Comedy = Tradegy + Time
I feel like just updating this blog, but I have nothing artful to speak about. What better method than just ramming down the keyboard and listening to a good list of indie music?

Andrew Belle is playing on my Windows Media Player right now. Ever since I first heard ‘Oh My Stars,’ I’ve been hooked. This is one of the few tracks that I can enjoy the whole working shift. Belle’s voice is nice, even if he sounds like beating his baton. HAHA Bah, it’s raspy and orgasmic. Perfect for this time. (It’s 2:30 am, btw.)

For a personal note, my biggest complaint about my life now is that things are turning quite unhealthy. Despite some interesting instances, and a cliche love story going on for a month now, it’s mostly tedious and dry. Yeah, I’m a really boring person off the single life. The partner? Oh, uninteresting! Sharing a note about him needs a year or two, so at least in the story/poem that I will write abt him he will come changed or whatever I’d want him to be. God! This is crazy. But I love him. A LOT. Of course, I can make our story exciting in here or if I prepare it beforehand, but I wont. So I’ll just spout all the things off of the top of my head. What am I talking about?! It’s cold here. Excuse this blabbering.

Belle & Sebastian’s Oh Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying is next on queueing. Btw, I’m going to make a trip to my father’s hometown probably next month. I certainly need a vacation. All things have been so whiney, so this invitation to a wedding is just timely. I have to take this before all the wells of opportunity run out.

I’ll stop muttering to myself now, because I have 15 minutes taking my break. Please visit my poetry blog – Noiseless Patient Spider – and feel free to drop comments on a few poems you’ll like. Have a wonderful day!

I just got off the phone with my Aunt and started thinking. She doesn’t get communicating online at all. She gets the technology, but she doesn’t get why people spend so much time and money to talk to strangers or have more email than they can handle. This stumped me for a minute, but then I got a theory.

It used to be you could talk to people on the street. You could chat about the weather or the news and it would be nice and then you’d go your separate ways. But now you have to worry that they are psycho or they’re gonna ask you for something, or worse, that they’ll think you are weird.

So from this condition we have shut ourselves down. We size somebody up in a second and we cross the street, either literally or figuratively. We judge people by how they look, of course, but it’s a complex assessment– in a flash– based on so many little things that it takes up too large of your brain.

The thing is, people still want to connect. Behind all that cynicism is this desperate need to connect. You know when people do good deeds accidentally, like keeping a whale alive when it’s washed onshore or helping somebody out during a fire or something? They all feel so good, and they can’t quite explain it.

So in cyberspace, they are talking to people again! But in this virtual world, they don’t have to worry that somebody’s gonna pull a gun if they say the wrong thing. Or even if someone is psycho, they can go ahead and talk to them, they never have to see them again, that if they want to. They can even enjoy talking to a psycho. They’re safe enough to connect. And for women?! Whoa! Suddenly they can tell assholes to fuck off without getting killed, or be really sexy in a way that they would never be normally, and just enjoy it. Even though the majority of onliners are men, I think it’s gonna change, if for that reason alone.

This leads me to why so many men pose as women online. It’s like cyber-crossdressing. They give up the male role for awhile or pretend they’re lesbians. What cracks me up is that they’re probably doing it with other guys as well who are acting like women that moment too.

    Awesum: You a guy or a girl?
    Scratch: Does it matter?
    Awesum: I’m pretty loose about most things, but I don’t f*ck no dudes.
    Scratch: Ah, that’s a shame, baby. You’d probably enjoy it if you loosened up. That’s OK. I’m not anything tonight.
    Awesum: I take it you enjoy watching two guys together. No, I don’t think I would enjoy it, and yes, I am pretty loose.
    Scratch: I enjoy lots of things, like guys who can be receptive, as it were. :)
    Awesum: I can be receptive to certain things. But I enjoy it more when I do the giving.
    Scratch: Aint’ that sweet. And rare.
    Awesum: So do you just naturally have a fucked-up attitude. Or is this your way of weeding out certain people?
    Scratch: WTF do you know about my attitude dude. I’m gonna fire up a weedwhacker if you continue.
    Awesum: Somehow I get the impression you’re a guy. If that’s the case, bring the weedwhacker over here and I will demonstrate on you how it is used properly… ha ha. Your attitude is all fucked up. But I think that is just great. LOL
    Sratch: “signs off

Oh, I got off the track. But only when you’ve tried mIRC and other cleints with scripting language, you can know what I mean.
images from Lady Gagita

I like faces. I like poses, not all poses, but I like the idea of a person being posed. I like that people are able to pose.

