daily specials:
drew's tasting menu:
appetizer: unflaming, whiskey-soaked inari
soup: whipped rice congee
entree: seared duck breast (from a young, but fed-up bird)
dessert: fresh asian fruit salad with bitter melon-lemon dressing

Saturday, August 02, 2003

Fond and Fiercesome Symbiosis
OR
And this is beauty
OR
Winged Hoarse
OR
This Ethnic Slur
OR
One page at a time
OR
Aging Americans
OR
My Whitey something
OR
Chinese Exercises for Eyes
OR
Jwei Jwei (apologies to pinyin)


Epigraph:
'Do you speak Chinglish?'
'No'
'Meh. Coulda been love.'

'I love your hat.'
j'Well, will you abandon capitalism?'
'No.'
'Meh. Coulda been love.'

Instructions:
Imbibe:
two maker's marks, chilled to perfection.

Hippo and peckerbird
OR
blackwoman redtaping entry for cleaning
OR
3K loan revisited
OR
every terminal 'l" become 'o' (e.g. 'possible' become 'possibo')
OR
how pedophiliac senators show love
OR
something something
OR
unlikely, metaphysically impossible, impredicative
OR
superlatively drunk

So it is frightening, this sharp line, this bright line between my week, my weak. And there is Ben Keightley. And he is beautiful.

I am not jamaica.

And there was Miss Fegs. And I am party to tacit greek racism. For I worry about how she is viewed, and me in my closetedness. But is OK. And she mistreats new help. And it is fine. And she had two husbands, and now none, and it averages out to one. And there will be many more.

And there is Alric. And he is faggily incompetent, in his faggy enthusiasm for me, the highlight of his week (and he could use a platinum-blond streak or two), he locks himself out of red wine and sex and the city. And there is woe looking for a locksmith with the last four digits rubbed out, like an amputee who has only and only and only his thubm on his right hand, which is crucial, because Joephet is occasionally and intentionally (robot voice) inaccessible like the location of the minimal fixed point in Kripke's theory of truth. I love math. I love joephet. And I part with Alric. And it is fine.

And I go to D's filming, though he is trying to set me up with Chastity or Charity and Juliana. But they are dickless. And I am bored and intrigued. And i walk to Pegasus via Columbus Circles, which is appropriate what with the faint and malingering scent of horseshit and horsepiss, for that is all that gaysianness is. And that is OK.

And at Pegasus there is Karaoke again, without scoring. For how could I scorew ithou my Joephet, my boy, my pillow, my baby, my paratactical truth.

And I come home, sweating, my metrocard damaged (and now mailed) beyond repair, like my life without my pillow.

And I am here. And so on and on and on.

And on Colubmus Circle it would be so fucking easy to be bitter. And that is why I am not so, so, so. And so I hope.