I’m riding the bus from Lorimer to Jefferson because the L train is down weeknights after 11:30 until mid-June. Normally this would bug me, but I’m sitting in the back of the bus and my legs are too short to touch the floor. Normally this would bug me, but my feet dangle with the inertia of the bus like a plumb bob in a science expirment. Normally this would bug me, but I haven’t done either the dangling nor the science expiriments since middle school. Now that is something that does bug me.
Brown paper bags metal cans.
Sixty degrees fahrenheit.
We can’t see the stars tonight
‘cause apartments generate ambient light
And I’m sorry that we’re not already drunk.
Hours later we’re getting there
Meters away from the shore
My forty of Corona is just
drops away from being kicked
And I don’t know what I’m gonna be tomorrow.
When you stayed overnight making out with a stranger
in the bottom of a boat that belonged to a stranger
and you came home at six in the morning
after being caught ass naked by the dude who threw the party
I thought that we’d never grow up.
I thought that we’d never grow up.
Now all my friends rise at eight.
They go to sleep before midnight.
And I just wanna drink ‘til three
Embarrassing myself publicly.
And you all used to be just like me
You fuckers used to be just like me.
So now I sit and stew alone.
Everyone’s already sleeping.
Everybody’s moved away
and can pay their bills on time.
No one else is making a hundred and ten bucks for twenty hours.
God I hate this fucking place.
God I hate what happened to me.
You promised we’d stay best of friends.
But we can’t ‘cause I just can’t grow up.
And it kills me. Yeah it kills me
that I don’t know what I can do.
I can’t breathe correctly and
I can’t sleep or anything and
I can’t think of anything I can’t think of anything.
Now every night is miserable.
So sad I can’t even get drunk.
So let’s go out just one last time.
Let’s finish off a box of wine.
Do shots of yukon jack and lime.
Can we drink ‘til I fucking die?
I’ll make you party at my funeral
‘Cause mourning is for suckers.
I’ll rent a ferris wheel and
cotton candy machine and have open bar
with all the Pabst that you can drink
the PA blasting my Clash records.
You’ll finally know that life’s okay
Even when bad things happen.
So just one more beer, then grow up.
So just one more beer, then grow up.
So just one more beer.
Go to work.
Pay your bills.
Eat a dick.
One more beer, THEN grow up.
Many letters have been sent to the Valley News concerning the homosexual menace in Vermont. I am the mother of a gay son and I’ve taken enough from you good people.
I’m tired of your foolish rhetoric about the “homosexual agenda” and your allegations that accepting homosexuality is the same thing as advocating sex with children. You are cruel and ignorant. You have been robbing me of the joys of motherhood ever since my children were tiny.
My firstborn son started suffering at the hands of the moral little thugs from your moral, upright families from the time he was in the first grade. He was physically and verbally abused from first grade straight through high school because he was perceived to be gay.
He never professed to be gay or had any association with anything gay, but he had the misfortune not to walk or have gestures like the other boys. He was called “fag” incessantly, starting when he was 6.
In high school, while your children were doing what kids that age should be doing, mine labored over a suicide note, drafting and redrafting it to be sure his family knew how much he loved them. My sobbing 17-year-old tore the heart out of me as he choked out that he just couldn’t bear to continue living any longer, that he didn’t want to be gay and that he couldn’t face a life without dignity.
You have the audacity to talk about protecting families and children from the homosexual menace, while you yourselves tear apart families and drive children to despair. I don’t know why my son is gay, but I do know that God didn’t put him, and millions like him, on this Earth to give you someone to abuse. God gave you brains so that you could think, and it’s about time you started doing that.
At the core of all your misguided beliefs is the belief that this could never happen to you, that there is some kind of subculture out there that people have chosen to join. The fact is that if it can happen to my family, it can happen to yours, and you won’t get to choose. Whether it is genetic or whether something occurs during a critical time of fetal development, I don’t know. I can only tell you with an absolute certainty that it is inborn.
If you want to tout your own morality, you’d best come up with something more substantive than your heterosexuality. You did nothing to earn it; it was given to you. If you disagree, I would be interested in hearing your story, because my own heterosexuality was a blessing I received with no effort whatsoever on my part. It is so woven into the very soul of me that nothing could ever change it. For those of you who reduce sexual orientation to a simple choice, a character issue, a bad habit or something that can be changed by a 10-step program, I’m puzzled. Are you saying that your own sexual orientation is nothing more than something you have chosen, that you could change it at will? If that’s not the case, then why would you suggest that someone else can?
Sharon Underwood, mother to a gay son in a letter to Vermont’s Valley News
Just because you live in the big apple doesn’t mean you should forget your roots. I, like many of you, am from the suburbs. That means I spent my youth getting into trouble and trying to find ways to fight boredom. I feel like all anyone in Manhattan wants to do is go to bars, dance with gross sweatmonsters in weird clubs, or eat pizza after midnight.
Your shit’s weak!
In the past two days I:
-rollerbladed 6 miles to a fancy restaurant for a birthday dinner, only to eat nothing and be all sweaty and under-dressed. Then I ate Wendys.
-was turned away from an audition for Jimmy Fallon because I was too young, so I went to FAO Schwartz. Then I climbed the rocks in Central Park and listened to a full Lightning Bolt album while enjoying the sun light and people watching.
-rode a children’s mechanical horse. I could not fit in the Batmobile.
-got fined for rollerblading in the subway cars at Union Sqaure. They even brought me into the tiny police station.
-took a day trip back upstate.
-shot a spontaneous music video with no concern for lighting, camera quality, or artistic integrity.
-dogpiled the mic with some of my best friends while still filming.
-celebrated a made up holiday (St. Leventhal’s day) by getting rowdy.
-wandered around an outdoor mall in the dark, wearing sunglasses, pestering the slutty girls who work at Juicy Couture.
-enjoyed every single high school reunion I had at St. Leventhal’s.
-drank absinthe and rode on the roof of a jeep while listening to P.Y.T. by Michael Jackson.
-was part of a six minute chant of “USA! USA!” while the gnarliest sXe dudes moshed in their underwear.
-ran from the cops.
-partied ‘till 3. Woke up at 6. Drove back into Manhattan with my best friend, Kevin, while shouting “fuck you” at random objects.
-ate a sandwich, even though it was not what I ordered. And it had a 12 inch hair in it. Then chased it with an entire roll of tums.
During all of this, I worked full time hours in an office job, wrote a tv pilot, and 3 sketches.
What is my point? I don’t know. Honestly, I forgot why I wrote this halfway through writing it. I’ve been reading a lot of Hunter S. Thompson and it’s really sparked my interest stream of conscience gonzo journalism and adventurism. Adventures! That’s it!
In the suburbs, you don’t have all of this cool-crap around you constantly. Going to a bar is the lowest form of entertainment in my book because it takes no effort. It’s all ease. Now leaving the bar, that’s where the fun is! I remeber one day in high school, Kevin and I were bored, so we climbed a fucking mountain. We didn’t know where we ended up and had to walk a mile to figure out where were. That’s an adventure. That is boredom suppression. Walking into a bar is just as easy as going to the kitchen. But finding your way home after you peed in the sink of a 24 hour McDonald’s- that’s a journey worthy of Christopher Columbus himself.
Live a little. Be reckless. Find an adventure, no matter how small, and share it with someone. Then, stop paying so much money for goddamned pizza! It’s pizza. Pizza is $2. Hamburgers are $8 and include fries. Beers are not $8 unless you’ve made a huge mistake.
Also, eat soup on a hot day just to say “fuck you, Mother Nature.”