june 20 2000
"so pj," i sez. "i'm going to the hamptons after work. wanna write my entry for me, even though you can't hold a candle to me?"
"sure!" he sez, all eager like jimmy olson. so without further ado, here's pj's second contribution to this online debacle. p.
_________________ To Proven's Readership: Not to put to fine a point on it, but ever sense P. got this online diary, he's become a real ass. A clever ass, but nonetheless, an ass, so don't go thinking having drinks with him is gonna be all david rapaport and whatnot. He'll probably just talk about himself. Stay away. I mean it, stay away. I've become a bitter fanboy. I can't remember the last time we had a conversation - the kind where we confer on the topics weighing on us: race in america, the idea of masculinity under advanced hyper bobo capitalism, the girl with the bumpity-bump up-ahead - instead of him offering up some clever collusive allusion to Nikolai Tesla and Princess Diana while I titter like a damn girl. A damn girl. It's embarrassing. I'm sure if you've read this column enough, you're under the impression that I'm a gluttonous closeted ass-freak. That is not the case. I'm not closeted, I'm just terribly easy. And, as far as the gluttony goes, that's just about coming to an end, too.
So, Saturday, I leave Manhattan heading north to Queens. I'd thought about catching a flick, but I'd been staying up late for a little over a month now, and I wanted to start treating this corporeal existence like I meant it. I'd eaten at Jeollado with P. and K. P. had suggested, maybe, that he'd travel with me when I move to Chicago in September. That's a really big thing for him, since he wets himself whenever I'm behind the wheel. Actually, he just gets angry and makes me cry b/c I need male validation and he withdraws it at the drop of a hat, but, hey, what
can you do? As I was saying, I decided not to see a movie after P. went off to meet with the Sparky-doo and the gang. I'd go in for a nice relaxing evening amid the squalor of my apartment. I had some writing that needed doing, and, I told myself, if I was good, I'd get a movie and finish off the bag I got last week.
Fast forward a few hours: Done watching Heavy Metal. Pleased as punch that the film shows a narrative that can survive (and flourish) while devoting (ample) time to (ample) T&A during each vignette. Fantastic. I get up to go to the bathroom, put my cigarette out. In the bathroom, whole world in my hands, my thought: Huh, I feel like I'm gonna pass the fuck out. Stumbling through the living room, into my bedroom, where I… pass the fuck out. And convulse. And sweat like a New England virgin in Jamaica. That's my restful Saturday night.
(As an 80s comedian:)
And as things begin to go black, I think of my father and something he once said to me… "Bye."
I'm not particularly unhealthy. If you looked, you wouldn't guess that the eternal footman is actually a few steps ahead of me. No sir. I keep mine hidden. I smoke too much, and I drink too much, and I generally eat poorly, but nothing fatal. So, what's with this passing the fuck out? Dunno. No insurance means that I'ma postpone any trips to the doctor until I actually see blood. I haven't had a cigarette in almost 2 days now. I have 5 pieces of Trident in my mouth. Oral fixation, says p. oliver platt
tea-bagging tea leoni is what I say. In other words, pbbt, nuts to that. I gots a physical addiction here that doesn't 'cause pain, but makes me want to fucking rend something limb from limb. I can't concentrate at work, I spend the whole day falling in and out of love with the wonderful women of Scholastic. No matter where I look, there's beauty and health and vigor and intelligence and not a chance in hell that I'll be clever enough on cue. This work thing, it's booby trapped, I tell ya.
Mines, mines, everywhere mines.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter