Ex-wuffles has ordered that I blog about dead gay dudes, so I shall.

Let's see. So ex-wuffles was talking to me the other day about like, this dead gay guy who had a house made out of glass. Apparently his name is Phillip Johnson. And he like, had this gay lover who lived near him. Y'know, I don't think having a gay lover and living in a glass house works very well. According to ex-wuffles, his gay lover, David Whitney was pretty epic too. I don't know much about him, though.

Oscar Wilde. I know he was a writer or a poet or something. I'm waiting for ex-wuffles to tell me random facts about him that I know she knows. I know that someone at my school started a painting of him in the same stairway as my forum leader's room. So ex-wuffles says that he wrote books and plays. And that he was super witty and stuff. And apparently he was a big guy, so when people harrassed him for being gay, he could beat the forking heck out of them. He apparently had a boyfriend named Bosie whose real name was Alfred. And Bosie was a big jerk and spent all his money on hookers, but he totally had a huge thing for him, so he ignored it or something. He also had a wife and two kids.

Frank O'Hara died young. At like, forty when he got hit by a car. And he went to the University of Michigan (Go Blue!) He wrote a lot of poetry. Including one that ex-wuffles and I stumbled upon during intro to lit. Here's my favorite part of the poem. It's called Steps.

'the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much'

How fab is that? I think it has much meaning that I don't know about.

Another one of his poems has the following...

'That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.'
and
'You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.'

That's all for dead gay guys tonight. I want to play a little of WoW and get to bed. I have to get up early. Eleven. D: