I think my fish is nearing death. Hang on, Rosita.

I have had a lot of firsts this year. For instance, when we went out for my birthday I wore heals with jeans. Etc.

I wasn't going to post this because it's so deliciously angsty, but I like it, and it's art, so if I think it's overly dramatic I'm probably missing the point. Whatever. For the record, life is generally good.


the late jonathan larson is displeased

Vol. 1: The day the guy at CIM told me in a gently worded letter that he wished my violin played better notes

I got pissed today because I forgot to ask you
Why you were holding a half drunk bottle of jaeger in one hand
and a thirty-eight dollar martini in the other

And why did Adrian and Nic and Jamie and the boy named Sue
Never mention that Cleveland is so unromantic?

What would you say if you knew
That my Tchaikovsky is better influenced by Bob Dylan
wailing in my car stereo
than the "Best of Archangelo Corelli" album, a gift from Mrs. Determan

It's never left the plastic
And neither, Cleveland
Have you

Could Dylan explain, excuse
With fingertips calloused, like mine
Why some of my notes were out of tune?
That our message would knock you on your ass
If you had ears for it?

And when did art become a standardized test
With a number two pencil and percentile rank
no Suzuki violinist left behind
So long as her Gucci-toting mother can shoulder the budget

I got pissed today
About my ignorance, my first kiss,
That you forgot to tell me why
My body is real
And my religion is prosthetic

But God's plan was fulfilled
Through Updegraff, and Ginsberg, and Judas, and me
For better or worse
Til death do us part