QuixoticEpisodic

Am I there?

2005-05-11T19:00:00.000-07:00

haylo all

it has been a long while since my last post. i do not apologize; i merely take note. you're welcome.

anyway, my friend sarah has started a blog. it is fabulous beyond human comprehension. please check it out.

i was recently involved in a produciton of Sartre's No Exit. It was quite enjoyable and rewarding, but it and work took up all my time, leaving no space for cyberspace in my silly life. but now, i'm back . . .

i'm currently trying to decide whether i should go to law school or spend another year working, travelling around, chasing my heart across the globe and expanding my senior thesis project into a novel. i think you all can guess which one i'm leaning toward at the moment. i will soon be posting the entirety of that monstrous thesis on this blog. if you're bored, you should read it. some of it is painfully awkward and sophomoric, but isn't that what learning is all about? anyway, i would love to hear feedback from you. yes, feel free to offer advice and heartless criticism (go for it, D). my ideas about this are blooming, so i'll keep you updated on that, as well.

Only other thing that I want to mention is that Dixie Dirt, a local Knoxville band, just released thier best cd yet. It's called Pieces of the World. I went to their cd release show Friday and was blown away yet again. They are not only the finest band in Knoxville, but they are also the best band I've ever heard that is not on any sort of record label. I have a feeling that will all change soon. So, check them out before it's too late and they're on Jay Leno sounding like Natalie Imbruglia.

i will back soon, with more titillating dribble.

until then...
love scott

Sex without intimacy, or intimacy without sex?

2005-04-03T14:41:00.000-07:00

Which one would you prefer? I’m starting to think that my life is going to be forever plagued with both. I’m an inveterate whore, so, unless I pull myself together, I’m not going to be able to hold on to anyone long enough to crawl deep down inside them both physically and spiritually. I was getting close last summer with Aiman, but I got scared by the yucky stuff that I saw inside him (which we all have). As a result, I ran away to Slutville without looking back. That, of course, ruined my relationship and its possibility for further profundity.

Since then I’ve been stuck with random hookups and a beautiful, beautiful, young thing who lives three states away and is so shy that I sometimes have to pretend I’m a reporter on assignment to get anything out of him.

I’ve also been experiencing something else lately: the joys (and pitfalls) of deeply intimate, truly platonic friendships. They can be as intense and time-consuming as romantic/sexual ones. The highs and lows are equally exhilarating and harrowing in either type of relationship. And there is commitment involved. I’m at the point in my life where I’m not just going through the motions as far as friendship and “hanging out” are concerned. I’m making conscious decisions as to whom I want to spend my time with and toward whom I want to dedicate my energies. Your greatest friends, your friends for life, are the people that you know so well that you’ve got most of their “flaws” catalogued but there’s still something about them that you know you will love them forever, pretty much unconditionally. I’ve been reveling in that lately.

Still, I yearn to bridge the gap between joyous friendship and ecstatic sexual union. I had a recent experience of cuddling with a straight male friend that changed my life. Yes, it gave me a hard-on, but, at the same time, I didn’t want it to go beyond that. It would have been ruined if it did. I’m very proud of myself for being able to tow that line. I think I’ve learned how to keep perversion out of my friendships. Now I need to figure out how to put some friendship into my perversions.

Also, I’m officially coming out against the pervasive homophobic idea that just because a straight man cuddles or flirts with other men, gay or straight, that he is somehow “confused” or “in-denial.” This idea is sexist homophobic bullshit. Don’t we all remember the boys from high school and college who did end up being gay? Were they free with affection and comfortable with themselves and others? No, my friends, they were not. They were extremely paranoid about any homosexual energies invading their inflated alpha-male fantasyland (another sign of homoerotic longings that should be obvious to any gay porn fans). They were also bullies who preyed on any sign of weakness or non-heterosexuality in other males of their tribe. But then what happened? They got drunk and gave the quarterback a “strictly heterosexual” blowjob. And what happened to the comfy boys? Well, they all got married or moved on to something else, just being themselves. Hooray for them, and anyone who dares to call them gay is missing the point.

Anyway, enough about sex. I’m going to see Tori Amos tomorrow in Atlanta!!!! Hooray. Life is grand.

Love Scott (your hero)

musings for whatever state you're in

2005-03-08T15:29:00.000-08:00

So I recently took the plunge and rented Garden State, the film that took the semi-indie film world by storm for a good three months last year. Well, all I have to say is, "That was an okay film." It's hard to keep my erection for a film that I've heard lauded in several languages and from several several people whose taste in film I trust. It had several genuinely pleasing moments. I enjoyed the mixture of absurdist (yet believable) humor and the intense realism of emotions and "chronology." Still, I wanted to hit someone for ending the film with a makeout scene at an airport. Barf. Didn't we get that out of our system with the last episode of Friends?

