The Lair of Sodomy Blog (2007-2008)

 

I struggle with religion, and whether I believe in God depends on the hour/minute of the day. I want to believe, much like Fox Mulder, and in a strange way I’m fascinated by people who have blind, unquestioning, unbreakable faith: their faith—insulated, absolutist way of looking at things seems a lot easier, mostly because they aren’t using the brains that God might have created for them. The mental ping-pong of agnosticism can be torture, especially the closer you get to believing in “something.”

 

I've seen too many bizarre coincidences—synchronicity that defies the possibility of coincidence—to say that I believe in nothing... but the deep water drives people crazy with hatred and magical thinking. Perhaps faith is a tool like a hammer: you can either build something with it or whack people over the head.

 

Is religion necessary if people treat one another decently? If it does help some people act kinder, is it a good thing even if it’s not a true thing? And why can't I stop caring about these questions?

 

The difference between adolescence and young adulthood—at least for me—is that your exclamation points become question marks.

 

Me: “Wow, that commercial was suggestive.”

 

Girlfriend: “Indeed it was.”

 

Me: “I suppose it is for personal lubrication…

 

 

I would rather not add my voice to the chorus of sanctimonious pundits and politicians—on the Left and Right—who have turned the Virginia Tech massacre into a cheap political football. It was a freak thing, and growing up in the age of Columbine and 9/11 should have taught us that—even if we pass laws to keep us safer—the world has a certain amount of deadly chaos. All we can do is try to enjoy every day, count our blessings and try not to become so hardened that this kind of insanity fails to shock us.

 

By the way, did you know the shooter railed against “vodka,” “cognac” and “debauchery” in his crazed diatribe? If that’s sobriety, I no longer feel guilty about my alcoholism…

 

 

Girlfriend: “Did you see that?”

 

Me: “What?”

 

Girlfriend: “This commercial for Eclipse gum… a girl kissed a guy and then winked at another girl. She's bisexual!”

 

Me: “Isn't Double Mint the gum that doubles your pleasure?”

 

 

I find Generation S.L.U.T. a little embarrassing these days. I felt so strongly about certain things back then—the Death of Young Love, our instant gratification culture, blah blah blah—and now those complaints seem very strident and adolescent. Granted, I wrote the book at 19—so of course it was adolescent—but with a few years of mellowing I can understand much of the criticism directed my way. The world isn't going to end if people get laid on a casual basis. Long-term relationships are intense and complicated, and not everyone is ready for soul-deep commitment before they turn twenty.

 

On the other hand, a line near the end of the book discusses how people forget so fast how much it hurts to be a kid, so they brush their youthful passion off as hormonal, melodramatic teen angst. Perhaps the younger me knew the older me better than the older me knows myself, if that makes sense. I've heard that reading Catcher in the Rye is a very different experience as an adult, so maybe S.L.U.T. is the same way: something that younger people will always understand while older people—including its author—roll their eyes because they've stabilized emotionally and moved on to other worries. (For example, making enough $$$ to not starve to death.)

 

Life is a conveyor belt: everyone seems to undergo similar traumas and tribulations—and grow accordingly—at the same pace. Call it the Human Factory. As you progress along the assembly line, everything that came before gains a new meaning—even if it no longer makes sense, you can only define your current self in comparison to who you were then. You eventually learn to sit back and let the machine take you wherever it decides, let it break you and rebuild you in all the right places.

 

Does the universe want to make us better people?

 

It’s strange to think that my friends who died are no longer on this conveyer belt; they will never grow beyond what they were—they’re frozen in time—even though I can look back at those ages with a new perspective. For now the waters are calm, but every sailor needs to pass those rocks, and not everyone makes it to the other side.

 

(Five minutes have passed; I'm totally embarrassed by this post.)

 

 

Dear careless woman who leaves her underwear in the washing machine,

 

You are once again responsible for my girlfriend accusing me of cheating on her—this is the fifth or sixth time—which is not appreciated right before Valentine’s Day.

Do you no longer want your bras and panties? Throw them away! Donate them! Sell them to perverts on the Internet! Just stop leaving them for me to accidentally mix with my laundry. I’d tell you to “suck my dick,” but then you might and that would be cheating which I have never actually done.  I will destroy you… unless you are blind or something, in which case it’s understandable. (You have some cute underwear for a blind chick! Did you pick those out randomly, or did someone help you?)

Update: the mystery is solved! The underwearbelongs to my girlfriend's best friend, who forgot it here when she spent the night… after we had sex while my girlfriend slept. (Ha! Ha! Isn't that funny, babe?) Seriously, though, I’ve spent the past 24 hours in the doghouse for nothing, so either of you gals can pay for my Valentine's dinner this year… or split it… or split me.

 

My answers to a time-wasting online quiz:

 

 

Do shikses count as a "race"?

 

 

And disgust!

 

 

Mandy Moore's uterus.

 

 

I don’t have any piercings. Aside from the spike through my taint…

 

 

Sure would… wait, did you say “pick up” or “hack up”?

 

 

In a heart attack beat.

 

 

No, I already have the perfect body.

 

 

They already made Boogie Nights.

 

 

No… you can give me a pad of paper and some crayons and I'll entertain myself for hours.

 

 

Not if I can help it... mullets scare me.

 

 

A multivitamin. And RU-486 before that.

 

 

It depends… would the rattlesnake molest me?

 

 

I tend to masturbate instead.

 

 

Ernest Hemingway… or Wonder Woman.

 

 

"At a Medium Pace" by Adam Sandler

 

 

"Like Suicide," Soundgarden

 

 

“God, I want chocolate,” said a female friend of mine as we walked back from a bar. “Chocolate ice cream, chocolate milk, chocolate anything.”

 

“For real, baby?” said a random black guy. “I’m chocolate!”

 

I was looking for deli meats at the grocery store.

 

The cheapest was something called “homemade turkey.”

 

For some reason I opted for a more expensive selection.

 

 

I touched Stephen Colbert today.

 

My life is complete.

 

This is all.

 

 

A teenaged reporter interviewed me about high school life in the 1990s.

 

 

Baggy jeans, plaid button-downs, a chain wallet… my hair was down to my jaw too. Aside from the musical talent I was just like Kurt Cobain.

 

 

WAY LESS! A movie was seven dollars, a matinee was four, not thirteen and twelve respectively. And coffee was like fifty cents. Not to sound like a grumpy old grandfather complaining about inflation…

 

 

Quite a bit of Spice Girls.

 

 

Hmmm... I wanted to have sex pretty bad, if I remember correctly.

 

Friend: “Thanksgiving is going to suck.”

 

Me: “Why?”

 

Friend: “My parents got divorced so I'll need to go to one meal and then leave for the other meal, and it will just remind me that I'm not thankful for anything.”

 

Me: “That's amazing, dude!”

 

Friend: “Huh?”

 

Me: “Two dinners? I'm so totally jealous!”

 

Friend: (long, awkward silence) “No, I think I would rather have a family…”

 

"You know, he might've been born this month, but come April we're just going to nail him to a piece of wood so what's the big deal?"

 

I puked seven times in the morning; I'd like to think that Little Baby Jesus was responsible for six of those.