I limped into terminal a this morning at 6 AM. Sometime while moving yesterday, I injured my knee. We didn’t get out of the Heights apartment till late. Plus, even though I cancelled the cancellation notice, Reliant cancelled the power anyway, so after the sun set, we worked in the dark. So not rock.

Having had no sleep for almost three days, I slept through the flight, and woke as we were landing with this massive hard on. It was FUCKING HUGE. I think it has something to do with sleeping and then pressure change as the plane descends, as if all of my blood fears a crash and evacuates to my cock. ALL OF MY BLOOD. I swear you could see the thing from the cockpit. (Heh… he said cock pit… heh, heh) And since it… emerged… while sitting I have to adjust myself so I can stand, and then adjust myself again so I can walk around without small children pointing and asking questions and their mothers running in fear because it’s the biggest, scariest erection they’ve ever seen.

My baggage — enough work clothes, cock rings, and lube to last two weeks — was considerably heavier than I expected, so schlepping it through the airport, the subway, and the “five short blocks” to the bed and breakfast where I’m working staying aggravated my knee even more.

The inn keeper was almost creepy. That’s really his title: inn keeper. And during Christmas, they put a sign on the door that reads: “No bitches. No pets.”

My room is a joke, a concave bed, a dilapidated chair and some kind of flat-topped, antique thingy I take to be a desk. To get away with this highway robbery, they have everything decorated with antiques. Those of you with fetishes for that sort of thing, the antiques and not the decoration, would start melting the second you walked in the front door.

I threw my crap on the bed, and headed out. I had to do a test run on the subway to make sure I can get to work tomorrow. Yes. If you pay the fare, get on the subway, get off a little later, and then know where you are, you can go to work using the subway. I tested it today, and the stories are true.

Of course I got lost, cause on my map, 18th looks like 16th and when you’re hoofing city blocks after three days with no real sleep, it’s easy to get lost. A homeless guy asked me if he could get a Subway sandwich. He didn’t ask for change, but he held his hand out so I understood. I couldn’t give him anything, but I felt bad, cause tomorrow for lunch, I’m totally planning on getting a Subway sandwich. I wanted to ask him where the Subway is, but then I’d have given away the entire brilliant little scheme.

I saw another homeless guy, which isn’t odd in any city, except he was a total shell wearing a mask of anger, or hate, or negativity… some bad juju. But nothing left inside. He didn’t even look at me when I walked by. He was just staring straight ahead. It was sad. He’s totally given up on everything.

DC has totally exceeded my expectations. I flipped through their version of the Houston Press, and I’ve pencilled in dates for the Pixies, Echo and the Bunnymen, Melvins, Front 242, Corvus Corax, and E-Craft… and all in the next month and a half!!! If you’re nice to me, I’ll send you a napkin tainted with sweat sopped from my balls while rocking out to the Pixies. Just so you cna have some Pixies, too.

Take that Gearmo.

I missed the Dare Ware party. I was really bummed. One of the chief reasons I start work October 3rd, instead of September 26 was that I wanted to hang out
with the Dare Ware peeps again. The original plan was to shower, eat, drive my car to my mom’s, go to the Meridien, and then leave for the airport by 5am. I showered, ate, lay like a zombie on the couch, and then just went to the airport. I will sleep like the dead tonight, like really sleepy dead.

DC began its seduction with two random strips of interational restaurants. Within half an hour of walking around I found middle eastern, cuban, chinese, two kinds of indian (four indian places, total), thai, chinese, italian, french, cajun, afghani, sushi/japanese, seafood, and then… mexican food. The mexican place has this ginat banner outside announcing “Tacos al carbon!!!” like they’re the new gordita at Taco Bell or something. I’ll let you know if their tacos are any good.

I went through the classifieds. I have to find a place to stay by Wednesday, or I will be homeless. And then I’ll be that guy asking if I can buy a Subway sandwich… :-D

I miss everyone. And there are so many people I didn’t get to see, not least of which is my dad. And funny thing is, I’ve been planning a move for a long time, and it always included a trip down to Corpus to spend a weekend with him. That really bums me out. For consolation, I saw Roy and Renee very briefly one random evening. And Ricky called one day when we were moving, so I got to hang out with him. And I had lunch with my mom yesterday. And I said goodbye to my brother last night. At least I got most of my family. But I missed a lot of friends.

Tonight will be weird, sleeping without a cat of one kind or another next to me. Both Alex and Debbi are still in Houston. Most likely peeing on all of my clothes and linens. What I wouldn’t give to have them peeing on my stuff here with me. :-(

I’m actually flying back Thursday night, October 13. My sister gets married that weekend. I should see several of you freaks then. Until that time, y’all take care. Keep it real, unless you like it otherwise.

The last couple of days, a sickeningly talented guitar player and song-writer surfed our couch, stole the neighbours’ wireless, detailed his plot-twisted life, and generally fascinated the fuck out of me. Debbi’s guitars lay strewn about the house, usually within reach of somewhere you’d set your ass. This guy would reach out, grab a guitar, and play — whatever, anything, everything — speaking as fluently with a chunk of wood and wire as poets with words or lovers with bodies.

A couple of years ago, the world’s shittiest girlfriend sold 15 years of musical equipment for drugs. He hasn’t had a guitar since. Watching him play guitar, it’s hard to imagine it’s been so long since he played, or that it was even possible for someone like that to not have a guitar.

He says it’s killing him, not having one.

Several friends have been moaning about their work-a-day jobs and overrun dreams. Maybe it’s the weather, or tax season, but the Muse has everyone filing returns on their souls. You’ve been loaned some talent, and you have to pay that shit back, with interest.

