seventeen thousand words

I am too lazy to write too much. So I will show you seventeen pictures instead. To start, here is a scab on my leg. Why am I showing this to you? Because YOU'RE ON MY BLOG, and as N.G. says, see The Monkey's Paw.

N.K.'s salty flip-flop is in the background. We are on a train from 22nd Street in San Francisco to California Avenue in Palo Alto. It is 12:44 a.m. and we have just passed the racetrack at Bay Meadows. I am holding hairspray, and N.K. is holding an iPhone. We have stopped shivering but my body is unable to regulate its temperature and I take my jacket off, then put it back on, then take it off again, and then just hold my arms above my head for most of the remaining train ride. N.K. is sad about her insane bitch of an ex-gf. I am staring at my leg, waiting for it to fall off. Boring! Moving along, this is what Dolores Park looked like at 3:55 p.m. that same day:

Wiki says that 200,000 people come out for the Dyke March but holy fucking shit that seems like a huge number. I've heard something like 40,000 on the lawn in the park, which seems more reasonable. Not that I would know - I once guessed that there were 635 pieces of macaroni in a jar that contained over 2,000, which I knew because I ultimately counted those macaronis by hand, over the course of hours - a sad story about a child without the stimulation that private schooling might have provided, without dance lessons or exposure to modern art, etc., but this story triumphantly ends with that child now a lawyer nearing thirty living in her parents' house. Anyway, people everywhere. J.W. suggested I snap photographs once an hour so later we could graph the population density of the park over time, to which I said Yeah yeah yeah! but forgot to do. When do 40,000+ queers ever gather on a field and smoke pot and show off their tits (not me!) and hang out and drink for six hours??? GOD BLESS CALIFORNIA. These people were making out right in front of me,

which means they cannot have a R.E.P. So you get to look at them making out. Hello, we're a couple! And it's California so we can make the fuck out right in front of your face! We're probably stoned! And to the right, one could see:

Hello, I am wearing silver lame panties and cowboy boots, and a fanny pack! It's chilly out - so what? You want to stare - so what?? A person near Silver Lame was hanging a red flag out of her right pocket. This started a conversation about flagging. How do you keep track of these things? Luckily in the Information Age we have friends with iPhones to tell us that hanging a red and white gingham flag (WHAT IS GINGHAM?) out of your back right pocket tells the world you are a park sex bottom, whereas a beige flag means "rim me." Silver lame means starfucker or celebrity, depending on the pocket...but what if you have no pockets and you're just wearing silver lame panties? What if you have no pockets?? The red flag means "I want to be fisted!" How do you respond to this invitation? "Hello!" [Arsenio-style pump]???

I promised tits, so here is Silver Lame from the front. C.H., who got the same not-passing score on her simulated MBE as me, assures me that posting these photos does not expose me to tort liability. Actually, when I first mentioned it she started rattling off the Miller LAPS-value obscenity test, which made me question whether she knew torts as well as constitutional law, but then she said something about R.E.P., which is a "crimes" concept but who cares, it probably applies to privacy torts too. Nonetheless, I have tried to protect the privacy of this individual who chose to spend the day nearly naked in a public park by superimposing photos of my own face over hers and her neighbors.

Enough of that! Now it's time to play "Where's Waldo?" Where is Waldo?

There he is!

"I hate you!" he said before slamming the door to his room and turning up his Fall Out Boy MP3s and hunching over his journal to write: "How could you say you love me/How could you go on this way/I fucking hate you Mom/You walk me once a day." My dog/best friend/boyfriend hates me! More pictures of Boocifer (Joshua! Joshua! Joshua! Joshua! used to call him "Bukkake on Your Face," ugh) :

He used to do this thing where as soon as he was released in the backyard he would run along the fence barking to disperse the squirrels who greedily eyed my mom's plums from their treehouses, but then my mom yelled at him enough times re: the barking that he now first leaps after his girlfriend ("Adidas") and clamps her in his mouth and then runs along the fence, except because he has a deflated soccer ball in his mouth he doesn't bark but merely growls, which is acceptable. It's weird. It's Pavlovian! Now each time he enters the backyard he must first find his girlfriend and carry her around with him. In the above photo he is scanning the trees looking for squirrels. What a dog!

Hello, we're a couple! He is a border collie mutt who hates his mother, and she is a deflated soccer ball!

Okay enough dog. Now time for Dad. As of this blog entry (it is 12:31 a.m.) he has been sitting at the piano for four hours very slowly playing one note at a time of Lyphard Melody. My mom yelled at him earlier because they were supposed to go for a walk and then he sat down at the piano on the way out the door and half an hour later they still hadn't left. And she said, "Come on, let's go, I'm leaving without you!" to which my dad said nothing because he didn't hear her because he was concentrating on Lyphard Melody. Here is a note that he left for me the other day:

The first attempt at the note was on the back side:

This magazine came in the mail. My dad looked at it, and then, affecting a German accent, said "Unequal America!" And then he examined the graphic for a second and said, "Hm. Wo men dou chi worms!" which means, "We all eat worms!" Which is what he understood the article to be about.

Okay, now moving on to the next phase of my intricately and repetitively observed and incredibly boring isolated life out in a northern California suburb - SAVE ME HELP ME GOD SAUVE MOI AYUDAME DEAR DIOS - now you get to see the notes I took during a three-hour lecture today. I am doing really great at paying attention!

I thought it would assist my learning of "Agency and Partnership" to write "Sigrid Shitzen-Giggles" on a blank page until my hand stopped working (it indeed stopped working). "Sigrid Shitzen-Giggles" is what I thought I should start signing my name as. I mean, your signature could be anything, right? So why not Sigrid Shitzen-Giggles? A guy I knew once "wrote" about a dozen checks by stitching the words and numbers and date and his signature with red thread on the checks - and the bank cashed all of those checks! He has the returned checks to prove it!

Okay, I have run out of pictures to show you. I spoke to my therapist today. Nabokov pointed out in Lolita that only a space separates your "therapist" from "the rapist." Anyway, he told me I had a problem with breaking rules. He suggested I find some non-destructive avenue for breaking rules. I said, Should I rob a bank? He tittered nervously. He suggested I not tell the entire truth to my lovers. I made a joke about suing him. He didn't laugh as he was supposed to. Then he suggested, for the third time in three weeks, that extreme sports might hold my interest. I told him I was averse to that kind of risk. He suggested travel. I told him instead that I need more art in my life. He nodded and then said, What? Museums? Then I said I was from New York so I defined "art" broadly, then he nodded and still didn't know what I was talking about. Of course I was not just talking about museums, Reed! I was talking about enriching myself with others' creativity as a productive way to satisfy whatever need destructive sex has fulfilled for me in the past! (California has psychotherapist-patient privilege which I just destroyed by publishing our conversation online so if I am sued for something Reed can be called to testify about all the women's names he's been forced to memorize in the last three weeks, Nitzan, Kyla, Molly, Laura, Beth, Amy, Lisa, Karen, Meg, Stephanie, Reena, Sonia, Roona, Ruth, Olivia, Sarah, Josephine, Jessica, Ling, Jane, Marmee. I threw in the names of the Little Women just to trip you up there.)

When I biked home, lo and behold, there was art waiting for me in my mailbox. Here is an awesome drawing by Egon Schiele, Zwei Mädchen (Liebespaar). Thank you, A.F., you're so great. This drawing,

and the others I found like it, lifted me momentarily away from this plastic desk where I sit eight hours a day not studying, and that is the best gift I've gotten in a long while.