Life is a Butt Print (In the Grass)

It comes to me, sometimes, during rare, fleeting moments like this;
quiet meditative glimpses of acceptance. I recall one such episode
in Massachussetts. As I stood out on a back porch, cool misty rain
lightly surrounding me, I closed my eyes and dared to exhale: all
is right with the world. (And yeah, I will mix my tenses if I want.)
If there is a God, He is in His heaven and I am at peace. I accept
myself and surrender to this moment.

Then I hear how New Age-y I sound. Wayne Dyer appears before
me, a floating disembodied bald head and I snap back to reality: I am
working way too for too little and truly have no idea of my place on
this earth. I do, however, harbor significant thoughts of my
inisignificance in the universe.

Where was I? Oh - my butt print. In the grass. It's a bit of a trek to
the nearest laundromat. I hadn't brought anything along to read - no
room in the laundry/book bag. And it felt wrong somehow to not
be totally present for my laundry. ("When doing laundry, just do laundry." -
Zen saying.) The grass outside beckoned, lined by trees. There was even
a little alcove seemingly just right for meditation. So, I did. A few
moments, counting breaths. In. Out. Repeat.

Ants scurrying all around me. I respected their business while also
worrying they might scurry up my leg and nibble on my penis. (You
knew I had to get the word penis in there...) Still, ants have much to
teach us. Regard their bizzy-ness: do you really think each is
constantly mindful of his purpose on earth? I think it's so much random
scrambling about, searching, exploring, mindless labor, in fact. I empathize
with urgent grasping. The next Thing. Blade to blade, crumb to crumb.
How many heavy, awkward objects have I hauled back to any given second
story apartment; semi-circular, two tiered coffee tables of indeterminate
vintage. That sort of thing. Panting, sweating, never a thought to the
cumulative psychic damage of giving in, once more, to my need for More.

I did have cool bachelor pads, tho.

So, the ants. Fear of being bit. Especially on my dick. I mean, come on.
And it was probably time to check on the laundry. I like this particular
laundromat, but that's a different story. I stood up, crouched, and
went on observing my Teachers. Where my butt once smashed them, blades
of grass slowly bounced back to life. And I thought, hmmm, there's
a lesson here. You leave your butt print and life goes on as it always has.

That doesn't sound nearly as profound as I'd hoped.

Sorry this wasn't sexy.

Who the Hell Are We?

You don't know? Then what the hell are you doing here?

"Homoneurotic," a long standing performing tradition from
the depths of Tucson, AZ, has taken a long distance hiatus.
One of us remains, the other has fled to the frigid northeast
for higher education and some serious chilling out.

Meanwhile -- you have found our blog. Our respite. Our depository for
new material and old, for late night scribblings and myriad
literary pursuits we're not even aware of yet. We love to write,
we love to be read. But mostly, we love to click "Publish."

What follows is an ever changing compendium of fiction,
prose, porn, poetry, short novels, novel ideas,
rejected novel ideas, standup comedy that hasn't stood up yet
and screenplays. Don't forget the screenplays.

Read on... if you dare.

Zen and the Art of Sensual Massage

When did textbooks get so damned expensive? Fifty dollars for spiral bound photocopies?
Seriously?

I blew into this sleepy little college town with just enough money left for a Walmart dresser
and a jar of peanut butter. Okay, I exaggerate. But not much. Boxes everywhere, the cat
pan tucked into a corner of the kitchen, the familiar pang of hunger coupled with fear in
my stomach. Two weeks before school starts. What's a starving grad student to do?

When all else fails - including my own worst attempts at budgeting and planning ahead - I
turn to craigslist. Dot com. "Erotic Services" having long ago been deleted due to a series
of unfortunate killings, one gets creative. Man Seeking Man? Barter? For Hire? I got creative,
which is easy for me when I'm desperately poor. I gotta eat. And those textbooks won't buy
themselves. (I thought the graduate assistantship covered everything, dammit!)

It all makes sense, ultimately: that my higher education would involve my lower, survival
skills. It's a good opportunity to feel superior as well - toiling away on less fit, more or less
successful men than I. It's easy to reconcile "bodywork" as healing touch. Therapy. And
it is... The fact that the man beneath me is usually grinding his hips into the mattress I
can generally ignore. He's aroused; good for him! I'm just here to knead out these, uh,
tense muscles. Hey! That's my dick you've got in your mouth - what the? Oh, allright...
just don't strain your neck.

An admirer of Joe Orton's titillating diaries, I promise more details to come...