the strength to commit my words to paper…um…screen….I think about what purpose these posts/blogs really serve?
Are they just observations?
Or are they some sort of plea, some sort of explanation, some sort of rationalization for my life to anyone who may stumble across them?
I wish that everything I posted here was a charming story, some witty recap, some clever little observation. It’s probably much more fun for you to read. But sometimes….sometimes those stories, those recaps, those observations are just exercises in redirection, dear reader. God knows that I never put it ALL out there for ya.
Will you really get to know me better if I write about a failed expectation, an unhappy situation, a disappointing relationship, an argument, a confrontation, a bill collector calling?
Will I just seem much more interesting if all I write about is going out with friends to clever little night spots, about nights dancing to good music, about getting free dessert from a foxy little waitress and about how sassy I felt when some hunkarific fella admired my faux Burberry hat?
Maybe just putting it out there is enough.
At least for now.
September 6, 2003
I decided that such cute hair should not be wasted, so I went out. *sigh* I think the universe needed to teach me a lesson.
I went to the city's "best gay bar" and was subjected to the most horrible music. Ever. Ever and ever and ever and ever and ever, I have never heard such boring crap.
The sign to vacate the premises immediately was this God-Awful-Pop-Sounds-Like-Hell dance track. My stomach began to ache, I physically became ill because this one song was so dreadful. I turned to a friend and said, "...with this.... I am gone."
He replied, "Cannot handle Justin..."
Me: "Justin who?"
Him: "Justin Timberlake!!!! I thought you were making a joke..." or something along those lines.
I should have been flattered that he thought I was being catty.
And while I wish I were (flattered and catty), the truth is:
1. I have to admit to myself that I no longer have my finger on the pulse of pop culture.
2. I am happy, indeed overjoyed that I do not know any of Justin Timberlick's music.
3. Something is terribly wrong when the city's "best gay bar" plays Justin Timberlick.
Horribly. Fundamentally. Terribly wrong and flawed.
I'm going to go listen to Ministry of Sound on CD.
The next time I'm feeling to confident about my hair, I think I'm gonna smush it down with headphones.
September 2, 2003
roommate not only wins the best roommate of the year award, but also receives
a special shout out for being a very good friend.
I am drunk on Disney nostalgia right now. And ever so happy.
The FBI has indeed produced a website for those children 5 years to 5th
All About Narcotic Detection Dogs!
September 1, 2003
Today is both. It's
actually a little chilly. It's a bit dreary. The weather is supposed to
be gorgeous by week's end for the Saint Louis Art Fair. I am very excited
to see that this
artist is returning.
Tuesday, October 28, 7:30 p.m.
I really want to go! This guy wrote songs for Barbra Streisand, Karen Carpenter and Kermit the Frog!
At work Friday,
I kept kvetching that I wanted to do something impetuous, impromptu….I
wanted to get out of town, but didn’t want to spend the money it
would take to go New Orleans for Southern
Decadence, or Chicago, or any other traditional gay Labor Day destinations.
So that was it. Within an hour and a half, I was showered, shaved, and wearing my new shirt (!!!) and my bling…..we set off on an adventure to the middle of Missouri.
Columbia sits smack-dab in the middle of the state. And smack dab in the middle of this college town (88,000 residents/24,000 students) is the gay bar.
And it pretty much is THE gay bar in town. There’s an alternative night at some other location, but SoCo is essentially it. And it’s in a strip mall next to a Mexican Restaurant and Nail Salon. Right off one of the main drags in town, SoCo seems to exists in perfect harmony with frozen yogurt store, a cell phone store and numerous other retail havens in a very ordinary business development district.
Ten years ago, Kelly and I made a road trip to Columbia when I bought my 1964 Ford Fairlane. And we went to the gay bar that was there at that time. Since closed, someone told me that it’s now one of those Nueva Latin/Chipotle/Fusion kinda places.
Anyway, as the only gay bar in town, there’s an extraordinary mix of men and women. Unlike St. Louis, where the bars seem very polarized and divided by gender, age, race, and a laundry list of special interests, SoCo is the meeting place for the menz and and the womyn. I bet it was a 50/50 split.A few random observations:
• There is a list of “Do Not Accept Checks From” posted
right over the cash bar.
I really had a great time. There were lots of things, that in retrospect
contributed to the fun: being from "out of town," knowing no
one, being removed from the local scandal and drama, but still doing my
best to stir it up....And it was not a planned sojourn. It was very refreshing to just get up and go.....no worries.....no cares.