Post Nasal Drips.

Late night. 11:30 p.m. Went and hung out at this 24-hour Internet cafe downtown called Shot In the Dark. Pretty hip joint, a sprinkle of college students, literary fags, dykes, and junkies spun out of their minds. As I passed through the door, took a macho pose on the back wall and listened in on a poetry session already in progress. Yes, bongos and incense were well represented. A little lesbian with short black curly hair and green army fatigue pants asked if I wanted anything. Ordered a Yoo-hoo.
Was reacquainted with a friend I had met recently...no, I knew him from Primavera. Tony, they called him. Little guy, with real white teeth. Nice smile, I suppose, in a nerdy bespectacled kind of way. Well, Tony was glad to see me and I guess I was the same. Pretty numb about talking and associating lately. People are quite a bore.
Sometimes.
So, I stood there with my Yoo-hoo, still feeling the high from the joint I toked before leaving my trap angry that The Aviator did not win the Oscar for Best Picture. Assholes. A handsome black guy rapped off a beautiful sonnet about the desert and sunsets. My fascination swung to lust as it often does. I had not made it with a black guy in a long time. The guy on the stage was a chocolate-colored Hercules. In dreads. Wonder if he fools around. Dream of running my pale hand across his dark and muscular chest, down his chiseled six-pack...
So, I was dragged out of my reverie by the nasal whine of Tony. So, wacha wanna do? Was asked about seven or eight times. Damn, boy, shut up and let me enjoy my high. With a ding-a-ling of the doorbell, our feet were hitting the pavement under the pale full moon and we found ourselves at the Iguana Bar. The clientele was old hippies, bikers, and drunk Indians. Country and Banda filled the room. Old, and I mean OLD, Mexican bitch started hitting on me as I entered the bar. "Buy me a drink!" She tottered, breathing halitosis and beer and vomit into my face.
"Let's get outta here."
Walked...no stumbled...down 4th Ave to a bar called The Surly Wench. Why not? Entered...college crowd, cheap Coronas. Hip and groovy clean-cut assholes did a ballet to and fro through cigarette smoke in a vain attempt to impress one another. No towering hostile transvestites or slick-talking boy hustlers here. But, I digress...the beer was cheap.
 

Tony, who started getting cuter as I was getting drunker said let's bar hop. Why not? The next bar was Che, and for the love of fucking God a karaoke show was in progress. Three...four shots of tequila and I am up on stage belting out Raspberry Beret by Prince. A showstopper, I tell you.

Let's go to I.B.T's...
What's that?
A queer bar.
Ech. The thought of being surrounded by a bunch of sneering aloof-looking fags peering around with their "Attitude Face" gave me the horrors. Listen to How Soon Is Now by The Smiths, so true...so true.
I shudder but follow Tony anyway. At the door, we are turned away by the large and surly doorman. Glares at Tony, "You're barred, brother. You can't come in."
Barred? Fuck. Asking no questions, mainly because I didn't care, we headed back downtown and finished the night playing pool at some dive called Sharks. These assholes had a karaoke show blaring here, too. Played drunken pool with three exchange students from Central America. Two hot, one not. Sat in the back on a red Velvet couch and made out with some guy from Peru. Last call and I said goodbye and took a taxi home. Jack off and fall asleep in that mess. And to top it off, my nose is running from that fucking cold that won't go away.

Assuming the Position.

Went with David to the Ballet last night, then to dinner and this gay bar called Venture In, I think, surrounded by dreary faggots then home where I came down from coke and was a little drunk and went into a deep depression. Poor David talked me through it and was very patient and sweet, and then he fucked me, all of which helped. He's right though, I must lay off the coke, because it just emphasizes my manic-depressive personality and last night the depressive part was feeling pretty nearly unendurable---though, of course, it wasn't actually, at least not with David there with me. But, I still feel so fucking alone. But that's no justification for facilitating an awful funk.

So, I fasted all day as an experiment in spiritual hygiene. Gave me a headache and a dull depression. I don't feel particularly cleansed, either. So, here I lay on my bed, smoking a joint and drinking black coffee staring at a blank piece of paper in my screenplay notebook.

