Monthly archive: August 2002

Five years ago I was living in Paris, my partner had recently told me he had decided to move back to Iceland, he was packing and his family was visiting for the last time. I fell asleep watching BBC choice, and woke up in the morning to the news of Diana's death.

I felt shattered, my nerves gave up and I started sobbing for what felt like ages. I went out to buy a couple of Diana bios and some black ribbon that I pinned on my t-shirt, then went mourning outside the hospital where she'd been taken. I felt absolutely miserable for several days.

Unbeknownst to people around me (and myself as well), I was trying to come to terms with my own personal loss, and the only way I was able to do that at the time was through affiliation to a public event that was for me as sudden and inexplicable and shocking.

Where were you five years ago?

I saw a flat that I liked on Wed. 21st, handed in my references on the 23rd, called after the weekend to check that they had been received, was told that I'd hear something by the end of the week. I called the estate agent this afternoon and they had no news from the company that checks the references (and that BTW cashes in 30 GBP per person to make a couple of phone calls), they'll know something by next Monday. Yes, fine, but as from next Friday we are homeless.

I maintain my views on estate agents.

Aah, the things one does in order to avoid being publicly labelled "lazy bugger of the week" by the Yankee Blogger.
So here is my contribution to his 100 things, 100 bloggers, 100 days project. Can you now put the whip down, Richard?

