So what.

5.18.05
6:09
Sew buttons…motherfucker.
A few nights ago saw Nine Inch Nails at Hammerstein Ballroom. Pretty awesome shit. Not only did they play one of my favorite songs, but I was three feet from David Bowie (and, incidentally, twelve feet from Chris Rock). He came out to his seat about five minutes before the show started but one fan noticed him and thought it would be helpful to shriek “DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE!!!!!!” It seemed Mr. Bowie found this less helpful than the fan thought it would be and left. A moment or so after the show started, he came out and took his seat. At one point, another overzealous fan wanted me to pass a drink up to Mr. Bowie, thinking that he would love to accept and drink from a cup passed to him from a Nine Inch Nails pit. I explained to the guy that I didn’t think Mr. Bowie wanted to be disturbed and that he didn’t look all that thirsty to me. After the show the guy came up to me and said he understood why I didn’t pass the cup to him and that he bore me no ill will. Whew. That would have totally ruined my night otherwise.
After the show I mingled with people who have more artistic ability in their feces then I will ever have in my entire body…unless I fill my body with their feces.
I also noticed yesterday that the new Star Wars comes out tonight (midnight) and I discovered that being able to say I was at the first showing is about as important as being able to remember where I was during 9/11. It isn’t. Why would I go that far out of my way to see it? So I can impress my unborn children by telling them I was there? I don’t plan on raising my kids to be impressed with bullshit like that. Jesus.
In a short time I will put up a link to Iggy Pop’s cover of “Louie Louie”. It is pure rock and it features a guitar solo that will singe your pubic hair…guaranteed.
Philip joins our cadre on Monday. I find myself unable to become excited. I think I have damaged my circuitry. All I can do to show my eager anticipation is wander around in a priapic state much to the chagrin of the local authorities. I will soon be cited for “sexually assaulting the air”, a fine I will gladly pay.
I am two episodes away from the end of Oz and the episode I watched today had me bawling for a good fifteen minutes. I have received the first two discs of “The Sopranos” from NetFlix and I look forward to redigesting that series soon.
At this moment, I have over four hours left in my shift at the Hospital and I am bitter because I was only scheduled to work four hours total (3p –7p) but blah blah called in and blah blah blah. Idiots. They couldn’t schedule an erection at the Priapism Clinic…where I was earlier today.
I can feel the warm, fuzzy fingers of Sleep fluffing a pillow under my head and I just might doze off a bit. The board and phone have been rather quiet…oh wait, I turned them off…well, anyway, I might answer a few calls and then lay my head down for forty winks or so. A power nap. Yeah, a power nap…
NO! I must not succumb to Satan’s Sleep Whisperings!!
MUST…STAY…DISTRACTED!!!
So, as some of you might know, I am doing two more performances of Lysistrata: The Musical this weekend in New Lebanon, New York at a place called Theatre Barn. We have replaced three people in the cast and I have charged myself with welcoming them (officially) to the cast this weekend.
We arrive just before noon on Friday and rehearse until 6. Then a cast dinner somewhere in New Lebanon. We have another day of rehearsal until our 8pm show on Saturday night, after which there will be a mind-bending/erasing cast party during which the Welcoming shall commence. Part one will welcome the two new girls: Liz and Debra. It consists of me lip-synching to Beck’s “Debra”, treating Liz as “Jenny” and Debra as “Debra”. Debra has seen almost every incarnation of Lysistrata and now that she has become a part of it, she is happy as a theatrical pig in theatrical shit to be here. Liz, I don’t really know, but I hope she likes to be groped and offered “a fresh pack of gum”. Part two of the Welcoming will be for our new “Cadman”, Ricky. I plan to serenade him with Electric Six’s “Gay Bar”. If he isn’t actually gay now, he will be once I’m done. Sursly.
Now, Christina, I’m sure you remember a certain cast party where your certain boyfriend made out with a lot of other certain people and then there was a certain Mono scare going around. Well, this time around I promise not to kiss ANYONE, male or female, gay or straight, plant, animal or mineral…not that you’d notice. I can barely make you out on the horizon as you speed off in your Short-Filmobile with your new talented friends with their talented feces and leave me in my Theatredust with my own nutrient deprived waste products.
Anyway, after the Brain Washing Bash on Saturday night, we have a second performance set for Sunday afternoon at 2pm. Personally, I think that is a BAAAD idea. Quite a few members of the cast are horny problem drinkers with no morals to speak of and I fear that come 2pm on Sunday, half the cast will have drowned in a pool of OPV (other people’s vomit) while the other half will be dealing with OPSTD (other people’s sexually transmitted diseases). Which leads me to ask: Why the fuck are theatre people so goddamn loose?
The Theatre Company at Fordham was a veritable Fuckfest. A student just arriving at Fordham this year could, conceivable catch the same crabs that afflicted a senior from twelve years ago. I remember my Freshmen year these two girls (ugly ones who would never be a part of the fucking, so they had to find something wrong with it) did some digging and created a flow chart of hook-ups, blow jobs, one night stands and anything else that connected the students, past and present of the Theatre Company. It was a sobering diagram, my friends. Lisa’s college was a total Fuck Out also. I am amazed and thankful that she didn’t contract syphilis, clamydia or some new STD created solely by the licentious droves of Florida Southern simply from being in contact with these walking Petri dishes. Just thinking about it makes me want to wear a condom and immerse my genitals in bleach.
