Something I shouldn't say.

I wanted Ashley last night. I practically begged him. I did beg him. It was ridiculous. I wanted him to want me, and I think he might have. But he couldn't, so we didn't. And he left. And I don't know what's wrong with me. Or if anything's wrong with me. Or if I'm happy with him and mad at myself for pressuring him, or if I'm mad at him for leaving and for not just taking care fo me. It seems like it could've just been simpler if we'd just done it, but I don't know if I'm willing to accept him on those terms or if I would've wanted him as much if I could've had him. I've had him before. Why can't I have him now? I understand, yet it was like I was applying for an exception. He told me that I'd write about this in a journal and talk and talk and talk about it. And he told me that he wouldn't have to because he doesn't romanticize things the way that I do. To him, sex was something he just did after me, so much so that I don't even really count as a former partner. But that wasn't at all comforting. I wanted him.

Ghosts of seasons past.

OK, if you go to Jordy's page on the AJC website, following the link on the sidebar, then you'll find his review of Meg Ryan's new movie, "In the Cut," which is an erotic thriller directed by Jane Campion, who made "The Piano," like, a million years ago.

Jordy says "In the Cut" should instead be titled "Meg Ryan Goes Wild!" because she does nudity in it.

On the home front, I thought I'd let you know that Ash came over to my apartment last night, and we watched my now-unavailable "Silence of the Lambs" Criterion Collection DVD. (I apparently know every word of dialogue in the film now!!! I was quoting it cold, annoying even myself!!!) And we had a long, long, not-entirely-comfortable-but-not-uncomfortable talk. Then, because he didn't think we'd sleep and didn't think he should be there, he left my apartment at 4 in the morning. Not good. Not bad. But not good.

Tonight, I'm reading the blog essay "Circle" at Larry's wine-and-cheese dinner party. Since it's not exactly horror, though, I figured it would be sufficiently creepy for Halloween.

Oh, and my mom is buying my tickets to London today.

And my notebook computer was successfully ordered from Dell earlier this week, financing approved.

Halloween, incidentally, was the day of my first kiss with Ash exactly eight years ago.

It wasn't an easy night, and I'm not sure if I was entirely nice to him.

This morning, I finished my writing project for my high school reunion group, and the final episode made three people, including myself, cry. They're throwing me a party at P.F. Chang's on Sunday to celebrate its successful conclusion. After three weeks' writing about 100 pages of story, it seemed like an occasion worth marking.

Dude, you may be gettin' a Dell, but we've got to keep you in suspense.

My mother, after hearing that a man in my apartment complex was interested in selling me a notebook computer, told me to go to Dell to see if they had anything cheaper because then I'd get a new one and get it at warranty. So I went to look for one, and now I'm on some credit application waiting list.

I hate credit application waiting lists. I just want a notebook computer so that I can start writing wherever I am because I'm never at home.

This sucks.

Poets, Artists and Madmen.

This weekend, for the first time in about eight years, I spoke with my ex Ash. I saw him at Burkhart's, and we did a lot of talking, hugging and kissing. There's still chemistry there. And we're older now. So I called him last night, and I hope he calls me soon. I'd like to see more of him.

In 1995, we sorta had a damaging, tumultuous relationship from Halloween to Christmas vacation at the University.

When we came back from Christmas break, I told him that I wanted to be a heterosexual Christian, and I stopped talking to him. I banned him from my e-mail when he would write me. My roommate once helped me kick him out of my room. I would leave a room if he entered it.

My ex-girlfriend Pam, telling me that I needed to do something symbolic to be rid of Ashley (who saw himself as god of his own universe and was frequently depressed) helped me burn a black trenchcoat he'd given me in the middle of the barbecue pit on Myers Quad.

I was a horrible idiot. I made everything dramatic because I didn't know what I wanted or who I was, and I didn't regard Ash's feelings in the matter. I only knew that I wanted to be away from him because part of who he was both excited and frightened me. And I didn't know how to deal with it.

He found out about my stupid, ridiculous, immature and hateful coat-burning, and Ash started to hate me, even though he wanted to be around me.

