2.28.99
Life is still going well. Damn, it's cool! Irritating things like my computer having a fuq'd BIOS or motherboard don't really piss me off...I just turn the computer on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on until the bastard feels like booting up at the normal initial processor speed of 233 MHz. Tomorrow, I attack the gods of Tech support to have my machine authorized to be repaired under the terms of my warranty.
Now, with no further adieu, another discussion of friendship, trust, and altruism. I've been babbling about this story that I read while waiting to pick up Chinese carryout, and I shall convey that story soon after I talk about myself and how beautiful I am.
There is a chum of mine that lives on the windward side of Oahu (that's my happy little island here) in a town called Waimanalo. It's a very nice place...trés Hawaiian in it's inherent rural and laid back setting. It's the same kind of thing that attracts me to Molokai. Nobody has money, and remarkably few give a shit about it. The culture is clearly and remarkably Hawaiian...it's a neat place.
It seems that all of my comrades on the Internet have a character quark associated with them. His is that he is unsure whether he is straight or gay. He's attracted to guys, and is puzzled as to why he is entranced by guys' asses and other accouterments, since that is a direct violation of the status quo. It's a hard decision to make or rather a hard realization to come to.
My theory is thus: Str8 boys, and I mean those who are truly str8 are so staggeringly repulsed by the idea of touching a dick that is not theirs that they simply won't. That's why they are str8boiz. Gayboiz, on the other hand, can't wait to get their hands on a nice fat juicy one. That's why they are gayboiz. I am also intelligent enough to realize that this theory is tremendously oversimplified, and is so full of holes that one might mistake it for a colander.
The third possibility is the (as the late Tommy used to claim as his own) "omnisexual." Personally, I doubt the possibility, being rather inclined to think that those who shtup both boys and girls are just too lazy to make up their minds as to whether they are truly queer or not. Many will argue the point, and I am interested in the ideas that are out there, but nonetheless, I feel that bisexuality is a cop for those who are afraid to call themselves gay.
This, of course, coming from a man who has only seen the vaginas of his patients, and whose penis has never and will not touch one. They are icky, smelly, damp, infectable dark holes of uncertainty that babies come out of. With my inherent love of children, can you understand why I might shy away from fertile women?
Enough, though of my theories and views of homosexuality, heterosexuality, and omnisexuality, On to my story. Perhaps, I'll babble on about my weekend later.
As previously mentioned, this was something that I read in a copy of GQ while waiting for my Chinese take-away at Golden City on School St. They make the best Crispy duck in the known world, and their chicken soup is beyond definition. They are a little too close to my house, so I frequently have to sit for a few minutes while the finishing touches are made to my meal.
I was flipping thru pages in this beat to hell copy of GQ, checking out the various hair cuts on the guys, I'm soo mad to cut my hair into a new style, I can't begin to tell you. I'm also very indecisive and quite vain when it comes to appearance, so it is difficult to land on a single style and commit to it.
I'm babbling, aren't I? Oops. This story is of a pile of friends who have come together to see off a friend who is dying of AIDS. Seems that "friend" has been drifting in and out of consciousness recently, and the "time is near."
Wait a second. I have just typed out a lot of words, and have taken many liberties in the dissection of this work, but I now realize that it loses all of, or at least most of it's charm in the condensation. In other words, the seven paragraphs that I just wrote suck. Big time. I don't feel right typing the story out as it was written, and quite frankly, I don't have the time to do it now...so I won't.
However, I will console you in the fact that it is a wonderful, heart-touching story, and I shall leave you to find it on your own. The author was Allan Gurganus, the gentleman who wrote The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells it All. The work to which I refer, however, appears in a later novel, Plays Well With Others, published by Knopf in 1996. You can probably find it at your local library. Just go and look at it, OK?
I will leave you today with a quote that appears on the Xeroxed copy on my desk:
"There are two kinds of people in this world:
those who will help you, and those who won't."
Now, with no further adieu, another discussion of friendship, trust, and altruism. I've been babbling about this story that I read while waiting to pick up Chinese carryout, and I shall convey that story soon after I talk about myself and how beautiful I am.
There is a chum of mine that lives on the windward side of Oahu (that's my happy little island here) in a town called Waimanalo. It's a very nice place...trés Hawaiian in it's inherent rural and laid back setting. It's the same kind of thing that attracts me to Molokai. Nobody has money, and remarkably few give a shit about it. The culture is clearly and remarkably Hawaiian...it's a neat place.
It seems that all of my comrades on the Internet have a character quark associated with them. His is that he is unsure whether he is straight or gay. He's attracted to guys, and is puzzled as to why he is entranced by guys' asses and other accouterments, since that is a direct violation of the status quo. It's a hard decision to make or rather a hard realization to come to.
My theory is thus: Str8 boys, and I mean those who are truly str8 are so staggeringly repulsed by the idea of touching a dick that is not theirs that they simply won't. That's why they are str8boiz. Gayboiz, on the other hand, can't wait to get their hands on a nice fat juicy one. That's why they are gayboiz. I am also intelligent enough to realize that this theory is tremendously oversimplified, and is so full of holes that one might mistake it for a colander.
The third possibility is the (as the late Tommy used to claim as his own) "omnisexual." Personally, I doubt the possibility, being rather inclined to think that those who shtup both boys and girls are just too lazy to make up their minds as to whether they are truly queer or not. Many will argue the point, and I am interested in the ideas that are out there, but nonetheless, I feel that bisexuality is a cop for those who are afraid to call themselves gay.
This, of course, coming from a man who has only seen the vaginas of his patients, and whose penis has never and will not touch one. They are icky, smelly, damp, infectable dark holes of uncertainty that babies come out of. With my inherent love of children, can you understand why I might shy away from fertile women?
Enough, though of my theories and views of homosexuality, heterosexuality, and omnisexuality, On to my story. Perhaps, I'll babble on about my weekend later.
As previously mentioned, this was something that I read in a copy of GQ while waiting for my Chinese take-away at Golden City on School St. They make the best Crispy duck in the known world, and their chicken soup is beyond definition. They are a little too close to my house, so I frequently have to sit for a few minutes while the finishing touches are made to my meal.
I was flipping thru pages in this beat to hell copy of GQ, checking out the various hair cuts on the guys, I'm soo mad to cut my hair into a new style, I can't begin to tell you. I'm also very indecisive and quite vain when it comes to appearance, so it is difficult to land on a single style and commit to it.
I'm babbling, aren't I? Oops. This story is of a pile of friends who have come together to see off a friend who is dying of AIDS. Seems that "friend" has been drifting in and out of consciousness recently, and the "time is near."
Wait a second. I have just typed out a lot of words, and have taken many liberties in the dissection of this work, but I now realize that it loses all of, or at least most of it's charm in the condensation. In other words, the seven paragraphs that I just wrote suck. Big time. I don't feel right typing the story out as it was written, and quite frankly, I don't have the time to do it now...so I won't.
However, I will console you in the fact that it is a wonderful, heart-touching story, and I shall leave you to find it on your own. The author was Allan Gurganus, the gentleman who wrote The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells it All. The work to which I refer, however, appears in a later novel, Plays Well With Others, published by Knopf in 1996. You can probably find it at your local library. Just go and look at it, OK?
I will leave you today with a quote that appears on the Xeroxed copy on my desk:
"There are two kinds of people in this world:
those who will help you, and those who won't."
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