So why is it? Why do Theatre people fuck so much? Is it that much of a turn-on to pretend you're someone or something you are not? Or does acting not have anything to do with it? Is it just a gathering of people who understand on the most instinctual level that the people around them will put out? I am baffled by it, but every single show I have ever been in with more than one person in the cast has had sexual tension you could cut with a pink jelly double-dong.

8:06
I don’t know if you ever got around to digging up the story or not but a few weeks ago, a man just wandered out of the Hospital. He showed up here two weeks later, grinning like an asshole. Anyway, the security here is not top notch, to be nice. A moment ago, some lady in a wheelchair rolled passed the security guards into the security office and sat talking to me for a solid twenty minutes about how she feels bad that she annoys me and wanted to apologize for everything she’s done and she hates that she’s impatient but sometimes she can’t help it…only I have no idea who this woman is. I don’t know if she thought I was a priest or her dead husband or what but, oh my fiery lord was it creepy! She had almost no hair and her eyes were fucking HUGE in her gaunt, waxy face. She wouldn’t look me in the eyes, but I felt her gaze on my arms like ants trying to find a way in. Finally, after too long to tell, the phone rings and I turn away. I continued speaking for three minutes after the person hung up, feeling these ants on the back of my head. Suddenly, her ants were gone and she was rolling away, down the hall. If I ever do call the press about how bad things are run and done here, remind me to spend a point or two of blood to shame the balls off of the Security Force, the lazy fuckstains.
You know, my encounter with this sepulchral woman reminded me of a thought I had a few nights ago. I was thinking about being older. Not getting old or being old, but being older. Forty-five or some age like that. At first, I was unable to picture myself at forty-five, then I saw myself clearly and decided that I would have to kill myself before I get much older than thirty. Aside from how creepy I’ll look in twenty years, there’s all the medical stuff that is only peripheral right now but will get worse and worse as I age. I figure once I start to get up there, you all will have forgotten this LiveJournal entry and I will have successfully phased myself out of your lives over a period of years and then, BAM, a lanky, beautiful god-star becomes a lanky, beautiful copse before it can become a creepy zombie man trying not to look at people for fear they misconstrue my accidental glance as a psychic assault on their unborn child or something equally plausible. You see, with the advent of the new TMBG, Beck, eels and NIN albums this year, I realized something: no matter how much importance I place on material possessions, there is still an emptiness, even bigger than before I obtained whatever object I was looking for, and the only thing that will stop the hole from widening is to stop the one with the hole in him. All I really have to look forward to is aging and pain and complications brought on by my various maladies. My eyesight, my connective tissue, my heart, none of that is going to get better with age. The only things that gets better with age is cheese and wine and even the best of each will become unusable after enough time has passed. Friends, I am NOT cheese nor am I wine. I have accepted this. Everything I do is just a distraction. Watching HBO series from NetFlix, checking the same dozen websites hour after hour, day after day for news about a concert, a video, a single, a poster, sleeping whenever I can, everything. The big question up until now was: A distraction from what? Life, folks, life and the fact that it is ending, right now. I sit here reading, talking on the phone, listening to beeps, phones ringing…I am killing time. Killing time until I can get home and watch TV shows that stopped being new three years ago, so I can buy food from the deli, so I can go to sleep, so I can download music, find it lacking and delete it. I’m always desperately looking for something to kill time. Maybe I should stop killing time. You know, time had no real meaning for me until my sophomore year in college. Then all of a sudden, a day was a day. There really were sixty minutes in an hour. I could count three seconds and three seconds would have passed. The time elongation I enjoyed as a kid ended abruptly in my second year at college. I didn’t feel older, I still feel like an 8th grader in a 24-year old body. But I was now able to feel the passage f time for what t was. Days no longer lasted forever. I remember the last day I feel the elasticity of time. It was the birthday of one of Danielle Grelik’s roommates and also the first day of Daylights Savings. We had just gained an hour but I did so much that day. I finally looked at my watch and saw it was only seven o’ clock at night. Five hours later, it was nine. Three hours later, eleven, an hour and a half later, midnight. Slowly, but surely, time became time. It’s only going to keep getting faster from here on out. Some writer described time as “the old bald cheater.” I don’t think time can be personified like Death or the Fates. Time is too immense to be crammed into one, finite form. Time is sort of like a wind. When you are younger, you don’t feel it moving, because it isn’t really. It is surrounding you, swirling this way and that, keeping you warm in your happy, blurry kiddie days. As you get older, it starts to move a bit, gets less warm. Eventually, it starts moving in one direction: towards the future and it gets colder and faster as you grow up. That’s why old people are always cold and forgetful. Time is moving so fast that they have nothing to hold onto, not even memory. God damn that’s grim; and I, for one, would NOT like to be a part of that. So how about this: as soon as I run out of things to do (as in, as soon as I stop finding things to distract me) or my body finally goes from passive to active as far as self-destruction, I’m out of here. Deal? Good.
My head hurts.