hereby claim that I would like to donate my DNA for the purpose of cloning so as to prove, disprove or simply elucidate the genetic link between hetero- and homosexuality. In order that such an experiment be rightfully and scientifically accurate, I suggest, but do not claim with any authority due to my lack of scientific accreditation, that multiple samples of my DNA be acquired, cultured and subsequently cloned in a multitude of controlled and non-controlled environments to determine if, when and how homosexuality becomes realized from conception to fetus to birth and so forth. I, an open and obvious homosexual, will serve as the control, while my clones, the variables. Please feel free to contact me at any time, day or night, for recruitment. I only require a small fee for my services and worldwide acknowledgment. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I, however, take no responsibility for whatever ethical or moral questions, concerns, riots, murders or gene manipulations by right-wing or religious groups may occur. Again, thank you.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
the magazine industry is a vicious, vicious world
friend: oh wow. guess who just folded?
me: yeah. i heard.
friend: i just saw them all in their conference room. yikes. how did you hear before i did? i share a floor with them.
me: an editor here told me.
friend: i'm gonna steal a good chair from them.
me: yeah. i heard.
friend: i just saw them all in their conference room. yikes. how did you hear before i did? i share a floor with them.
me: an editor here told me.
friend: i'm gonna steal a good chair from them.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Great Paragraphs
From The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen.
He turned to the doorway where she'd appeared. He began a sentence: "I am--" but when he was taken by surprise, every sentence became an adventure in the woods; as soon as he could no longer see the light of the clearing from which he'd entered, he would realize that the crumbs he'd dropped for bearings had been eaten by birds, silent deft darting things which he couldn't quite see in the darkness but which were so numerous and swarming in their hunger that it seemed as if they were the darkness, as if the darkness weren't uniform, weren't an absence of light but a teeming and corpuscular thing, and indeed when as a studious teenager he'd encountered the world "crepuscular" in McKay's Treasury of English Verse, the corpuscles of biology had bled into his understanding of the word, so that for his entire adult life he'd seen in twilight a corpuscularity, as of the graininess of the high-speed film necessary for photography under conditions of low ambient light, as of a kind of sinister decay; and hence the panic of a man betrayed deep in the woods whose darkness was the darkness of starlings blotting out the sunset or black ants storming a dead opossum, a darkness that didn't just exist but actively consumed the bearings that he'd sensibly established for himself, lest he be lost; but in the instant of realizing he was lost, time became marvelously slow and he discovered hitherto unguessed eternities in the space between one word and the next, or rather he became trapped in that space between words and could only stand and watch as time sped on without him, the thoughtless boyish part of him crashing on out of sight blindly through the woods while he, trapped, the grownup Al, watched in oddly impersonal suspense to see if the panic-stricken little boy might, despite no longer knowing where he was or at what point he'd entered the woods of this sentence, still manage to blunder into the clearing where Enid was waiting for him, unaware of any woods -- "packing my suitcase," he heard himself say. This sounded right. Verb, possessive, noun. Here was a suitcase in front of him, an important confirmation. He'd betrayed nothing.
He turned to the doorway where she'd appeared. He began a sentence: "I am--" but when he was taken by surprise, every sentence became an adventure in the woods; as soon as he could no longer see the light of the clearing from which he'd entered, he would realize that the crumbs he'd dropped for bearings had been eaten by birds, silent deft darting things which he couldn't quite see in the darkness but which were so numerous and swarming in their hunger that it seemed as if they were the darkness, as if the darkness weren't uniform, weren't an absence of light but a teeming and corpuscular thing, and indeed when as a studious teenager he'd encountered the world "crepuscular" in McKay's Treasury of English Verse, the corpuscles of biology had bled into his understanding of the word, so that for his entire adult life he'd seen in twilight a corpuscularity, as of the graininess of the high-speed film necessary for photography under conditions of low ambient light, as of a kind of sinister decay; and hence the panic of a man betrayed deep in the woods whose darkness was the darkness of starlings blotting out the sunset or black ants storming a dead opossum, a darkness that didn't just exist but actively consumed the bearings that he'd sensibly established for himself, lest he be lost; but in the instant of realizing he was lost, time became marvelously slow and he discovered hitherto unguessed eternities in the space between one word and the next, or rather he became trapped in that space between words and could only stand and watch as time sped on without him, the thoughtless boyish part of him crashing on out of sight blindly through the woods while he, trapped, the grownup Al, watched in oddly impersonal suspense to see if the panic-stricken little boy might, despite no longer knowing where he was or at what point he'd entered the woods of this sentence, still manage to blunder into the clearing where Enid was waiting for him, unaware of any woods -- "packing my suitcase," he heard himself say. This sounded right. Verb, possessive, noun. Here was a suitcase in front of him, an important confirmation. He'd betrayed nothing.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A brief service announcement from Rachel
"You acted like the guy in the after school special who takes steroids and beats up his sister."
-- RR after I wouldn't let her half-eat one of my protein bars.
-- RR after I wouldn't let her half-eat one of my protein bars.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
today my pessimism got the best of me.
but that doesn't mean I'm holding on to nothing. hope isn't that easy to let go of.
for better or worse.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
the course
3 years since I fell in love with you at first sight.