I like the way a face such as this can be made to look at different angles, in such fabulous colors and under the changes of light.

I like the transformations that are possible in cosmetics and portrait photography, the control that is possible, and the surprise that can come, with control.


I was sad today, so I spent the afternoon in the streets with a new buddy spitting on ugly passersby.

Before you call me out on how mean that sounds, I must explain that the people we spit on were really ugly, almost non-human. Whenever I feel sad, I like to do really disgusting things to jolly myself along. Sometimes I’ll point a finger at taxi drivers or lure passengers away from them. Yeah, I sure do love to see people needlessly bog off and children cry. Good times! After the long walk, I burst upon the sidewalk as my friend escorted the kindest elderly woman across the street, waiting until the “crossing” began to blink. Once they got to the middle of the intersection, my friend scurried away and left the old woman looking for some safe direction. HAHA I actually farted on this scene, and too ran away. Old people sure are stupid.

Then we sneaked into a men’s room and peed on all the covered seats, because I can’t understand what reason any utility man would have to close the bowl and leave the cubicle open.

After I get done writing this, I’m going to steal a book or two at Booksale. Gotta be Michael Cunningham’s At Home In The End of The World. Been dying for this since the time I saw it three weeks ago. LOL God forbid!

My friend Michael, now Michelle, sent me questions she wanted to ask all her friends. Never thought of them myself, but now I hope someone could show an answer. This issue just popped up yesterday. Pretty excellent.

Don’t you think it’s kinda weird that if you want to have a surgeon break your nose, suck out fat from your hips, stretch your face tight over your skull, or add dangerous globs of saline to your breast, you just have to sign up, pay the bills and do it..

But if you want to change your genitalia, you must first live as the opposite sex *before* the change, go to therapy, and play the nice girl before you ever get the permission?

I found this whole surgery thing amusing. Michelle had been living as a girl before she started taking anti-androgen pills and she doesn’t looked kind of in between since. It seems this is like going out in drag against her will. A subaltern drag. For how many more months or years she has to do this, only the process knows. But does she really have to make up an entire childhood as a little girl, so when talked with people, they wouldn’t suspect she was once a guy? I have no idea what other stuff she must practice everyday.

She further said that being in a therapy for being a transsexual is the only therapy where they encourage you to lie. Isn’t ironic?
It’s different today. I don’t know what to think. Probably this is what I experience with this horrific consistency. I cannot turn on the lights, as the electricity has been shut off, and why this has happened– why something like electricity may be shut off– is incomprehensible to me, so I am forced to light candles and place them in tin cans or empty soda bottles, and I sit in my dimly lit room far from whatever I knew downtown, without secure thoughts to comfort me. Disoriented. Beat. Without thoughts at all perhaps. And I am blank, as empty as the proverbial unpainted canvas.
Tonight I will gather myself on top of the highest building and all the more you will love me there.

I will surprise you beyond all view with stronger love that collects itself with city things and neon lights which you and I used to fancy in our subsequent years.

Because you long for a man with nests of wild things in his mind, off the edge I’ll take this step with reminiscence and prayers as I come down to you to fit this ring of ageless love.

I hope this won’t freak you out.
I take my pen reluctantly, believing as I do in the virtues of acquaintance and world peace and not wanting to stir up a human heart, but when it comes to a friend and what he means to me as a genuine confidant and you – a nitwit pokemon, a sniveling drunk who pukes out an apology so self-serving, I’m afraid I must take a firm stand.

Perhaps serious commitment is not of interest to you and that, you valued my friend less. It’s as if you think relationships can be woven without a hem of loyalty, that you can easily mope around and look for another welcoming outlet into which you can release your salivating fantasies and, when caught, expect my friend (who knows the routes and dangers of homosexual affairs) to forgive such follies.