I want to do a trashy comedy in the vein of John Waters or Pedro Almodóvar…Okay, how's this:

The title is called Assuming the Position and it is the tale of two incestuous yet gorgeous brothers who live in a trailer in Tennessee with their morbidly obese sister who drives around town on a scooter raping men for fun. The three are erroneously charged with possession of heroin and flee the law in a wacky chase across three states in a black Mustang convertible full of shotgun holes.

God. Awful...just awful. You see, I have no inspiration.

Nothing.

Reading Virginia Wolf's Diaries. How effortless the excellent writing seems to pour out of her. As if the world collaborated with her and helped her along, rather than presenting her with dead ends and solid objects that resist meaning. What was her secret? Surely it was not good luck to have been at the right place at the right time with the right people. But I often feel that I am obstructed in just this way: the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong people.

Found a poem by Fredrick Seidel in an anthology. It ends: "Convinced life is meaningless/ I lack the courage of my conviction."

Bad Education.

After David and I woke up and took care of each other’s morning erections, I prepared breakfast and David went to work. So, having the day to myself, I decided to catch up on my movies. Dressing fabulously and rather sexy, I took off to the El Con Mall and checked out Pedro Almodóvar’s Bad Education. The movie was terrific! Gael Garcia was fantastic and the whole film left me homesick for Mexico. (Even though it took place in Spain.)
The film was an erotic telling of passion, blackmail, double identities, Catholic boy-loving priests, and heroin-addicted transvestites. And the urge to turn this into a movie by aspiring actor Ignacio, played by that sexy midget Gael Garcia. Dear Reader, I strongly recommend this film if you like intriguing gay cinema. And it made me horny, the sex scenes were hot. Boy, when David gets home tonight, it'll be time for a little bada-bing!
I then snuck into and saw the new Keanu Reeves movie Constantine. It was okay. Basic comic book on film. He plays a freelance exorcist with some great effects. I enjoyed Bad Education more.
After stopping in a local bar downtown, The Green Iguana, I downed a Corona and a burrito machaca amidst drunken Indians. Walked around downtown and perused a local bookshop. One film I want to see is War of the Worlds. That was the first book I had ever read when I was but a sprite. I remember walking home from school and looking down at this pile of garbage was a ragged copy of H. G. Well's The War of the Worlds. I remember sitting on the back porch of my mother’s house and reading it cover to cover. I loved the 1955 George Pal take on it and await to see was Spielberg does with it. The trailer looked awesome. Inspired by the films and trailers I saw today, I went home and started to bang out my new screenplay called Porno. It is about two guys that find romance in a porno theater. It is a comedy.

Normal.

Woke up to Margaritaville by I think Jimmy Buffet. Man, did that make me homesick. I started to wonder about all the friends I left behind in Mexico. I still have a strong urge to return there one day. After, I ate a bowl of Fruit Loops, showered, put on my shirt and tie, and went to work.
Two drunks were sitting at the bus stop, passing a bottle of Jack between them. At six in the morning. Oh, well. When you gotta have it you gotta, I guess. At any other time, I would have joined them. But I am still down with this damn cold. I wish I didn't smoke that weed last night with David...I am so tired. So weak. I have had a sore throat for about two weeks now. Perhaps a trip to the croakers is in order.
At work, time went a little slow. Got yelled at by abusive guests. Same old shit. Man, what a boring normal existence. I dream of Mexico on a daily basis. After work, went home and cooked dinner. Grilled chicken in tomato salsa with Spanish rice. A nice glass of Merlot. Did some final edits on my laptop to that movie I filmed in Tijuana. It lifted me out of the doldrums for a bit. David came home from his job, we talked, ate, and fucked. That boy really can make one work up a sweat. Went to sleep around nine-thirty. Gads, is this what is like to be normal? How can you people deal with it?

Slow day at work.

Okay, some friends and I at work were talking about if we did porno movies what names would we have. A guy said he would be Dick Viscous. One of the girls said something like Tittiana Boobaliscous, and I stated mine would be Fanny Albright or Ida Slapter. Then the wizened old night auditor put in his two cents. He stated blankly that he did a couple of flix back in the late 70's and early 80's in Van Nuys, CA. "Back when they's were called nudies." He wheezed. Okay. Anyway, he said that in the Industry the way a star gets his or her porn moniker is that the first name is the name of the first pet that you owned and your last name was the street that you were raised on.
So. There.
You have it straight from the horse’s mouth. In that case, my first pet was a light brown collie named Chucky and the street that I grew up on was Brooks Road. Hence and therefore, if I ever indulged in the adult film industry, my porn name would be Chucky Brooks. Mmmm, gettin' you horny, people? That's a hot-sounding name, right? Actually, it sounds like a late talk show host from the 1960s. "It's the Chucky Brooks Variety Hour with his guest Phyllis Diller and the Ed Blank Orchestra!"
Anyway, kids...why don't you jump on the bandwagon and leave a comment of what your porn name would be. Can you smell the fun that will ensue?
I am all a-quiver with anticipation.

