After observing a shady white van with white tinted windows parked outside the Pink last night, the conversation turned to pedophiles. I cannot recall who spoke of always being told to look out for and never get in to a white van when they were a kid, but I’m pretty sure it was Paul’s brother – though it may have been Mathew - who said his parents told him the white van was good, and should he ever see a white van with kids painted on the side he should surely get inside it. My parents, well specifically my Mom, were constantly warning me about all sorts of situations in which I could get molested. I swear she warned me weekly about child molesters. She told me to look out for teachers, ministers, janitors, strangers in cars claiming someone in my family was in the hospital and they were sent to pick me up, neighbors, coaches, and on and on and on. Everywhere I went I swore someone was about to molest me. My mom even warned me of different situations that could unfold. Obviously the “it’s our little secret� was hammered into my head as a red flag that I had just been molested, but the scenario that I remember fearing the most was being pushed into a corner and fondled while using a public restroom. For this reason I always used the stall whenever I had to use the bathroom. No one was to touch, nor see MY private parts. No sir, my private parts are for my eyes and hands only. When changing for swim lessons, I was always the kid in the stall. Later in life, after discovering the joys of Wendy’s Superbar, I became the guy who always wore his shirt in the pool: “I burn easily.� Even throughout high school, after outgrowing my chubby little self, I did all in my power to get out of the state requirement for swim class during gym. I couldn’t deal with having to strut around half naked with fifty of my peers; changing for regular gym class was difficult enough. I even remember being slightly uneasy about having to change in my dorm room with a roommate at the beginning of my freshman year. I don’t know exactly what did it, but my sophomore year I became obsessed with having “boxer / beater “ parties where I’d sit around with friends drinking wine in undershirt tank tops and boxers - though it may have been due to the fact that it made the transition into the sack a little easier with the ladies. Somehow this morphed into me constantly stripping down into my underwear whenever I got drunk and dancing around. Oh shit, I completely forgot about one incident my freshman year when I was dancing around in my underwear outside of the dorms during some battle of the bands thing that was going on. Upon finding that the residence hall association had rented a hot tub for the day I ripped off my underwear and jumped in. The ten or so people that were enjoying themselves in it at that moment came flying out of the tub faster than if I had taken a shit in it and I was promptly thrown out and threatened with arrest. Perhaps this was the moment when I realized how enjoyable it was to be naked with strangers, but my true appreciation of this did not fully make itself apparent to me until that one fateful evening at Liz’s house the Thursday before my graduation last month. Now I find it very much a let down if a party I go to or host does not end in an all out naked fest by the end of the evening. It’s surprising how comfortable people can be with each other when they’re not trying to hide and conceal their body from others and, at least for me, there is nothing really sexual about hanging out with others in the buff. You’re only naked when someone else is clothed and has the power of the gaze over you. Though it took some coaxing, eventually we were all in the buff last night. The Jamiriquai was bumping, and the pelvises were pumping. Thank you to all who were in attendance fo
r
participating. We’re two for three TK, how about making it three for four sometime?

Missed the protest this morning as I had a job interview. Missed the benifit as I was not aware of it's happening. Decided it would only be appropriate to donate the $20 I made from the sale of the busted nativity scene to Steve's defense fund.




Plenty of insane shit went down at my apartment from Sunday to Monday, and while I will look back fondly on most of the on-goings, some others have left me with a not so sweet taste in my mouth. I'll need a good day of work to come to some semblance of what exactly took place. I’m referring not only of Sunday in and of itself in which I reverted to a beast like creature, but more so of Monday for which certain unknown people from the party the night before retuned only to rob my friend's wallet, my housemates' electric razors, and all of our unopened bars of soap. As I’ll be working every day for the next two weeks, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to sort everything out. Sorry to miss your BBQ Soyeon and Robin. Oh, and sorry to hound you Robin to come over on Sunday. While my apartment was bursting at the seams with people and I was having a ridiculous time, it would have been nice to have a handful of people there that I actually knew. People off the street are fun, but I prefer to have some people around I can trust to leave alone with my toiletries.

Sweet Jesus, I rock too hard for my own good. We had a robot, the touring guitarist from green jello, john steven's from amreican idol, numerous underrated local musicains, a bunch of tag a longs, and flacidness hanging out on the roof... the rock continues well past sundown. I sold my first piece of "art" today... it was a nativity scene with the head of Mary bashed in and the baby jesus protroding from the opening... it was entitled " Budding Jesus from asexual Mary." Some woman from the street gave me $20, we were upset to see it leave as the sea of suburban infidels roaming around outside were visibly upset by the display... well we're moving in two weeks and it would have been thrown out anyways... I'm catching shit for being antisocail and hanging out in front of the computer, so should anyone read this in the immediate future and wish to rock, head on over to 500 Franklin

I will be entertaining visitors tomorrow on the roof over looking the "music is art"? festival tomorrow, 500 Franklin St. Should you be in the area, do please come upstairs. "Budding Jesus from asexual Mary" will be on display until sundown.

