tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55038252009-02-20T22:43:21.880-08:00Sexy and shallow—just like that Wedgewood serving platter you saw at Neiman's.Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1096515241985740042004-09-29T20:32:00.000-07:002004-09-29T20:34:01.986-07:00

Seriously, everyone. www.xanga.com/dirtypeaches. The future is now.

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1096251805747537332004-09-26T19:14:00.000-07:002004-09-26T19:23:25.746-07:00

Well, the time has come, ladies and gentlemen. This Okie is making the trip out West. Figuratively, of course. Like the Joad family, I've found that peaches over at Xanga—over yonder, just past the sated beggar and the recently bludgeoned Messianic icon—are just a little sweeter. More sugar for your shilling, to be crude about it. See you there? www.xanga.com/dirtypeaches

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1091995034934623192004-08-08T12:16:00.000-07:002004-08-08T12:57:14.933-07:00

The fluids vaulting from my nose and mouth aside, today has been a today of pleasant surprises. The most recent surprise is that I've found the motivation and time to write another disptach, even if it is relatively low in content. Truly, I am God's gift to the internet and to...you? Which reminds me: if you read this site, particularly if you read this site regularly, I'd love to hear from

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1091890933063187372004-08-07T07:00:00.000-07:002004-08-07T08:02:13.063-07:00

Just as I eat twice a day, take Effexor twice a day, smoke at least 12 times a day and wash my hands at least 13 times a day, I seem to update this site once a month. Each dispatch begins with an apology for, or callous and hypomanic defense of, my infrequent posting. I don't know. I just thought I'd bring it up. It's 10am, Saturday. I'm supposed to be hungover in Provincetown, picking hairs

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1088736312038842552004-07-01T19:40:00.000-07:002004-07-01T19:45:12.036-07:00

A month goes by and then I remember to update this site. If I had a pet that needed feeding, it would surely die of neglect. Had an interesting, which is to say uneventful-though-pleasant, birthday. You know, I think "23" actually brings some wisdom...which I'll share next time. Cheers to NRC, who not only called me on the night in question but who will, undoubtedly, appreciate the allusion

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1086080409063288532004-06-01T01:18:00.000-07:002004-06-01T02:05:21.206-07:00

It's 430am and I'm taking a break from packing up my room. I'm leaving Providence. And no, I'm not happy about it. I love this city—and while I shouldn't assume that my love is reciprocated, I can say with some objective certainty that we've had our moments. Driving off, I'm sure I'll have some sort of anxiety attack. If you see a black SUV on the side of the highway with its vaguely

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1082561462770322072004-04-21T08:30:00.000-07:002004-04-21T08:34:00.686-07:00

And suddenly, motion isn't relative any more.

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1081712481507210132004-04-11T12:14:00.000-07:002004-04-11T12:44:09.560-07:00

I am not particularly good at fantasy--sexual or otherwise. Sure, like anyone, I have romantic, psychological and geographical crushes now and then. I imagine what it would be like to be somewhere, to be someone, to be with someone. But I'm not particularly good at these; the future, now the present, is not what I ever thought it would be. Or we can phrase it differently: I am unable to

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075769349956652992004-02-02T15:57:00.000-08:002004-02-02T16:52:37.700-08:00

Recently, Adam, Chris and I found ourselves in a Kay Bee toystore. If there were ever a reason not to have children—particularly the ungrateful sort—the prospect of shopping at Kay Bee would be it. The trip was not entirely unproductive, though; there were several items of interest: the Osbourne trivia game, a PC application called Will Writer, Glam Rock Skeletor, various singing creatures and

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075701887017487522004-02-01T21:34:00.000-08:002004-02-01T22:08:17.123-08:00

I have to apologize for that last post on boredom. Halfway through the post, I decided that I wasn't going anywhere good. So I declined to go anywhere at all. Of course, it would have been nice if I had remembered to delete what I had written. Yes, yes: mea culpa. Pleased to be absolving me? A few other things to confess, Father. —I have committed blasphemy, taking our Lord's name in

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075530876386581282004-01-30T22:14:00.000-08:002004-01-30T22:36:12.670-08:00

I'm surprised people still read this site. You'd think a five month hiatus would etherize most readers. But in the two days since my bit on Moonpies, about 20 people have come to piddle on my peach tree. Normally, watersports don't do it for me--fuck me, though, if I wouldn't drink a tub of your 'bathwater.' If you love me, tell me so: jsg1332@yahoo.com. By the by: I've completely forgotten

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1075357406066159852004-01-28T21:53:00.000-08:002004-01-28T22:26:24.733-08:00

It's been--a few months, has it? Ugh. And so whatever readerbase I might have had has undoubtedly disappeared. Said the pussycat to the wall: I might as well be speaking to the ceiling. See? I'm a little rusty. Let's see if a little practice can change that. But practice will have to wait. I'm eating a Moonpie right now, the problem-du-jour being that I hate Moonpies and that I won a

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1064807838186664202003-09-28T20:16:00.000-07:002003-09-28T20:58:39.886-07:00

Recently, I've had some ideas for some TV and film spin-offs. By recently, I mean over the past few months. And by "ideas," I mean the category of potentially interruptive cognitive happenings that are opposed to "fantasies." For instance: I had an idea concerning John Guillory's Cultural Capital, which I'm reading for a seminar; I had a fantasy about dragging Lucy Liu by her hair and

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1064120891457286482003-09-20T21:32:00.000-07:002003-09-20T22:11:35.283-07:00