1. My name is Luca and, before you ask, I do not live on the second floor.
2. I have two middle names: Luigi and… Maria.
3. As a child, I was convinced the stork delivered me to the wrong country.
4. I only had surgery once (tonsillectomy, aged 4).
5. I was taken to hospital three times in my life, after being hit by a car, bitten by a stray dog, and having my eyes burned by a suntan lamp.
6. I am afraid of heights but enjoy flying immensely.
7. I get a kick out of finding bargains in second-hand clothes shops.
8. I own far too many clothes and am unable to throw them away.
9. Cluttered rooms suffocate me.
10. I travelled outside Europe for the first time last summer.
11. I flew back from Newark airport on Sept. 10th, 2001 (and actually did think that security was a bit slack).
12. I have moved 18 times across three countries in the past 18 years.
13. I cannot sit still.
14. I used to rush home from kindergarten to watch an English language course on TV.
15. My father's family emigrated from Italy to… Italy – the region they lived in was lost over to Yugoslavia during WW2.
16. I was stopped for speeding only once, but was let go on counts of "good behaviour" when the Italian policeman noticed I was wearing a seatbelt (apparently a rare sight in that country in the early nineties).
17. I have been held in custody at police stations a few times for taking part in unauthorized demonstrations.
18. I am a recovering idealist.
19. I indulge shamelessly in daydreaming.
20. Hot weather drives me crazy.
21. My favourite season is winter.
22. A hard plastic elephant was my favourite "cuddly" toy.
23. I have shaken hands and exchanged a few words with prince Charles.
24. I cannot grasp the legitimacy of being allowed to rule one country just because you happen to be the first born in a particular family.
25. I am a republican.
26. I often use too many superfluous words to enunciate a single concept.
27. I have a fair, beauty-spot-sparkled skin that burns and peels and burns again before eventually tanning – but by that time the summer is usually over.
28. I have dyed my hair blonde, black, red and silvery-grey.
29. I am going bald and give myself a #1 crop once or twice a week.
30. I hate shaving.
31. I've had a goatee for the past 10 years.
32. I was pierced three times: left earlobe (not used for over 10 years, probably sealed shut now), left earlobe again (but removed after a couple of hours because the hole was not perfectly aligned with the existing one) and navel (in place for the past 6 years).
33. I have no tattoos.
34. I always do crosswords in pencil.
35. I could read at the age of 4.
36. I can knit.
37. Had I been a girl, my name would have been Elena.
38. At the age of 5 I buried a hairpin, a discarded lipstick and a Barbie doll head in the garden because I felt ashamed of playing with them.
39. I have never dressed in drag.
40. I once stole a gay porn magazine from the newsagent in front of my parents' house – only to re-seal it in plastic wrap to put it back on the shelf a few wanks later.
41. The first time I had sex was with a British man I'd just met in the showers of a youth hostel in Vienna.
42. Shortly afterwards I got myself a girlfriend and had straight sex for a year.
43. I left her for one of her best (male) friends and never looked back.
44. I was top of my class all the way to university.
45. I am currently unemployed.
46. I have a problem accepting that I am not the best at something.
47. I have never had my IQ tested.
48. I can't remember ever feeling bored.
49. I have a very vivid and wild imagination that I sometimes get lost into.
50. I never find enough time to do all I want to do.
51. I never had any nicknames.
52. I am trilingual and can understand/make myself understood in a few more other languages.
53. I find it hard to say no – in any language.
54. I want everyone to love me.
55. I am often tempted to lie in order to win people's approval.
56. My weblog is a lie-free zone.
57. And so is this list.
58. I am afflicted by severe procrastination.
59. It took me 10 days to finally get down and write this list.
60. I have a big problem taking orders from unjustified authority.
61. I was brought up a Catholic, questioned its values from the very start, then ditched it altogether as soon as I could.
62. My brother is a priest, my mother practically a nun since my father's death.
63. I have a very musical ear and can play almost anything on the piano after hearing it just a couple of times.
64. My idea of the perfect night out would be going out with Björk on a fierce drinking spree.
65. I have not got a favourite record / movie / book – it changes all the time. At the moment it's: Angie Stone – Black Diamond / Amélie / 101 Reykjavík.
66. I am very fickle.
67. I thoroughly enjoy doing the washing up.
68. I hate ironing with all my guts.
69. I avoid wearing shirts if I can.
70. I generally go for quantity over quality, and always regret doing so.
71. I am addicted to Tetris.
72. I am addicted to Marmite.
73. I love eating chips dipped in vanilla ice cream.
74. I am a good, experimental, imaginative chef but can seldom be bothered to cook at all.
75. I rarely sit down for meals.
76. I have not kept the same weight for more than three months.
77. I drink lots of coffee and tea (very strong, very white, no sugar) and several gallons of *caffeine-laden soft drinks* every day.
78. I tend to fall asleep for 5 to 10 minutes in the middle of most movies / concerts / plays.
79. Goldfish have a longer attention span than I have.
80. I am the grumpiest, moodiest, angriest and hungriest person on earth when I wake up from an unplanned, accidental nap.
81. I hate going to bed, and I spring out of it as soon as I wake up.
82. I toss and turn and snore and kick around and talk in my sleep.
83. I am currently single.
84. I have had dreams with opening and/or closing credits, black and white dreams, dreams in colour, multi-language dreams, subtitled dreams, dreams with ad breaks, dreams where celebrities were starring as myself and my friends.
85. My recurrent nightmare as a child was being sucked up into a TV set by a large, hairy, knotty hand.
86. I have watched far too much TV for my own good for most of my life. I now hardly ever switch the evil thing on.
87. I have never watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
88. Making long-term projects does not come natural to me.
89. I do not fear growing old.
90. I am terrified of turning into a sad, old, isolated, lonely gay man.
91. I give absolutely no importance to my age, to the point that I have to quickly calculate "2002 minus 1967" whenever I'm asked how old I am.
92. I can never remember figures, except for prices.
93. I sometimes toy with the idea of having a sugar daddy.
94. I never paid for sex.
95. I flew to Italy to start my military service, but was sent back to London after just one week.
96. Touching cotton wool gives me the creeps.
97. The idea of doing something specific in order to relax (laying in a hot bath, lighting scented candles, listening to music) makes me go incredibly nervous.
98. I am a very, very bad loser. Really. Don't play with me, or if you do, you better lose intentionally.
99. I am most productive when under pressure and/or working against the clock.
100. I finally got round to finish this list after much nagging from the Yankee Blogger, and only because the project is closing in a few hours.