2 years since I moved here for you.
1 year since I kissed you and said goodbye.
6 months since I came back to you.
3 months since I left you for the last time.
1 month since I regretted never having you.
2 weeks since I hoped for my chance.
1 week since I found out about him.
4 days since I stopped crying.
2 days since I heard that song.
1 day since I saw that picture.
12 hours since I smelled that smell.
6 hours since I tasted that taste.
3 hours since I felt nothing.
1 hour since I hated you.
30 minutes since I loved you.
15 minutes since I hated you.
10 minutes since I loved you.
5 minutes since I hated you.
2 minutes since I loved you.
1 minute since I hated you.
30 seconds since I last thought about you.
15 seconds since I last thought about you.
10 seconds since I last thought about you.
5 seconds since I last thought about you.
2 seconds since I last thought about you.
1 second since I last thought about you.
2 years since I moved here for you.
1 year since I kissed you and said goodbye.
6 months since I came back to you.
3 months since I left you for the last time.
1 month since I regretted never having you.
2 weeks since I hoped for my chance.
1 week since I found out about him.
4 days since I stopped crying.
2 days since I heard that song.
1 day since I saw that picture.
12 hours since I smelled that smell.
6 hours since I tasted that taste.
3 hours since I felt nothing.
1 hour since I hated you.
30 minutes since I loved you.
15 minutes since I hated you.
10 minutes since I loved you.
5 minutes since I hated you.
2 minutes since I loved you.
1 minute since I hated you.
30 seconds since I last thought about you.
15 seconds since I last thought about you.
10 seconds since I last thought about you.
5 seconds since I last thought about you.
2 seconds since I last thought about you.
1 second since I last thought about you.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Great Paragraphs
From A History of Love, by Nicole Krauss
My heart is weak and unreliable. When I go it will be my heart. I try to burden it as little as possible. If something is going to have an impact, I direct it elsewhere. My gut for example, or my lungs, which might seize up for a moment but have never yet failed to take another breath. When I pass a mirror and catch a glimpse of myself, or I'm at the bus stop and some kids come up behind me and say, Who smells shit?--small daily humiliations--these I take, generally speaking, in my liver. Other damages I take in other places. The pancreas I reserve for being struck by all that's been lost. It's true that there's so much, and the organ is so small. But. You would be surprised how much it can take, all I feel is a quick sharp pain and then it's over. Sometimes I imagine my own autopsy. Disappointment in myself: right kidney. Disappointment of others in me: left kidney. Personal failures: kishkes. I don't mean to make it sound like I've made a science of it. It's not that well thought out. I take it where it comes. It's just that I notice certain patterns. When the clocks are turned back and the dark falls before I'm ready, this, for reasons I can't explain, I feel in my wrists. And when I wake up and my fingers are stiff, almost certainly I was dreaming of my childhood. The field where we used to play, the field in which everything was discovered and everything was possible. (We ran so hard we thought we would spit blood: to me that is the sound of childhood, heavy breathing and shoes scraping the hard earth.) Stiffness of the fingers is the dream of childhood as it's bee returned to me at the end of my life. I have to run them under the hot water, steam clouding the mirror, outside the rustle of pigeons. Yesterday I saw a man kicking a dog and I felt it behind my eyes. I don't know what to call this, a place before tears. The pain of forgetting: spine. The pain of remembering: spine. All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist: my knees, it takes half a tube of Ben-Gay and a big productions just to bend them. To everything a season, to every time I've woken only to make the mistake of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorrhoid. Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.
My heart is weak and unreliable. When I go it will be my heart. I try to burden it as little as possible. If something is going to have an impact, I direct it elsewhere. My gut for example, or my lungs, which might seize up for a moment but have never yet failed to take another breath. When I pass a mirror and catch a glimpse of myself, or I'm at the bus stop and some kids come up behind me and say, Who smells shit?--small daily humiliations--these I take, generally speaking, in my liver. Other damages I take in other places. The pancreas I reserve for being struck by all that's been lost. It's true that there's so much, and the organ is so small. But. You would be surprised how much it can take, all I feel is a quick sharp pain and then it's over. Sometimes I imagine my own autopsy. Disappointment in myself: right kidney. Disappointment of others in me: left kidney. Personal failures: kishkes. I don't mean to make it sound like I've made a science of it. It's not that well thought out. I take it where it comes. It's just that I notice certain patterns. When the clocks are turned back and the dark falls before I'm ready, this, for reasons I can't explain, I feel in my wrists. And when I wake up and my fingers are stiff, almost certainly I was dreaming of my childhood. The field where we used to play, the field in which everything was discovered and everything was possible. (We ran so hard we thought we would spit blood: to me that is the sound of childhood, heavy breathing and shoes scraping the hard earth.) Stiffness of the fingers is the dream of childhood as it's bee returned to me at the end of my life. I have to run them under the hot water, steam clouding the mirror, outside the rustle of pigeons. Yesterday I saw a man kicking a dog and I felt it behind my eyes. I don't know what to call this, a place before tears. The pain of forgetting: spine. The pain of remembering: spine. All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist: my knees, it takes half a tube of Ben-Gay and a big productions just to bend them. To everything a season, to every time I've woken only to make the mistake of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorrhoid. Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.
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