So, despite my plea, I've yet to receive any email concerning this site. That's OK, folks; in my mind, silence is love. Standing me up is love. Not returning my phone calls or letters—that's love. Better yet, it's lust. In no particular order, meine fuckbudden, my life's most recent month: Ass massages to relieve my back...back exercises to relieve my leg...leg lifts and stomach crunches to

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1064036332708162292003-09-19T22:09:00.000-07:002003-09-19T22:47:49.060-07:00

Once more, my life is odd enough to warrant some internet interaction. Well, here I am, you spermy e-trolls. Sorry about that. Sorry. I hurt the ones I love. And truly, I'm sorry about my extended absence. But that's what happens when you have nothing to do: the little you have to do becomes uniquely overwhelming. So if you want me to write more frequently, if you have fewer immediate

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1061085249573143532003-08-16T18:54:00.000-07:002003-08-16T18:59:19.073-07:00

Well, so that’s it. It’s been nice. All my spoons are burnt and all my mental veins are sclerosed. Press kits should read: “after careful consideration, and after watching Gray Davis mismanage the state of California so appallingly, I’ve come to the decision—a decision drawing on both the mutual perception of my abilities and the nebulousness of my "ambitions"—that graduate school is probably

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1060637728440706662003-08-11T14:35:00.000-07:002003-08-11T14:42:55.120-07:00

No apologies this time. I’ve done nothing wrong. So if you sit around waiting for me to write, playing internet canasta and checking this filthy fruit cart every hour, I suggest you get a cat. You know, something to keep you company while you wait. Since my last dispatch, I’ve been fairly busy. Health concerns, mostly, with some emotional and social reevaluation on the side. Don’t act so

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1059775951536871822003-08-01T15:12:00.000-07:002003-08-01T15:12:31.590-07:00

Last summer, whilst traipsing lightly through the Providence Place Mall, Arthur and I found a coin-operated scale. According to the scale, neither of us were at our ideal weight. Holy fcuk! Alert the media! Last night, the tarnish-your-self-esteem-for-a-dollar-o-tron and I had another encounter. However, in addition to telling me that I should reduce, the scale had a few suggestions on how I

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1059451838348700002003-07-28T21:10:00.000-07:002003-07-28T21:17:40.580-07:00

Hi, all. I know it's been a while, so I'm tempted to apologize. But, hell, I know my readers. "I'm sorry" doesn't cut it here. "You're welcome" does. In any event, it's been a week of tiny pleasures and equally tiny atrocities—a week of feeling guilty for the good things and the bad. So, to inaugurate this mutual return to internet banality, I have a news item: the United States' greatest

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058828410836140302003-07-21T16:00:00.000-07:002003-07-21T16:11:50.830-07:00

When it comes to viticulture, I'm as dumb as Drew Barrymore. Which is to say, I'm ignorant but experienced. I do know one thing, though: I am unable to drink red wine. As Liza Minelli would say, I get sho shloppy, daralingg. Which is a shame, because my blood and body are wholly sympathetic to Port. However, your fears to rest; the demons to bed—because I'm not the worst sympathizer out

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058751460528975282003-07-20T18:37:00.000-07:002003-07-20T18:42:39.316-07:00

A few posts ago, before my joking—you see? joking! joking!—threat to go Aum on the MTA, I asked for some responses to dirtypeaches. Yes. Which you're reading right now. No. Don't act so surprised. In any event, I received such a response this morning. I was delighted, to be sure—a letter, a letter from the front! Said response, however, was from an email address I'd never seen before and

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058652653955831772003-07-19T15:10:00.000-07:002004-02-02T16:58:17.576-08:00

First, though, an aside: the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) had better watch its ass. Under no circumstances, MTA, are you allowed to levy fare increases or mug or try to kill the people I care about. This is your only warning. Another offense? I'm coming down to handle this in person. And you don't want that. And yeah, I got a new fucking chair. My sincere thanks to Tyler, as

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058541189515589412003-07-18T08:13:00.000-07:002003-07-18T09:21:44.313-07:00

When I was in elementary school, I was one of the few children that didn't like Roald Dahl. I had learned to read at too young an age; I was jaded; and the novelty of reading had worn off by the time I turned seven or so. I was content to play sports and eat candy and ignore the other kids' discussions of Emile Durkheim and Isaiah Berlin. Durkheim and Berlin, of course, were vehicles for

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058379679227249212003-07-16T11:21:00.000-07:002003-07-16T11:23:28.476-07:00

I really hate rice. It's bland and it's filling, sort of like seawater, sort of like him. I realize that billions of people live on almost rice alone; I feel so bad for them. Knowing this, you could correctly assume that I grow uncomfortable when I see bags of rice. And so when I opened a package from Ben this morning I was, well, uncomfortable. In a box was a bag of basmati rice. But

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5503825.post-1058309745703715302003-07-15T15:55:00.000-07:002003-07-15T17:57:16.830-07:00

"Pfirsiche, it's sooo, like, MCM11 to excerpt Barthes." "But I enjoy Barthes, you preachy, Virilio-sucking plutocrat." "But he's sooo cliche, yes." "Losersayswhat." "Ce qui? Oooh, oooh—is that Badiou reading US Weekly?" SNAP! Onward, Christian soldiers. "Garbo," Barthes writes in "The Face of Garbo," "still belongs to that moment in cinema when capturing the human face still plunged audiences

Peacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16791300590668221250noreply@blogger.com