He ended up writing a poem about me, sending it to me. I liked the poem, found it flattering, but I didn't really want to be around him.

He slept around a bit, then had some sort of emotional breakdown where he didn't leave his dorm room or go to classes for two weeks. Then, he left school.

I, of course, went on to Welsh Guy, then my own emotional breakdown of sorts that summer.

Ash is doing better now. He owns a house. He's cut his hair. He's still tall and lanky. He wears glasses. And he still thinks. And he's still attracted to me, I think.

The poem he wrote about me in 1996 and another poem he wrote about me in 1998 were printed in his self-published anthology sometime this year. In his explanation for "Green," the poem he wrote about me during our breakup, he called me "someone who truly hurt me very deeply not because of what he did - but because of who he was."

I was trying to be something I wasn't. I was afraid of who I was. There was so much on the surface that I didn't like about Ash, the parts I did love were overshadowed. But there were parts of him - physical and emotional parts - that I loved.

He kissed me this weekend. And he told me that I still smelled the same.

His book is called So Bold.

Hugh Jackman is gay and flaming.

Watching Hugh Jackman fly across the screen on this website always brings a smile to my face. Jenipher says this is her favorite website ever.

The show's actually supposed to be pretty good, too, and it's got Jarrod Emick in it. I saw him on Broadway back in 1994, when I went with my high school chorus to perform at Carnegie Hall. We caught him with Bebe Neuwirth and ALIAS' Victor Garber in DAMN YANKEES.

My giant in-joke soap that no one who didn't go to high school with me will get.

Hey there, Readers!

If you want to know what I've been doing for the past couple days, you can read my latest story project at this website.

Granted, it's a gigantic in-joke involving my high school reunion, so few if any will actually understand it. Nonetheless, I thought I'd let you give it a shot.

Thanks.





Click to subscribe to bhsreunionshow

Big 'n' Tasty.

Jenipher also found this e-mail from me in her archives, and she says it's horribly disturbing.

Now that Gabe's proposed to her (and they're getting married in April - in case you haven't looked at their website through this page), it's funny, I guess, to look at the time I proposed to her, writing her words that could function as lyrics to an LL Cool J song.

To: Jenny Sohn
Sent: Tuesday, April 17, 2001 2:02 PM
Subject: Girl, you know it's true.

If Gabe's still having to earn points to gain your favor, then perhaps you
should look elsewhere. Like me, baby. I'll treat you right. I'll take you down
to McDonald's and buy you a Big 'N Tasty ... to remind you of me. Then, baby, we
wouldn't even have to worry about dessert because you got it goin' on with that
shake.

And your parents already like me, so, after a little explanation, they'll
understand and support us as we live out of their house in Lawrenceville.

Then, baby, we can get married, and the welfare office will get us paid.

Princess Jenipher and Benjamin the Dragon.

Jenipher, going through old e-mail, found this thing I wrote her one day when I was bored. It's strange, but I think I'm best at writing horribly involved in-jokes instead of fiction.

To: Jenny Sohn
Sent: Wednesday, June 28, 2000 1:13 PM
Subject: Legend.


Once upon a time, Benjamin fell asleep in a cave far from home and turned into a
dragon.

When Princess Jenipher misspelled his name so that he'd be able to fit in
amongst her kingdom of illiterate followers, he barbecued her with his fire
breath and ate her with potatoes and carrots on a kabob. Her minions weeped,
misspelling her name in graffiti along the castle walls.

Benjamin the Dragon couldn't understand why the masses would weep for Jenipher.
After all, she died as part of a low-cal health food snack. Nonetheless, they
seemed upset.

So Benjamin used his fire breath again and torched their village and all of its
landmarks. The Gregory Peck Auditorium. Tim Daly International Airport. The
Mindy Cohn School for Girls. The Gabriel Resendez Sexual Health Clinic.
Starbucks. Borders. The Brendan Fraser Synagogue. Snacks and Nacho's Snack and
Nacho Bar. Molly's Veterinary Clinic. Small Things. The Young Indiana Jones
Adventure Park. The Dexy's Midnight Runners Memorial. Rick Springfield General
Hospital.

