Friends, I sit here with the movie Bicentennial Man in the DVD player and the Edward Bernays’ book Propaganda next to me. I don’t want to give my attention to either of them. For too long I’ve been consuming nothing but politics and economics, save for the occasional Youtube video. I’m listening to Glenn Beck in the morning, Democracy Now, Cato Institute, the Economist, BBC Radio 4 5pm news, Project Syndicate, then Sean Hannity. Free time’s consumed by The Week, Z, Progressive magazines… and when I get home I read fucking Chomsky and watch dystopian sci fi that makes me fear for my life and our children’s. Or horror. Or some kind of very sad tale involving orphaned children. I can’t buy a fucking tomato without thinking about the farmers who grew it; does it come from Monsanto seeds? Is there toxoplasma in my brain? How does Glenn Beck, with all the drugs he must take, not pop a downer to complement the speed he’s clearly taking? When will Alan Greenspan die? Why isn’t Paul Krugman running our economy? How many happy ending massages has Sean Hannity gotten from a male masseuse? Why are the Arabs incapable of joining forces and actually standing up to Israel? Do people really think Republicans support American troops?
It’s too much, friends. Worse still is that this news gorging makes me really tense, which in turn, exacerbates my sexual frustrations. It’s becoming a real problem.
Here’s what you and I are going to think about right now: Fun. Sunshine. New neighborhood. Grab your bong, joint, pipe, or vape, and come sit here next to me. I got some amazing haze last week, and I love sharing.
Sunshine. The motherfucker is elusive in New England, but my condominium has a pool, which makes it easy to take advantage of whatever sun we do get. My Russian neighbor appreciates my commitment to vitamin D consumption. Andrey is a ginger who lives on the first floor; thick Russian accent, a man of few words and many cigarettes. He followed me to the pool on Saturday and Sunday and offered me watermelon. It was sweet, but he is a full blown ginger – and a Russian – so I kept my headphones on.
I have another suitor: he’a rapper who walks down the streets making gang signs that point to his crotch, swinging side to side as he walks, rapping out loud. He does all that while staring at me when we see each other. I saw him at the dog park a few days ago and he said “What’s up, beautiful, nice dog,” with penis-pointing hand gestures. He’s about 14.
My downstairs neighbor I never met, but I do know he/she likes ordering pizza after getting baked, while the neighbor to my left prefers to cook once he’s high. He’s European and says “cheers” every time I thank him for holding open the door. He also tends to forget his key in the outside lock. I let him know every time.
As far as Tori’s new friends go, she’s taken well to Buca (like the drink Sambuca), a one year-old poodle/beagle mix. Buca barks in Tori’s face, infuriating her until Tori finally starts to play chase. I like Buca’s parents a lot; Richie talks a mile a minute and wears the most expensive looking earrings I’ve ever seen. His husband is hilarious, always forgets to bring a lighter with his cigarettes, and seems to be perpetually buzzed. I’d like to have a drink with Richie and his husband while Tori and Buca run around the yard.
The dog park’s great because there are some secluded woodsy areas where weird shit goes on. I once saw a pimp collecting money from his ho, a couple of teenage kids fondling one another by the rocks, and just last week, I spotted three guys hanging out by a tree. As I got closer, I could see one of them was just watching, another was videotaping, while the third guy was moving slowly from left to right, eyes closed, face down, with wires that hung from a tall branch, connected to hooks that dug into the skin on his back.
It has been a month since my move, and the guys at the liquor store know me too well. Yet still, I’m back in the city, and there’s not one crush-worthy boy in sight. I thought I might resort to some online retail therapy to soothe my sexual and political frustrations, but I can’t; I refuse to shop expensive labels, and my favorite cheap stores don’t pay their workers nearly enough. My mother thinks I’m an idiot. I think I need sexy time.