To be fair with you, I know you worked hard to have a good partner (what faggot doesn’t do that?) and I do not question your traditional I-need-to-meet-the-people-in-your-life nature, or your forget-the-details approach, or your time. But you made a grave mistake when you went south just to f*ck a culprit (whom my friend knew for awhile and didn’t expect to be the threat of this whole affair). If the adherents of such activity wish to enjoy its good time and the wild gyrations in the confines of wherever the two of you were that moment, such is a privelege only meant for uncommitted folks or those faggots professional enough to get away, because when this congress is thrusted upon a relationship (which you are in) and you expect my friend to forgive or to choose between pride and love or bribe his long-held idealisms just to give you another chance, not only are you breaking Trust, you are also imposing the very unpleasant thing for a starting relationship. That is submission.

On the other hand, you must remember that we are no longer in the medieval age, the time when people could freely conquer another land and were always ready to take off their shields to bed with a stranger without thinking whether that partner is clean or not. We are in a generation that diseases can knock a person right after his pleasures, gossips can make your face fall off in public. I do not claim that the culprit or whoever you are into are carriers, but you should have realized that the vast majority of people like us is active and some of them maybe are contracted from God-knows-what chances.

And you know what rudes me most? You finished a health-conscious degree. Don’t you have a little thought of what your activity might give you in the future? You should have not taken the course and, instead, proceed slutting around. And don’t you realize that a stranger is ten times (or more) dangerous to you than you are to my friend? Does this compulsion to f*ck a stranger make you a better lover? And now that things have come to unexpected endings, can a satisfied penis save your face?

You know what… you should have remained closeted or acted straight for the rest of your life because you cannot validate the heart of a faggot out of such unapologetic action. You don’t have a character to function.

And please..

Don’t swim upstream. Don’t piss into the wind. You’re not a God. Your c*mshots are not as charming as confettis. Simply get along by going along and carry your head higher than your crotch.
Once there was a faraway kingdom ruled by a king who was privileged to command his subjects as he wanted. But in the entire kingdom, there was only one who could turn wishes to reality, and that was the sorcerer.

On the driest day of the year, when all vegetations became wilted and the air was bitter with dust, the king went to the sorcerer’s house and found the courage to knock. When the sorcerer came, he saw behind her firewood burning on the hearth, brightly covered furniture as soft as newly sheared wool, and a lamp lit. He sat in one, with his boots on the rug and his hands stretched to the fire.

The sorcerer said nothing, and at last the king spoke his visit. “Can you help me? I have three wishes.” The sorcerer asked what they were. When the king gave descriptions of his wishes, she said, though she could brim the river with fresh water and make all trees bear fruit, the first two wishes were unachievable.

“The last one, though,” she said, mulling over the desperation of the king. “Your third wish, perhaps.”

Then the sorcerer opened her treasure box, pulled out a crippled stick as long as the king’s scepter, and said, “Walk throughout the season with this.”

She led the king to the door in silence and watched him disappear on his horse back to the palace.

The king carried the stick for months. But it did not make the plants bear flowers, or have the next mornings with rain, or fill his visitors’ hand-baskets with sweetmeats and fruits. And so, eventually, telling himself that his scepter looked better than the crippled stick, he stopped walking with the stick. He hated looking at it and so ordered one of his privy councils to take it out of the palace. The council left it leaning against the huge rock in the palace garden.

On the next day, there came a restoring rain after months of drought. Dry leaves were blown away from the roads, rivers filled, birds flew across the waking sky, and flowers ornamented the mornings. Everything around the palace turned green.

After the rain ceased, the king walked out of his palace and saw the stick. It was no longer crooked. At the top, leaves were sprouting out of the wood. Buds were starting to puff out along its length. He didn’t take it in to the palace but instead checked on it every morning. When flowers came, he left his scepter inside and started to walk with the stick again.

Astonished by this phenomenon, the people of his kingdom approached him with sweetmeats and all kinds of fruits, the craftsmen gave him with their beautiful products, the miners a couple of intricate gemstones. The stick flowered in eternal season of prosperity and made everyone happy.

One day, not long after sunrise, the king rode once more to the house of the sorcerer. He knocked, and the sorcerer came out.

“Look at the stick,” said the king.

“Yes,” said the sorcerer.