Right then. So I don't use Vox an enormous amount, and I probably should. I don't talk a lot about what's going on in my personal life on my main blog and this would be a decent place to do it without worrying about bloody Valleywag or whatever. But that's not the point. I thought I'd give people a quick update, just in case they were interested.
I got a call from AT&T, my telecom provider (maybe I should change that). A very personable telemarketer was trying to sell me on AT&T high speed internet. I listened sleepily, somewhat curious because Comcast is really expensive. When she mentioned how secure the connection is something snapped in me. I said:
Los Angeles, my relationship with you grows stranger. I guess these are the complications which surface after the flirtations and the honeymoon period. The city and its sex—abundant and desperate—made me sick. I took an ativan, no longer driving the car, just sitting in the passenger seat. My phone vibrates another message on the marble tile. It sounds like it's dry humping the counter.
Not mine, but someone else's. Culled from a site that shall remain nameless, though the posting is now gone. It is my duty to retain it for posterity:
"Details : Well i was home alone eating pie, and was horny so i went to watch
porn and put in the tape 30 mins of it was fukcing talking and acting and
bullshit and about 30 mins was them feeling each other out like come ON!!!!
how much dose it take to get aroused! Then the male actors MOTHER appeared
in the film which ruined my boner for at least 100 years. Then the final 20
mins they have a boring screw and that was that. I HATE PORN!"
What can we learn from this? That he should switch to DVD? There is something here distinctly about America (note: mom and apple pie are referenced: one is present at the beginning, it is a kind of trigger, the other destroys his desire). As if our desire is contained by our national identity, its nostalgic consumption. There's too much here.
In case you're keeping track, the two previous posts describe entirely separate incidents. The confusion is understandable, and maybe even intentional.
Tonight I told a crowd of thirty or so strangers that, at the age of eleven, I was shown nude photos of my step grandmother. I told my secret in exchange for a free (signed) movie poster. That makes me a cheap secret whore (one who whores their secrets, not one who covertly engages in prostitution). I didn't know it was a secret until they asked for a secret (to earn the poster). And sure, it was a secret. But to a group of strangers everything about me would be a secret. I was a secret.