Oh. My. Goodness.
I woke up this morning with an awful taste in my mouth, I went to brush my teeth and I saw my tongue had turned dark brown. Yuk. Yuk yuk yuk – apparently my lungs are starting to clear out years and years of enctrusted old tar thanks to the two-day break from smoking that I've graciously granted them (and that's made my wallet 13 GBP fatter).

It's actually a good thing that I'm currently undergoing one of my celibate hermit phases (this one is lasting a whole week – OK, I went to bed with a flu, does that count?) so that I will not impose my mood swings and tar regurgitation to anyone.

You know those moments in Ally McBeal when the energetic music suddenly stops with the sound of the needle scratching the record or, better still, slows down and dies as if the record player has been unplugged? Well, that's exactly how I'm feeling at the moment.

Part of my extremely chirpy mood of the past couple of days was due to the anticipation of having J. over for dinner tonight. Menus were devised, pondered over and scrapped, shopping was done, my trademark vegetarian lasagna baked, wine was chilled, the flat cleaned and tidied, and as I got back from my jog in the park and was about to slip into a hot bath, I checked my messages and he's just called to cancel, he's not feeling too well, he's wondering if we could move it to tomorrow night.

I'm wondering if I can be bothered at all. And I find myself reaching for my cigarettes but no, I haven't got any, bummer.

Over 24 hours without cigarettes (alright, alright, I was asleep for 6 hours, but it's a major achievement anyway).

6,50 GBP in my wallet that would normally be in the newsagent's till instead.

Can't feel the health benefits yet, but I'm looking forward to them.

Can't feel the discomfort yet, and I fear the moment when it will hit me.

Day one was OK, and I want to keep on *unsmoking*, just for another day to see what it feels like.

(I should probably stop being such a coward and officially admit to myself that I have stopped).

12 smoke-free (waking) hours. Still have not decided whether I feel up to quitting or not – well, apparently I seem to be able to resist without a fag break for more than one hour.

It is quite likely that I won't smoke for the rest of the day. And tomorrow, well, tomorrow is another day and frankly my dear I don't give a damn.

I am clearly losing my marbles.

I haven't smoked for the past 5 hours and 50 minutes (not that I'm counting), and it already feels like a month. My throat has not fully recovered yet from the weekend flu, and as I woke up this morning and realized I only had one cigarette left, I decided to have it and then wait until at least 10:30 before going out to buy more.

I could not even finish that first one, my throat was hurting so much, and I suddenly remembered one of the numerous self-help books on quitting smoking that I have read in the past, advising to have one last half-cigarette as you wake up on the day you want to stop, so as to quench the withdrawal symptoms from a whole night without nicotine.

10:30 became 11, and then 12, and then 2 o'clock, and I went for a run in the park, and still resisted the temptation to buy cigarettes.

I feel sort of OK for the time being, a bit hyperactive, going from room to room unable to concentrate on anything in particular (but what's new about that?). I keep thinking that there's something missing but I can't quite identify what it is. I try having some tea or a snack but that's definitely not it, I tell myself – until I shiver in the realization that "what is missing" is actually something that is damaging my health, my finances and other people's sense of smell. I will need to learn to live my days without the constant presence of cigarettes.

The idea started creeping inside of me that I might even try to stop altogether. I know for a fact that I cannot cut down – unfortunately it's 30 a day or nothing with me – so why not try and go cold turkey?

I felt much better yesterday afternoon, so I decided to go and get my weekly fix of the RVT. Surprisingly good, with an energetic show from D. E. Experience with new songs (to me at least), less people than usual, and a different kind of crowd – I heard quite a bit of French spoken, and I have a feeling the special extended bank holiday weekend – cum Notting Hill carnival – cum (no pun intended) extra Fist night attracted a few visitors from the continent.

A couple of beers on an empty stomach did the job, and I gleefully swirled around the dance floor flirting shamelessly for almost four hours (and the only pills I had taken were Nurofem Cold & Flu), then I suddenly felt weak at the knees, went home and crashed out on the sofa in front of Six Feet Under (but fell asleep half way through unfortunately).

And now I am ill again and through my fever-induced delirium I can distincly hear Nat King Cole and daughter singing Irresponsible, that's what you are...

