Out for Blood.
I just wrote an email to Andrew Christian and chewed their asses for using "your" instead of "you're" in an ad about underwear for the well-endowed. Then I electronically bitch-slapped a friend for using "alright" instead of "all right" on his private blog.
This bitter old queen is brought to you tonight by Robert Mondavi's Private Selection Pinot Noir and a renewed self-hatred thanks to all the beautiful men at my gym.
So I've started reading this book: "Young Man from the Provinces" by Alan Helms. It was recommended to me by that aforementioned blogger friend after my "Call Me Crazy" post. This is a sort of review before I get very far at all into it. Because I'm curious if my perception will change. It's a memoir by this gorgeous man who was something of a gay icon/sex symbol in the pre-Stonewall days. And we're supposed to feel sorry for him.
First of all, I don't really trust people who write memoirs. We get it. You think your life is important and has meaning. You are a unique and beautiful flower. Just like the rest of us. Except you happen to be genetically gifted and that makes me want to hate you all the more. Yes, this is the first memoir I've ever read. So far I'm on page 20 and all he's done is try to make us cry over his tortured childhood, giving intelligence to a 4 year-old that you'd probably believe as much if I attributed it to my 4 year-old cat.
I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it. The redeeming quality thus far was in the epigraph from Walt Whitman's "Calamus" in which he kind of acknowledges my frustrations:
Who is now reading this?
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly
loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions
and egotisms with derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck!
O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly,
a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in
myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it
must cease.
*sigh* Sometimes I have to remind myself that pretty people are indeed people too. If we cut them, they do bleed. Well, Mr. Helms, I'm sharpening the fangs of my wit. You have 186 pages before I strike.