I'm so freakin' fabulous!

Vishnu, grant me strength! Since I decided to live here in Tucson I had spent the last four days buying an obscene amount of stuff for my new apartment. However, my little swinger pad is starting to look grr-jus! Simply grr-jus!!
I love my job...my Hindu hottie boss is really cool and the other employees are laid back. Haven't been doing much...working, shopping, getting things in order. I sit here in my darkened place, typing on my laptop and drinking hot tea with honey (I am down with a slight cold.) and my feelings go out to a certain Aussie whose apartment recently burned down by a freak act of God. Well, it is my belief nothing is by accident. Everything happens for a reason, and only good times can come out of it. He snapped back like a 16-year-old with a hard-on! Happy and carefree in even better digs.
But, more about me.
I have been so happy lately...walking down the sunny streets kissing babies and hugging bunnies...things are going my way. David is being wonderful and for the first time in many relationships, I am not filled with doubt and self-loathing. I really like this feller. I know, you more prudish faggots will shrill that I a cheatin' two-faced liar...but hey, it's my life and YOU are so perfect, reet?
The only thing, Dear Reader, is the content of my writing. It's so tame. I really never have anything to write about...I don't live in filth and shit and perversion anymore, so I have no inspiration. Most of the time I stare at a blank screen or just look at porn. I don't suffer any longer. Have you noticed some of the greatest literary works in human history were written whilst the author was in misery?

• Naked Lunch: William Burroughs was living in a boy brothel in Tangier shooting heroin.
• 1984: George Orwell was dying from hacking tuberculosis.
• The Metamorphosis: Franz Kafka was diving into dementia and a failing liver.
• And Edgar Alan Poe? I won't even go into her crazy descent into coke and ether-induced madness.

What I am saying is, I think it is time to gather my notes, print my blog Borrowed Flesh, gather my old letters and e-mails while I was on the road, and start my great American novel for the 21st century. It'll be something...a monumental descent into Hell and hazardous addictions only to rise Phoenix-like and stand amidst the ashes in my borrowed flesh with a shit-eating grin on my face.
Now, I have to come up with a snappy title. Hmmm? Let's see...Loser? It's the last thing Felix Montero said to me as we parted on the subway in Los Angeles a million lifetimes ago. Lost Highway? paying a homage to one of my favorite David Lynch movies. Or simply...Borrowed Flesh. Even though, some plagiarizing cunt has used the title for some hack work she pounded out. I'm not bitter, though.
I'm open to suggestions for a title. I mean, Kerouac came up with the title Naked Lunch, Old Bill wanted to call it Interzone.
Anyone?

Kooky.

Went ahead and rented me an apartment today. Pretty swanky joint...no smell of sewage, no amassed army of cockroaches, no heroin addicts sleeping in my doorway, fat hookers lurking in the darkness. Yup, think I'm gonna dig Tucson fer awhiles, kiddies.
Now, to break in me new digs, David and I humped on the floor (Not possessing furnishings yet.) I mean, I gotta bed, but we managed to thrash and flounder onto the carpeted floor. Quite limber, that Mexican, and very pneumatic in the hips, if ya takes my meaning. Do you dig, daddy-o's? Really starting to fall for that fellah...and a sweet fellah, too. Real nice and kind. Not greedy money hungry hustlers expecting cash or drugs for my sugar bum. No...not David. He treats me right gentle and kind, he does. I feel a warm stirring in my heart...a feeling I haven't felt since---well, that's dark and forgotten history now, folks, no need to bring him up, again. I turned over a new leaf...a sunny disposition. Clouds seem fluffier, birds are singing, music is always in the air, I feel like running through the streets with childlike abandon. I feel as if a shroud of shadow has been lifted off of my soul.
I really do feel quite optimistic of late. I think it's....that is to say, I do believe I am in, well...love.