While Benjamin was destroying the village, a lady-in-waiting named Holly and a
guy in a jester's cap approached the dragon and told him to stop. Unfortunately,
the dragon was wearing headphones and listening to a dub tape of They Might Be
Giants songs. While dancing, he accidentally stepped on the couple, crushing
them to death.

Eventually, Benjamin was summoned to the castle by Queen Jan and King Steve,
where he was reprimanded for eating their daughter and wearing jeans without a
belt.

Benjamin the Dragon was forced to leave the kingdom, which really didn't have
all that much left in it anyway.

So Benjamin ventured into a disco kingdom, where he became lost in a sea of gay
people. And he lived happily ever after.

THE END.

Yeah, I'm nuts.

God will be cut.

So I watched KILL BILL last night, even though I was trying to wait for my friend C.J. to join me. I admit it. I'm a movie dork. I had to see the new Tarantino on opening weekend.

And I really liked it. I mean, I really, really liked it. It was so violent, so odd, so occasionally funny, and it was unlike any Tarantino film I'd seen before. Instead of holding a grain of seriousness or having the catchy dialogue and the usual gallery of rogues, KILL BILL's a Tarantino-ized kung fu movie, like the kind they used to play on Channel 69 when I was a kid.

It also reminded me of the old movie cliffhangers I used to watch on VHS, the sort where you're perpetually in suspense - even though you essentially know where the story's going.

I loved it.

I'd rather be writing.

So I've been writing less on the blog and fewer e-mails to friends because my new supervisor at work, my friend Ethan, wants me to make him look good. And I want to keep my job, rather than continue down the horrible, uninspired path that I've been going down for months. So Ethan told me to get my production up, cut my distractions down and actually arrive at work on time. These are all things that I had been able to do effortlessly, but lately it's become a bit of a strain to me.

My fear is that I just don't care anymore. I'd rather be writing, coming up with ideas, doing something productive, working to get published. Instead, I'm just slowly dying while making a living.

I know life is like this. I know that it's not always good. I know there are lots of people who'd rather be doing something else, going somewhere else to work. How, exactly, do I go from being one of the guys leading humdrum lives to one of the guys leading a charmed one? Which risks do I take to help me change paths, or am I already on the path to becoming a published, notable writer?

I've been lonely lately. Edmondson had dinner with me a couple days ago because I was depressed, sitting at my office long after everyone else had left. I was trying to get motivated to actually do something for my job - but I couldn't eke out even the smallest bit of energy to get it done.

I want to write the stories needed to finish "The Consequences of Falling." I want to compile my best essays into an understandable, cohesive collection. I want to do readings, develop a small enough fan base to get people excited about what I intend to say about things - whatever the hell that will be.

I'm not content with being ordinary. I guess that's the first stance I have to take - so I'm taking it, and it's not the first time I've said so.

Kacoon's Mom, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

Kacoon's mom, Kathy, once shared a joint with David Bowie. When she was relating that story to me sometime last year, she let on something else.

"He was a very nice young man," she said. "And we stood outside smoking, and he gave me a kiss."

It was the early '70s. He was on his first record tour or on some introductory tour or something. Kathy was married to her first husband (though both of her husbands were in radio), and, if she was then what she is now, was humble, smart, approachable and attractive.

So David Bowie kissed her.

Kacoon hadn't heard that part of the story until she heard it related to me, and her reaction was mild shock. Since Midget was with us, though, and he wondered who David Bowie was and why that man would kiss his Granny, we let the topic drop.

Still, when I see Kathy (and I haven't in a while), I try to see who she was, alongside who she is now.

An open letter to Daniel Day-Lewis.

Dear Daniel Day-Lewis,

I realize that you are no longer as young or as good looking as you were in "My Beautiful Laundrette," a movie I just caught this weekend, but I have to admit that I did not have any sort of feelings for you or crush on you until after I'd seen it. Certainly, you understand that I've often thought of you as a talented actor, particularly in "Gangs of New York" (where you stole the whole damn movie), but I've never, ever before seen you portraying anyone as attractive as you did in "My Beautiful Laundrette."