At my current pay rate, without subtracting anything for taxes, housing, alcohol or taking into consideration interest, I would have to work 1,318 hours to pay off my student loans. What sucks the most about this is I didn't use even a portion of my loans to pay for tuition, housing, or fees. No, besides a computer and some video equipment I have nothing to show for my three year $15,000 bender. I suppose I also have a bigger belly and some stupid pictures of me looking like I'm enjoying myself, but my appreciation of such has worn thin. I've been working a lot lately, 12 hours today and another 12 tomorrow. As lame as it sounds, I can't really think of anything I'd rather be doing at the moment. If I'm working I'm not drinking, and if I'm not drinking I'm not spending money, and if I'm not spending money well I'm most likely not drinking which means I can think somewhat clearly. My job is fantastic for thinking. Nobody seems to give a shit if I don't say much, stare blankly most of the time, periodically erupt into laughter, and occasionally scribble something down on my notepad. Sometimes I even get fed. The only drawback I've noticed so far is I leave work with all these damn show tunes bouncing around my skull.

Together, together, you and I. You're my special little guy.

It's not where you start, it's where you finish, and you're going to finish on top.
Jesus. One more day of this production then I get some time off to hopefully finalize an apartment for July 1st. Should anyone know of a moderately nice 3 bedroom available for that time, please let me know. The last thing I need is to wind up with a piece of shit landlord by the likes of Pete Singer.

I really wanted to give you a tip. I always tip. I often tip too well. I tip when the service is horrendous and the person I'm tipping routinely kicks me out of the bar for no reason. I could not tip you however as you didn't have change to break a twenty and there was no place on the credit card receipt for me to write one in. It was on the corner of Tonawanda and Niagara. My minivan's belt flew off after barreling through a puddle on the 198 on my way to graduation. You found it odd that graduation was held before the final day to submit work. I agreed. You said you were still working on a paper and it was due next week. I said good luck. When it became apparent that I could not give you a tip, you told me not to worry about it and to tip the next guy. I asked your name as I left. You said Brain. I planned on mailing a tip the next week addressed to you at your employer, but like most of my good intentions, I failed to follow through. If this was indeed you Stickboy, than I do believe I owe you a drink or two.

I suppose I was a little harsh on the houseguests in the last entry. While they did drudge up unpleasant memories of touring the Binghamton Whalers locker room when I was younger whenever they came within ten feet of me, they certainly werent ungrateful guests. They traveled with a fully stocked bar in addition to a kitchen with mountains of burrito fixings. Lenny a card carrying graduate of the New York State Bartenders Academy was more than egger to mix up a variety of drinks using whatever he could find around the apartment including Roxys three week old leftover clam juice. I wasnt so much pissed at them personally, but more my inability to resist consuming whatever intoxicants are within my sight. I had wanted to make a drastic change in my lifestyle immediately following graduation, but this has not taken place as of yet and I think I was just looking for something / someone else to blame besides myself. The house is quiet and mostly aired out now, and Im looking forward to a peaceful evening alone before having to go back to work in the morning. With the exception of two days last week, Ive worked everyday for the last two weeks as an assistant tech for a marathon of dance recitals at work. I bust my ass for the setup and breakdown, but during the actual recitals I mainly stand around and try not to look at the girls for fear that my look of confusion as to why parents pay to see their six year daughter dress and dance like a sex object maybe easily be mistaken as a look of arousal. Though I did accidentally see some little girl half naked this evening, I mostly avoid such awkward situations by staring at my notepad and writing shitty haikus.

Dance little rich girl
Daddys little prostitot
Mommys on Zoloft.

Im not even sure Im writing these properly, but it helps pass the evening when the novelty of watching rich suburban teenagers tap dance to techno remixes of Nirvana wears thin.

With the exception of maybe one or two nights, we’ve been entertaining houseguests for the past three weeks straight and it’s fucking got to stop. They pride themselves on having no home and earning their keep slinging burritos and beer at festivals, but for living such a modest life they certainly pack more than their fair share of “white coffee� up their schnozzles. I actually heard one of them commenting about not being able to afford deodorant while in the process of blasting a line off a piece of broken mirror. I'm sure they mean well, but if you’re staying at someone’s house for a week, crashing on their couches and using their blankets, if not for your own sake have some consideration for your humble hosts: take a fucking shower.

I’m tired of feeling guilty about things, and as if I didn’t have enough things to feel guilty about already, now I feel guilty as each day passes and I don’t add anything to this journal. It’s not that I don’t think about it, I think extensively during the day about topics I’d like to address or stories I think are worthy of being retold, but once I sit down to do so I blank on what exactly I want to use this journal for. I started keeping a written private journal around two and a half years ago, but only began writing deeply and religiously in it following a serious personal disaster I let myself fall into little more than a year ago. Since then most of my entries have tended to be severely self-critical, and while this may or may not have helped dig myself out of the particular ditch I was stuck in during that time, I find it very difficult to write in my journal now about anything other than my perceived shortcomings. Since realizing this, I’ve been keeping two other small personal journal / notepads that I mostly use to keep personal reminders and ideas for projects, as well as a full sized notebook that I try to write about whatever comes to my mind for a predetermined amount of time several times a week. I feel guilty when I fail to update any of these journals on a regular basis, and now that I have this journal, I find myself at a loss for it’s purpose and feel as if I’ve failed myself and others by not posting even sporadically often. Let me think this over a little more and I’ll try to work some time into my routine to post regularly. I find myself equally freaked out and fascinated by the concept of online public journals and am beginning a one year project tomorrow that addresses some of the issues that relate to this blurring of private and public presentations of self. I’ll write more about that once it gets underway.

Jesus Christ. I had hoped graduating would have set me straight and brought some well needed serenity into my existence, but this last week had been a drunken washout… not to say it hasn’t been a rocking adventure, but for the precious blood of Christ, I’m awfully tired of waking up and having to figure out what I am, never mind who I am and having such an awful time attempting to figure out what this strange object next to my bed is making such an awful racket…