[ defunct as of 7 October 2002 ]
The exaggerations of my rumors are largely and for the most part not quite dead, but.
Or something like that.
I haven’t posted anything hereabouts since 7 October 2002. The old Yahoo email account is full of come-ons for barely legal barnyard lesbians who will teach me to attract women with bigger breasts. I’m not sure why I’d want bigger breasts for this, but it apparently is keyed in some way to my penis size. This is all beyond me, so I gave up on it. I finally finished that 11th bit of Cuyahoga that’s been half-done for months now. I keep promising Heather Corinna I’ll finish rewriting “The Arb” for Scarlet Letters, but. But but but. And how long has it been since I posted to assd? (Except for the headsup post this entry is freely cribbed from?) That long? Jesus.
In other words, ol’ Nick ain’t doin’ much these days.
Me, on the other hand, the me that isn’t so much Nick, I’m not doing too badly. There’s a day job that’s full time and actually involves responsiblity, so no more freelancing (except a couple of exclusive, old-friend clients; hi, Ruthie). I’ve written some stuff about comics that some people have said some nice things about. The Spouse’s magnum opus is finally getting off the ground and making some buzz, and that’s been fun to watch. And I keep vaguely threatening to take this thing I’ve been working on (off and on) for the past four or five years and do something with it. There’s pretty girls in it, and pretty boys, and even some sex, but. But but but.
Maybe it was picking up The Curious Sofa and realizing Edward Gorey (Ogdred Weary) had said everything I’d ever want to say about porn much more cleverly and concisely and clearly than I’d ever hoped?
Maybe.
One of the whole points of “...inexplicably fancy trash” was to blog about writing smut, and thinking about sex and art, and everyday life and politics, and all of it to do something about the porn ghetto; that weird compartmentalization that most people seem to have that says that folks who spend their time making art about sex are weird or depraved or whatnot. (I mean, we are. Just not any moreso than anyone else.) And it was a great deal of fun for a year or so and I said some not unintelligent things (I think) (all of which are still available in the 2001 and 2002 archives; check for yourself) and writing about yourself from behind the safety of a pseudonym is curiously liberating. —But I got tired of not being able to take the credit myself for what my doppelganger was doing (at parties: “What do you do?” “Me? I write, I guess.” “Oh! What?” “Um”) and I started to get weird about the split between “him” and “me” and anyway, there’s something just a wee bit wrong with trying to be honest and break out of the ghetto and show that smutsters are people, too—from behind a pseudonym. So. I stopped. (“I decided,” I said to a friend, at lunch, on the occasion, “to trade candor for honesty.”)
I thought (briefly) about outing myself, but why bother. There’s no reason to keep it hidden—everyone who needs to know knows, and there’s no one who must never find out—but there’s no real reason to announce it, either. It would just be an attention-getting play, and I have nothing to do with the attention at the moment. —And anyway, Nicholas isn’t dead, or even retiring. He’s just being quiet. I do still have those Cuyahoga ideas now and again. I still want to get “The Arb” into somewhat better shape. I had a devilishly silly idea the other day which I’d maybe call The Yuri Academy if I ever got around to it. (Yes, Ruthie.) And if I go too much longer without alluding to possibly writing another Indigo chapter one of these days, Lisala will skewer me.
But yeah. The email account’s toast. The blog (this blog, at least) is dead. I’m busy with other stuff at the moment. And Nicholas isn’t doing much right now.
So.
But thanks for asking.
(If you absolutely positively must get hold of me and have a terribly good reason, shout out at assd. I check it now and again, so post and wait and see.)