Allow me to explain why I'd not seen it until this weekend. I usually avoid gay-themed cinema because it's usually filled with the sort of gay people that I don't like being around. The gay characters in most gay cinema represent stereotypes, cope with the threat of AIDS or concentrate on the fact, most often, that they're only defined by their sexuality and craft an entire personality around that preference and its culture.

That concept of sexuality bores me to tears, so I usually avoid the movies. (Occasionally, I have missed out on some good cinema that happened to be about gay people because of my predilection to avoid 'gay cinema' - but, on the whole, I find it's a wise stance to take.)

But, in your big gay movie, it wasn't about the characters being gay, being accepted for the big queens they were or coming to terms with the fact that they liked to, you know, fellate. I don't even think they talked about it or waxed philosophically and endlessly about it. The characters just knew it of themselves and each other - and they knew the thrust of their relationship, even if others didn't.

As a result of making their sexuality just a side note, director Stephen Frears was actually able to devote time to making them into well-written, individual characters.

And, as a result of the fact that you got to play a character who was many things besides gay, I developed a complete and total crush on you - with your bad dye job and lack of a shirt.

So, thank you, Daniel Day-Lewis, for letting me on the bandwagon late. You're absolutely hot, and I love you more than Cillian Murphy, Benno Furmann and David Anders from "Alias."

Thanks,

Benj

Company outing.

So I was at the bookstore on Friday, the day before I found out that I did get my pay raise, and I was talking with this new bookseller named Erica, who went to UGA. It was the first time I'd ever met her.

Erica told me that she went to Dacula High School.

"Oh, I had a friend who went to Dacula," I said.

"Really, who was it?" she asked.

"Ryan ...," I said. "Oh my God, I've forgotten his last name. How could I forget his last name? It's something simple. Simple like Smith, but it's not Smith. It's like Morris, but not that ..."

She told me the name of her friend Ryan, and that Ryan's name and my Ryan's name were the same name.

"Really???" Erica said. "He was one of my best friends in high school."

"Yeah, he was my ex-boyfriend," I said. "I dated him last year."

"I've not seen him in years," she said, then her eyes got huge. "Wait ... RYAN'S GAY???????????????"

"Oh God," I said. "Umm..."

"Ryan's GAY???" she asked me. "We must not be talking about the same guy."

"Oh my God," I said.

She looked sorta baffled.

"Cute kid, he was blond," I said. "He went to Valdosta State. He was studying education. He'd be about 21 now. I dated him when he was 19, and I was 25. I've not seen him in over a year, but I have photos of him."

"I never even thought about it," she said. "I mean, I almost asked him to prom. Are you sure it was him?"

"His birthday was February 2," I said. "Groundhog Day."

"Oh my God," she said. "It is the same guy."

"I know," I said.

So, in my first conversation with my new co-worker, I managed to out myself and out her best friend from high school, a boy she had a crush on.

"I'm sorry," I kept saying. "This is so weird. I'm sorry."

Slim to none.

I've tried not to publicize this fact, for fear that it would be met with Oprah-style backlash and subsequent weight gain, but I have managed to lose 10 pounds through eating better, taking vitamins and paying more attention to a scale. I think I look better, and other people tell me that "my face is less round."

I told my mother about this weight loss earlier this week, which is dangerous because the woman will praise you until you end up horribly self-conscious.

It's only 10 pounds, as well, which isn't much, but I want to lose more weight and can't seem to have much success with it. At the same time, I don't want to be one of those "gym people," the ones so addicted to going to the gym and eating right that they occasionally forget that life is better with occasional moments of care-free indulgence.

I don't really want to gain the weight back. I want to lose more. I am still not, by any means, buff. (That, I think, would require the time and effort of actual exercise.)

But I feared that letting people know that I'd lost weight would make it a conscious, rather than subconscious, goal. And I'm not good with conscious goals, if that makes any sense.

Publish or perish.

Motivated by the Buford High School reunion site that I run with my friends Dena and CJ in preparation for our 10-year, which is sometime next year, someone posted an application questionnaire for The WB's "High School Reunion" reality show. And I filled out some of the questions and posted it on the reunion message board.

