A Guy Named Vince

I was at work on Friday and ran into my friend Andrew who is also one of the editors of Canon. He asked me if I had heard about my essay. I hadn’t.

He then told me that I got second place in the essay contest! Nice! There is money involved. Nicer!

It should be out in two weeks. I asked him who got first. Vince. “Vince C.?” I asked. Vince C.

When I first got to New School, we had to endure a week of registration activities/meetings. One of them was the Liberal Studies lunch. This was where I met the other people in my cohort and got to meet Jim Miller, the chair of the department. He discussed theses. He discussed Vince.

Jim holds Vince in high regard and said that he wrote one of the best theses he had ever seen. I finally met him last semester and he’s a really nice guy. He’s in his forties and went through my program. He’s now pursuing a Ph.D. in Sociology at New School. And he’s intelligent as hell.

And I finished behind him in the contest. That’s about a guy named Vince. I’m happy. I’m happy with the outcome of the essay and I’m glad that this topic of mine will finally see the light of day. I made some decisions this past week concerning writing and “this topic” as a result of the essay being published.

I need to move on. It will always be a part of me, of course. But I can’t keep re-hashing the same shit. So I will move on. My thesis on Hedwig and the Angry Inch will be the last of these issues. My identity issues. I want to start incorporating them into a new form of writing. I’m not sure of the form yet.

But I refuse to put pressure on myself to find it until after the semester. Maybe fiction. Or playwriting. I do want to write a book. About my life so far. And this will all be a part of it. But it’s got to be fresh. I don’t want to use the same tired words. What I’ve written during the past five or so years has been the same.

And it’s lacked emotion. I actually think that the essay that got second place lacks emotion. So I will try harder. To feel what I write and then put those feelings into words. This is something I’m not very good at yet. And I want to be. But that’s for later.

I just spent the last five hours cleaning up the northwest corner of my room. I had two file cabinets that contained old files and dusty piles. The result of my winter cleaning is four bags of trash and four bags of shredded paper. Hopefully the order I achieved tonight will keep itself for a while. At least until I move. Which I really hope won’t be this May.

My lease ends at the end of April. It’s not that I love this place that much to want to stay. I just don’t want to have to deal with finding a place before the end of the semester. Even this summer. I want to relax. Or something. I haven’t made any significant progress on my thesis in a couple of days. I’ve been thinking about it some, but haven’t been staring at the screen. I met with Helen today at the Tea Lounge and we talked a little bit about our respective projects.

She spoke with Jim after class the other night and he said she just needs to write. That editing is the fun part. I have a problem in that I can’t leave a sentence I’m not happy with. I can’t put a period on crap.

So I sit there and look at it and try to think of ways to make it better. And then I think about the paragraph it’s killing and wonder if it’s in the right place. “Should this be in chapter two,” I ask myself (in my head).

In my head is where the words bounce off each other as my fingers rest dormant on the home keys. And I stare. And think. And get up. I can see this thing, this paper I’m writing. And I want to get to the next page. But if I can’t get this sentence to work then I’m stuck.

And the pressure builds up to a point where my thoughts can no longer move. “Maybe I should watch the scene again,” I say to myself (in my head). And I do. And then more thoughts come. And I can see this thing. But I can’t write it into fruition. But I must. And I will. I needed to clean this corner in my room. And I will take Jim’s advice. And just write.

Almost There

I got a check from school today. I’m still missing $1,400 but I hope to clear that up next week. And I was browsing the New York Times classifieds this morning to try and ward off some insomnia and found some editing jobs that I’m qualified for.

So in the stress I anticipate feeling during the next year about my financial future, I know I can always turn there.

So I read some more of Uncle Tom. And I watched a little too much television. I rented Bringing Down the House, too. I tried to take a nap and all I could think of was the camp aesthetic, something commonly associated with homosexuality, and whether it can be applied to other sub-categories of identity, such as race.

And I thought of this Queen Latifah/Steve Martin vehicle, which appears to look negatively upon blacks. As I was trying to sleep, I pondered a thesis wherein I compare the use of camp in Hedwig and the Angry Inch and the movie I rented today. I would be able to address both race and gender. In both films, stereotypical behavior of gays/transsexuals and blacks, respectively, are presented to other, more identity-stable characters who are forced to contend with the differences in their lives. So I don’t know.