But it’s not that easy. We want to make something real, one lump some payback for the proffered destiny we’re too scared to follow. Regular payments might be better.

Ghandi said, “whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”

A battered woman is staying at my house, and her two kids. I feel bad because the place isn’t clean. The dishes aren’t done.

I forgot how children look under everything. Her son, two months shy of three, in one hour-long inspection, found the lost cat toys: every single one of them. Everything demands a brief inspection before moving on to the next wonder.

The left side of his moms face looks like she had a golfball implanted on her cheek bone. When she looks at you, it seems like someone sewed together two halves of different faces.

When his mom says it’s time to go to bed, his big eyes wonder, grasp at why. He asks, “momma, we sleep here”?

Not even three and he’s already mastered incredulous.

Friday, instead of going to the art opening or the birthday party, Sandra and Gearmo, and Sahar came over and made sammiches. Well, not really, but Sandra and Gearmo BBQd chicken and hot dawgs and we chowed the fuck down. We also started drinking kind of early, and kept drinking, and kept drinking, and you could use our conversations as an inebriation thermometer. For example, we discussed poop shapers, at length. And various lengths of poop coming out of shapers, and various colors you could use for your poop in combination with the shapers for more interesting poop shapes.

The highlight of the night (for me) happened at the end of the food fight. Sandra and Sahar were sitting on the couch and I hit one of them with a piece of broccoli. So Sandra jumps off the couch shouting “It’s ON NoW!”

She starts throwing random food at me: chips, broccolli, carrots. (Some dipped in hummous.) Then, as she reaches back to throw, she elbows Sahar in the eye, and Sahar’s all “Owww. My eye.”

Sandra turns to her: “Bitch. I told you it was on.”

And Sahar, pointing at me: “But I thought it was on over there.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Soon after this Brandon, Mike, and Kim came by to hang out and that was very cool. Especially cause I was tired of talking about poop shapers. Sandra and Gearmo are some scat-happy freaks.

Saturday, Roy and Renee dragged me out for alcoholic smoothies. (Renee says if you call them smoothees, it makes them healthy.) We head over to Sliders for one, or two, and then to Magick Cauldron where I snagged some fabu incense and we ran into Skott. I’d had dinner plans, so Roy and Renee and I met my friend Cecily for dinner at Paulie’s over there near Diedrich’s. The food is pretty good, but a tad pricey. However, the proportions are HUGE, so that kind of makes up for the price.

Later that night, I somehow ended up at Roy and Renee’s drinking martinis and beer before heading home. I think they abducted me.

Sunday I met Alex and Leah for fast food pad thai. Always go with tofu and never shrimp. It was Leah’s birthday weekend, so we visited, and then they took me to Alex’s mom’s so they could placate my tummeh with the porto. We talked politics.

Sunday at Havok was awesome. All the people who were there last week when it was D.E.A.D. came back this week and they all brought their friends. That’s like the best endorsement you can get. Everyone had a great time. Plus, I think I must look sexier in the Havok booth than at Numbers. (Maybe I should turn the lights down more at Underworld.) Girls Gone Wild was filming, so the naked dancing chick bothered a few, but really, we’ve seen the same at Numbers.

Dude. This weekend is gonna rock. I met this chick the other night. Even though I said I’d stay away from the young ones, I don’t care. ( She’s fucking hot )

I’m not sure what we’re gonna do, though. I think I’m movied out. I saw I, Robot Tuesday evening, and it was cool. I don’t know what crack Joel was smoking. It doesn’t necessarily follow the Asimov stories, but it’s still a good story in its own right.

On Tuesday, I saw King Arthur, which was ok. All of the criticism I’d seen about the movie concerned it being gratiotous on all levels. but really the movie was very tastsfully done, and the only gratuitous bits were Arthur’s political meanderings.

Overall it felt like it was meant to be a lot longer but was mercilessly slashed. The worst effect of the editing? You don’t get to know the characters very well. You feel like you know Guinevere and one of Arthur’s knights (the one with the big, fucking axe). This may be because those two actors did a good job of acting.

Wednesday I saw Catwoman due to Debbi’s immense kindness. Whenever she hears the Ghostbusters song and they say “who’re you gonna call?” She says “Austin!” It’s possible I owe her some chocolate cake.

And finally, the Object A website is available with submission guidelines and some information about our background so we don’t seem like a fly-by-night operation. We’re more like a stay-up-late-doing-nothing-productive operation, but shhhhh… don’t tell no one. If you enquired about being an editor, you should receive an email from me this weekend.

Otherwise, the rest of you maggots best wish me luck. I have an important presentation for work on Monday, and if I do well, the entire world will be officially obliged to kiss my ass. You want to get on my good side early.

[Edited to add] Last night, before Underworld, I saw the Murano glass exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. On Thursday, the museum is free. Some of the glass was seriously awesome. I say glass, but it was mostly a bunch of vases and such. And they were indescribably beautiful. Go see.

I also ran into Samantha there, tooling like a hussey through the museum’s barely lit underground tunnels. The scandal!

While I was there, I also glimpsed a little of the Inverted Utopias: avant-garde art in Latin America, and it looked keen. Especially neat is an installation piece outside the front door of the museum that you can walk into. It’s yellow and just swallows you whole. And inside, it’s kind of like swimming. It’s so cool.

I still need to go to the Menil, but someone refuses to go with me.

(Contrary to vicious internet rumour, this week is not national blow-job week. An exhaustive poll of men at Underworld last night revealed this was either a blatant rumour or a vast conspiracy by women, a femspiracy, to cover up the existence of this holiday. The nation mourns.