Stupid summer flu. My throat is sore, my head aches, my bones hurt and I go from shivering to sweating every 15 minutes.

It's going to be a Brighton-less, sex-less, smoke-less, club-less, booze-less Bank Holiday Weekend.
Please shoot me now.

Umph. Why is a second date almost never as good as the first one?

Everything's packed, my room is clean and in about one hour I'm temporarily moving in with G. in *finger down throat* Streatham, until we get our new place.

As usual, I do not feel nostalgic at all about leaving a place I've lived in; I've moved countless times in my life, and not one single time I've felt sad about leaving a building, no matter how fantastic the memories associated with it were or how long I've lived in it.

I seem to have an obsession with doors though. During my trip in Paris last February I went to almost all the places I'd lived in and took a picture of the main entrance to the buildings, and I'm doing the same with London now.

2nd date with J. tonight. A movie date (his idea). When I suggest a cinema date it either means that I can't wait to get my hands all over someone, or that I can't be bothered to sustain a meaningful conversation. I'm dying to find out which is the case for him tonight.

We saw a flat that we liked last night and made an offer that was accepted. I'll probably spend the morning filling in the reference form and chasing people across Europe to let them know that they might be contacted by a British agency to check me out. Strangely enough, yesterday's agent did not bat an eyelid when I explained that my main current and savings accounts are in Italy (I've just opened one here), my previous landlord is in Paris, my previous employer in Sweden and my current accountant in Italy.

Let's hope it all works out – I summon a "cross fingers across the internet for me" appeal. The flat is really nice and perfectly laid out for two single gay men: it's a split level conversion, with both double bedrooms on different floors, and not even one on top of the other, so we're going to have lots of privacy. The staircase and landings provide a lot of extra room that make the flat look bigger, and I'm sure G.'s cat will be thrilled to have plenty of stairs to roam up and down (but no balconies or garden unfortunately).

Some of the places I've seen make me want to arrange every single London estate agent neatly against a wall in front of a firing squad. A lot of compulsive liars and cheating vermin. What's wrong with them, wasting my time (and their own) by proposing unsuitable properties? I clearly mentioned what we were looking for, namely two independent double rooms, and one lady had the nerve to show us a flat where the rooms were laid out in a stupid "entrance -> front room -> single room -> kitchen -> double bedroom -> bathroom" sequence.
I could just imagine G. wanting to go to bed, going through my room and saying "Good night flatmate, good night sir… uhm… gentlemen… do you all play for the same team?"

Now Dave, you seem to be a very nice guy. Are you sure you are ruthless enough to step into the lions' den?

Well, hello Mr Chin! Hello Upper Lip! Hadn't seen you in ages. Sorry about the sudden exposure, I just needed a more conservative look for a couple of appointments today (job- and flat-wise). See ya soon – do you think you'll manage to be back for the weekend?

Stuff my friends told me recently:

Friend #1: I recently read this quote attributed to Dorothy Parker: "You know, she speaks eighteen languages. And she can't say `No' in any of them." – and I immediately thought of you.

Friend #2: It can't possibly be you in this photo: he is slimmer, toned and has a defined upper body.

Friend #3: Hanging out with you I noticed that you don't go for one particular type, look or age group in men you fancy; it's basically anything with a pulse and a willy.

Would anyone care to buy three recently acquired, extremely honest, slightly used friends?
3,99 GBP ono. No instructions manual. One of them needs a continental plug.

I am absolutely appalled that scientists need to use poor innocent mice to conduct experiments that may very well take place in any gay club in London with hundreds of willing, consenting people paying (literally) through their nose to take part in them.

It took me two hours to get home from Cricklewood as my eyes had exploded overnight and I could not put my contact lenses back in, so I could not see a thing and I kept getting on the wrong train and missing stops. To make it all worse, I had to constantly pull up my jeans as I think I shrank two sizes over the weekend (lots of dancing + other physical activities + no food), not to reveal the lack of underwear. Oh, and I was dying for a crap. Luckily when I got home I found 20p as I was cleaning the drier filter, and I jumped with joy because I'll be able to buy one cigarette today.