Anyway, the dvd is loaded with outtakes, deleted scenes, and a making-of documentary. All of this got me thinking: the same type of film could be made about my life in Maryville and all its eccentric hedonist post-graduate residents. I think I would have to call it "Volunteer State." Christine suggested a scene in which I am on the toilet, mid-shit,m talking on the phone to my mother, smoking a cigarette. I like this: A white wall behind me with some ironic wall hanging. I put down the phone, put out my cigarette, and flush with a sigh, soiled paper in my hand. Fade to a shot of Japanese college students walking past my open bathroom window as Coldplay's "The Scientist" accompanies the camera down the tree-lined streets of the Historic Hill district.

How does that sound? I mean, come on, our lives in Murville are at least as interesting as some moderately talented hollywood sellout actor cum Sundance auteur. Don't you think?

Please send me any ideas you have, my ambivalent following, for further scenes.

More later.

Love Scott (the pretty one)

2005-03-02T15:44:00.001-08:00

Ok, so I had a fanfuckingtabulous time in Atlanta last weekend. It was so nice just to get a change of scenery for once. I need new sights, new noise, you know?

Going back to Atlanta was strange. I have been perversely excited about it during the last couple of weeks. I hadn't been down there in a while, and, recently, I have rarely left the five-mile radious of home/work/store/bar/friend's houses. It's uncanny how I am embodying the notion of thinking globally and acting locally. I like it, but I needed some fresh air.

So of course driving down 411 through the balmy spring countryside was heavenly. I could actually tell when we crossed the GA/TN border, without the signs. There's just something in the air in GA, and in the (dilapidated) architecture. I miss those old highways with the mountains, the farmland, rivers, lakes, and train tracks (with actual moving trains hauling goods!) all running alongside. Taking these roads reminds me that there is some actual indigenous variety in the American landscape. Sadly, though, even the small towns these old roads pass through seem homogenous (compared to each other).

Anway, it was gloroiusly beautifully, and Mina and I talked for hours on the way down. That was nice. Jason was apparently high and drunk, so he absorbed himself with his newspaper.

As we drove into town that night for the Le Tigre show, I was underwhelmed. Not by the company or the show, but by the presence of the city, my city. I would've preferred a strong reaction either way, a vile repulsion or an ecstatic euphoria, to this lethargic indifference. "It looks the same," I thought. But somehow it didn't feel the same seeing as how it didn't produce any feeling. Even the skyline, once a refuge, a beacon, seemed predictable.

I ignored this and had a good time anyway. How can you not when you have a fabulous electro-punk band to dance to, plenty of pretty, sexually ambigous hipsters at your disposal, and five friends, alcohol, and a hotel room for two nights?

Saturday was fun as well. Outwrite was gay and loud as usual. Little five points was loud, expensive, and crowded as usual. I re-bought a Yo La Tengo cd that I'd lost years ago. It is beautiful, as usual. Later Jason and I went to Blake's on the Park for a very gay drink before we were to meet up with others. It was packed, as usual, with too-beautiful men posing for the not-beautiful-enough men buying them drinks. Ran into several old friends/lovers/acquainances. I was amazed at how many familiar faces I saw. I know Blake's is the "neighborhood bar," but this experience takes the concept of "family" to a whole new level. My heart stopped when Kevin walked in. Kevin was part of a very hot menage-a-trois of which I was a part last summer. And it was no one-night stand. It was a sort of relationship. Very odd but very enjoyable. Then my boyfriend found out . . . Anyway, it was thrilling to see that bashful Army boy once again. Hm.

The rest of Saturday was eating at the Majestic and dancing at MJQ, still my favorite places in town to do such things. Too bad the bartender didn't know how to make an orange creamsicle marini, though. And then she told my friend Shera, "I heard you've been saying bad things about me." Odd.

Anyway, there was one more exciting thing that happened on Friday night, in the hotel room. I'll spare you the details, but it was beautiful. I’ve written a song about it already. One of the best I’ve written in a while as far as music is concerned. Nathan says it kind of reminds him of Nick Drake. I can see that. Yeah, the lyrics kind of suck, but it’s all I can offer you in this format.