Before I watched the film today, I thought about the scene where Latifah kicks Steve Martin’s character in the crotch and then knocks him out. Also, Eugene Levy’s character lusts after her — the hyper-sexualized black woman. So I considered the fact that a lot of stereotypes applied to blacks seemed to be rolled into this one character; it was as if she was a minstrel character. I think I could compare this film to another film from the early 20th century where blacks are presented in such a light for my pop culture paper. And then roll what I came up with into my thesis somehow. I have to talk to the profs about it. I’ll think more on it and spin it for them in a week or so. Needless to say, I never did nap. I should sleep well tonight, although alone. By the way, I laughed my ass off at parts. I want to see it again. Also this morning during my sleeplessness, I perused the American Studies Ph.D. program at NYU. It’s a great program. Will I apply? Don’t ask. I feel as though I’m at the top of a long drop on a roller coaster and I’ll reach the bottom in May. Caught up in this feeling is my uncertainty about applying to doctorate programs. So I’ll just choose not to think about it quite yet. I’m off to do some more reading. Cornelia is going out so I’ll have the place to myself for a bit. R.I.P. John Ritter. Shocking.

Darkness Drama

I wish I had an exciting story to tell about my experience in NYC’s darkness: being stuck on the F train as it sat under water between Manhattan and Brooklyn; walking from Penn Station to Brooklyn; sleeping on the steps of the post office in midtown and enjoying the antics of other stranded New Yorkers. But alas, I have no stories. I was at home. Just finishing up yet another viewing of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I was watching it with a new friend who hadn’t seen it (!) and Cornelia was sitting at the table working on her paper. And then there was no power.

It Was My Fault

I should have written this immediately after the game on Wednesday but didn’t because I had more important things going on at the time. But after thinking about it some more, I realized that the Spurs lost because of my actions.

You see, my hat came in the mail the other day and, well, I was wearing it during the game. I will not wear it tonight. I’m not that excited about watching the game tonight but I will. I will place myself strategically in front of the television, stomach tossing and turning, haven’t eaten in two days, drinking beer, hoping for the best. Oh how I despise physiology and all of its mystery. It’s been raining. I think I’m finally done with it.

If I ever say again that I could live in Seattle, slap me on both sides of the face. I wore shorts yesterday and thongs (for my feet!) and it was wonderful. I miss my legs. I suppose the cold has never stopped me before. I have a problem right now. I want to write but I’m not sure what to say. I’m sure I have a lot to say but I don’t know how to sort it out. So, you, my victims, are having to excavate through the mess as I try to find my groove. There definitely is a groove. And when it hits, it is such a ride.

Brooklyn Bound Again

Spring break is over, I’ve left Helen’s and I’ve moved to another location in Brooklyn. This one is at Cornelia’s place. She is going to Chicago this week for a Fulbright thing. Her roommate left yesterday for two weeks for a yoga thing. The reason I’m staying there is because they have a little kitten who is now on his fourth name: Scooter. They didn’t go for my suggestion: Antoinette. So it will be me and a three-week old little thing who hopefully won’t make me sneeze. I spent most of last week stressing over this conference paper I’m going to deliver next week. I’ve written eight pages of stuff that came directly from my head in some form or another. My plan is to fix what I’ve got, put some theory in to back up my points and then stand up in front of an audience that hopefully won’t toss vegetables. Have I mentioned that I got John Cameron Mitchell’s autograph? If I did, oh well. I don’t remember. So here it is again. I was in a cafe with Jen and I was in the middle of a sentence when I looked to my right. Standing just outside leaning up against the wall was Hedwig, himself, talking on a cell phone. “Oh my god, that’s John Cameron Mitchell,” I said. He eventually came in and sat two tables to my left, still talking on the phone. Jen told me I better get an autograph, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to (of course I did). I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of those people — one of those autograph seekers. He finally got off the phone and went to the register. As he did this, Jen got a pen and a piece of paper from her bag for me. Still not wanting to be one of those people, I got up, walked toward him, then stopped dead in my tracks. Turning around, I looked at Jen and told her I couldn’t do it. She pointed out the fact that he was about to leave and that’s when I stopped him.  Me: Mr. Mitchell? Hedwig: Yes? Me: Can I get your autograph? Hedwig: (Smiling pleasantly, hopefully not too annoyed): Sure. Me: I just had a Hedwig screening at my house a few weeks ago.