I think I am turning into Marcus.

I have just realized that I've slept alone only three nights in the past nine days.

Excuse me while I go dye that virginal white dress a more appropriate shade of soiled greyish-brown.

I have another date with J. next Thursday. He called today to ask me out and I could not believe my ears. I'm quite excited about it, I am going to save myself for him, so I'll just cancel all engagements and spend the next five days at home, wearing virginal white clothes and indulging in day-dreaming…

…NOT!

I've always had a thing for the Tetris "L" block. Now I know why.

While flathunting with G. this afternoon (from the comfort of a very sunny Brokwell park), we spotted an ad for a place in Vauxhall. He called to enquire and got the address, I looked it up in my A to Z and saw it's literally round the corner from the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. We're expecting a call any minute to set up a visit tomorrow.
We kept telling each other that it's central, and very well connected by public transport, and that it's in cheap(er) zone 1 travelcard, but I'm sure we both thought about how great it would be to keep the windows open on a Sunday afternoon and be able to hear la D.E. Experience go on about the "shithole" of a place we live in!

You might be a Bitful reader and have met me, and if you see me at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern on Sunday afternoon with a man, do come and say hallo, but please refrain from saying to him "Oh, you must be J. – I've heard all about your night of passion". Because that will not be J. – don't ask.

I might have temporarily solved the cash problem: I found a new tenant for the room I am leaving at the end of the month, and he wants it starting from tomorrow.
As I was going anyway to spend a week at G's to take care of his cat while he's on holiday, and I'll be in Brighton for the bank holiday weekend, I said it could be arranged, and he'd pay me half of this month's rent.
I might even afford to go to Sleaze @ Crash tonight then.

Thanks to Jonathan, I have finally understood why my search for Mr Right has not given any results yet.
Now that I know the rules I'll be saving myself some heartache.
If only I could silence the useless little voice inside myself that keeps pushing me to pursue my romantic ideal…

I am putting much more energy into my job search (read: I am actually job hunting rather than thinking about maybe doing it tomorrow). The reason? Money is running very low, goodness knows when the Italian company I'm freelancing for will pay me, so I finally started getting seriously worried.
And, just when I was starting to wonder how I am going to pay for my next meal, I remembered the plum tree in the garden. Guess who's going to be on a strict plum diet now? (invitations to dinner are most welcome as they will help me limit that lovely laxative plum effect)

Date update:

• Met J. at The Yard for a couple of drinks. Jaw-dropping handsome. Excellent, lively, stimulating conversation, lots of eye contact and smiling.
• Went for a quick, cheap dinner at the Stockpot. More animated discussion, that we both cranked up a notch with tactful, subdued flirting.
• After-dinner coffee at Bar Italia, where I showed off by ordering in Italian.
• Tube ride to his place for a nightcap. Sat on the couch as he shyly put his arm around my shoulders, like a coy teenager at an important movie date.
• Tender, passionate, sweet, intense, raunchy sex.
• Cuddle and sleep.
• More tender, passionate, sweet, intense, raunchy sex.
• Breakfast (him) and cigarette in the garden (me).
• Kissing and apologizing for my cigarette breath – he said he does not mind it at all.
• One last kiss in his car as he dropped me off at the tube station, just like long-term partners on their way to work.

So where's the catch?

(Oh, and he is 31, by the way)

Off to meet J. – Yes, the guy from the drunken cradlesnatching episode. He called last night asking me out tonight for a drink, and I happily accepted.

We had to tell each other what we'll be wearing, in order to recognize each other (we met six weeks ago, it was dark, I was drunk, and I often close my eyes when I kiss).

I'm dying to find out just how young he is. Maybe he's 42 and I was very, very drunk.

Tired of your old boring identity? Mo'Nique can get you a new one in a jiffy. I am much much happier as Eugenia Ebony Houston (no relation).
(Link via Eugenia Duncan O'Neil)

Kylie sings Madonna? I'm salivating already.
(Link via Keith, my #1 Madonna Info Source)