Red Roof

You are going on nineteen
I am going on Benzedrine
I could show you a knowing look
You could show me how to dream

I am sifting through the aftermath
You’ve just found the start line
I wish I could cut myself in half
And travel back in time

Still, it feels like something locked with the hotel door
But I’ve still got your underwear
You left it with the mess that we tried to hide
In the darkness, naked and bare

I would travel to Alabama
Just to march again
Up the marble stairs we carved
On our cinnamon skin

I would dress up every day
As your high school friend
I would even take Algebra
If it would help this make sense

Still, it feels like something locked with the hotel door
Behind us, with a grin
The games that I once played are over and will fade
Until you say, “Again”

THAT'S ALL FOR NOW!

Love Scott (the inspired one)

2005-03-02T15:44:00.000-08:00

I'm lovin' it?

2005-02-21T20:46:00.000-08:00

I am starting to love my late-night trips to McDonalds. This is quite ironic because I absolutely abhor McDonalds and everything it stands for: grossly inhumane treatment of animals and livestock, the homogenization of indigenous cultures around the globe, the lowering of standards of food quality, and the general generic atmosphere that this evil corporation has inspired. There’s a reason sociologists refer to “The McDonaldsization of America” so often.

That being said, when the sun goes down and I start to come alive, I am drawn to this brightly lit palace of convenience, almost weekly. I have perfectly good hamburgers and buns at home that could be thawed, grilled, and prepared in less time than it would take to drive to the Alcoa McD’s and back. Still, I cannot resist the call of the communal feeding trough.

I think it’s a manifestation of the hunter-gatherer instinct. Cooking is for the women-folk (by “women” I’m speaking of gender, not sex). I’d rather go out and hunt down the wild game and its flamboyant packaging. Even if this means exchanging the money I made by serving people food at another restaurant, it still makes me feel like I’ve earned my keep, my place at the fire. Bringing people food and drink so that they’ll give me money so that I can pay other people to bring me food and drink makes me feel a part of the circle of life in our service-industry American society.

So, late at night, my stomach guides me to the temples of wisdom, and I am grateful. Still, McDonalds sucks, and you shouldn’t eat there.

Relax. Don't think about the way I treat you.

2005-02-09T18:57:00.000-08:00

. . . and I hate . . . elevator music

Words of wisdom from the muzak at Aubrey’s in Maryville (where I work):

“Love is stressful, or it’s gay.
Love is trouble, or it’s play,
But it’s heartache either way.”

Well, that just about sums it up, doesn’t it?

Actually, I think love is more like a stomachache, a nauseous, burning sensation throughout the entire body. The body is invaded by a constant vital chill, like nothing else matters, like one’s entire being has been seized by a lightning bolt of terror and ecstasy. Love is something not good for one’s health, with only two possible cures: the obtaining of the object of one’s affection/desire, or, failing that, something to jolt one out of moronic solipsistic fantasy. I spent way too much time in high school waiting for the latter, hopeless in my pursuit of the former. But now I’m beyond that, right? Or maybe what I’m calling “love” would be more aptly dubbed “infatuation,” “perversion,” or “projection.” Hm.

This little masochist is closing up her dress
Yes, it’s official everyone: I no longer entertain any notions that I might be a masochist, in the physical sense or otherwise. I’ll spare you the details of my method of discovery (not nearly as naughty as you’re imagining), but just rest assured that pain fucking hurts, and it’s not for me. I know it’s unavoidable, but, if I can help it, it’s not going to be a part of my social life.

Love is a battlefield
Also, I’ve recently received mind-blowing insights into my whole interpersonal dynamic, and I am starting to understand why I thought I wanted what I thought I wanted. This is all terribly vague, I know, but let me explain it this way: I am very often attracted to things that I have convinced myself I don’t possess. This phenomenon goes beyond sex or romance; its influence ranges from friendships to taste in music to my choices in the consumption of consumer goods. If you can convince me that you have something I don’t intrinsically contain or possess, well then, baby, I want you. This is sick, I know, but it also makes sense in a Darwinian way. We seek out that which will complement us and make us a stronger force against the chaos and unpredictability of the world, “natural” or otherwise.

Well, you know what? Fuck that shit. I may be a primate at heart, but I live indoors with electric heaters, plumbing, and nuclear radiation to heat my food. I can move beyond this “instinct.” Yeah, Freud and Jung both wrote a lot about “self-actualization” and uniting the anima and animus and all of that within oneself. That’s a good idea. But like the Buddha said, (paraphrasing) “Unless you experience what I am telling you, you do not truly know it.” Right on. That’s why revelations like the one I’ve had recently are such blessings. Now I understand what Alanis Morrissette was singing about in “Thank You.”

At the same time, I don’t want to abandon or degrade my feminine side just because I realize how sick it is to seek out my masculine side in others. And I also don’t want to tether back and forth between the two. I don’t want balance; I want synergy, and symbiosis. Does anyone have any advice on how to do this?