People liked it, saying I should put it toward the show. But, instead, I pitched them a joke of an idea for our own "Survivor"-like "High School Reunion" show, set on a houseboat in the middle of Lake Lanier near our hometown. I said that we'd only be able to shop for food once a day and that the only place we could shop for food would be the Tote-a-Poke, a real country-and-ghetto convenience store in the middle of our hometown.

The people on the message board have been hassling me ever since, saying that the idea is hilarious and that I should both continue the story and try to sell it to Hollywood.

But it's not exactly an original idea, and it's filled with in-jokes. And lots of friends from the site are telling me that I'm talented and smart.

But I know that I can do better than that. And I know that publishers are harder to impress.

I feel like, in regard to my writing, one day I will inevitably publish ... probably, but I think I need some more experience before I do that. Also, I think I need a couple great ideas if I'm going to even attempt this.

I can't tell if I'm being wisely reluctant or just masking that I'm scared I'm not good enough. I realize I have to try to publish, but I don't feel confident enough about it yet.

I mean, I want to be surefire, a strong candidate that no one can reasonably say no to.

Some people think I'm already at that point. But I don't.

Black like me.

Black and I were talking again last night, and he keeps telling me that he's boring. He's not. If he's boring, then I am, and I'm not boring. I don't think I'm putting Black on a pedestal or anything by saying that, but I've been thinking lately that I eventually come to a point in my friendships with straight guys where a line is crossed. The whole straight-boy dumb crush thing, which often curses my people, hits me.

Thankfully, I have managed to avoid it with Black and yet been able to continue talking with him on a comfortable, open level that we both understand, thank God.

(I was reminded of the dumb crush thing a couple days ago when my friend Lance, married to a woman who's pregnant with their first child, started to ask me seemingly leading questions about how gay sex is different from straight sex, and I freaked out, thinking he was going to request a demonstration or something.)

While talking to Black, he actually asked me what I was looking for in a guy, i.e. should he happen to meet someone gay - what criteria would be necessary to point them in my direction?

Now, I told him I have a list of what I like in a guy, which I wrote earlier this year, but I couldn't find it last night.

I remember only a bit of the list. It included this, I think:

A guy who I could talk to. A guy who could give me space. A guy I would hold a common ground with. A guy who understood the baggage I come with and was willing to accept it. A guy who gave me space to grow. A guy willing to help me enjoy sex more, understanding my hangups with it. A guy who understood spirituality enough to discuss it but didn't necessarily embrace it. A guy who didn't blindly like what I did but instead had his own opinions about things similar to the stuff that I liked so that we could chat about it. A guy who wore glasses.

It was nice of Black to ask me what I liked. Sometimes, in talks with him, I feel like I'm the only one talking and that I'm talking in ridiculous, unnecessary platitudes to him.

I guess it's possible that the only reason I don't think Black is boring is because I too am boring. But wouldn't I know if that were the case?

Today, Black, Miss Gibson and I engaged in a discussion of "open marriage" perameters. Is that something boring people talk about? I think not.

When I talk to him, I think Black's on the same page as me, that we're alike. I wish I could find a gay guy who was like that, but I haven't yet.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

The Apocalypse must be coming. I mean, seriously. If you can purchase all the "good" seasons of this but cannot get some other television shows on DVD yet, then there's something wrong with American consumer culture, right?

I'm usually not all political on here. I don't usually talk about religion or philosophy. But this DVD package cannot be a good sign of things to come.

Granted, the episode where Jessie gets hooked on speed and cries because she won't be able to get into Stanford before bursting into a chorus of "I'm So Excited" is one of the great moments in television history.

But the existence of a DVD box set is a bad, bad thing.

Across 110th Street.

Last night, though I probably should've been sleeping, I decided to watch one of my three new DVDs. The one I watched first, which you can probably guess from the photo, was the third Tarantino film, "Jackie Brown," which I had only seen once before when it was in theaters.

It was better than I had remembered it. As a thriller goes, it was complicated, well-made, very well-acted and consistently interesting.

I'm trying to gear up for "Kill Bill, Vol. 1," which I didn't think I would be excited about, but, as it approaches, I'm looking back over other Tarantino films to, I guess, prepare.