Love,
Scott (the blonde one)

Queer, Yet Boring

2005-02-07T20:38:00.000-08:00

Here's an essay I wrote a few years ago. It was published in a couple of publications at Maryville College, namely, a queer zine called Outrage, and the campus literary magazine, Impressions. But that is irrelevant . . .

Queer, Yet Boring

I’m bored with being gay. You’d think that as a result of being “queer” my life would be interesting, different, perhaps even unique. This is not so.
I have sex with other men. Occasionally, I fall in love with one of them and have a relationship. Wow. Has your jaw reached the floor yet? Or are you suppressing a yawn? How many of you have sex, fall in love, or have romantic relationships? Do you find these activities fulfilling by themselves? I don’t. I know those gals on Sex in the City are preoccupied with sex, relationships, and men (not to mention clothes), but is this really what we hip young Americans with disposable income should strive for?
Personally, I like music. I’ve decided that music is better than sex. It last longer, it’s easier to obtain, and you can do it while driving. Also, you can make a living off it and not be ashamed to tell your parents. “But wait!” you say, “What about companionship, intimacy, and all those other innate desires that send us to Hallmark stores monthly?” Don’t worry, you can get those through music, too. Ninety-five percent of the friendships that I have made throughout my life have been more the result of similarities in musical taste than similarities in sexuality or even sex itself.
I’m not saying that I don’t admire those who have successful, intimate relationships. I, too, love the warm gooey feeling that love provides. It’s just that I don’t think I’m “queer” because I’m gay. I own over sixty Tori Amos cds; that’s queer. I like pineapple and onions on my pizza; that’s sort of queer. I don’t watch much television; that’s really queer.
The Christian Right, which is neither, thinks that my existence is a threat to their exquisitely artificial construction: (Nuclear) “Family Values.” But, if you think about it, much of my life is spent helping them. I don’t plan on breeding, so their kids can have a better opportunity for that cushy job they so deserve. Or, even better, my nonexistent kid won’t keep theirs from making the baseball team or the cheerleading squad. I guarantee at least one less mouth to feed, one less possible “welfare leech,” and one less opportunity for heathen women to triumph over Christian men by exercising their right to have an abortion. Unless I donate sperm to a lesbian…
Maybe there’s something wrong with me. People tell me I should have more gay friends. Maybe I should make my sexuality the main mark of my identity. I’m sure more people would remember me if I introduced myself as “Sir Scott the Gay” or if I wore silk shirts, had a poodle, and lisped heavily. Maybe I should make destroying the moral fabric of American society the main goal of my life. That might be fun. I think that I was wrong; being gay can be outrageous, maybe even queer.
Sadly though, that kind of life is not for me. I’m too conservative for that, too timid and shy. I’ll just have to stick to sleeping with men.

updates

2005-02-07T20:26:00.000-08:00

Hello all,

Well, I'm back, or maybe I should say, "I've arrived." I've decided that I actually do want to keep this blog going. Props to my friend Nathan for inspiring me to chronicle my sundry offerings. For the time being, I will be uploading some old writings and sharing some new ones. I hope to update this site fairly often with all sorts of news and stories, and, of course, it will be as quixotic and episodic as I can make it.

Love Scott (the blonde one)

In the beginning . . .

2004-11-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

In the beginning, Scott created a blog full of mirth. And all the Internet was without form and was void. But on the first day Scott separated the bloggers from the cloggers, and he saw that it was good. On the second day Scott decided that there should be no more things such as days or personal interactions, sunsets or sunrises - only blogs. And he saw that it was good. Then on the third day he got really pissed off because he thought that he had banished the whole concept of days from existence, but then the third day came to him, saying, "Oh, Scott, you must understand, the second day made me. It does not want to be limited to the binary opposition of first-day/second-day. You understand, don't you?" And Scott scratched his chin and thought, and realized that thinking of a thing was good. On the fourth day Scott realized that the concept of days was inescapable, so he just decided to roll with it, and he saw that it was good. On the fifth day, Scott decided that whatever could be thought to exist would in fact exist. That, he thought, would save him a lot of work. So everything that he had created so far was free to create the rest of the world out of their collection imaginations and consciousnesses. And he saw that it was good. On the sixth day, he woke up with a hangover because his little creatures' imaginations were quite fecund and they had created a whole universe of pleasures and pains. And he saw that it was all rather ambiguous, so he decided to take the sixth day and the seventh days off. And that, my friends, is why we have a two-day weekend.

FIN