I hate my life and I want to die.

And that's not the worst part. What truly sucks is you don't care! Nobody does. I'm

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Small pleasures

I hate my life and I want to die.

And that's not the worst part. What truly sucks is you don't care! Nobody does. I'm a middle class WASP male; sure as I have a pale, circumcised dick, misery is my preordained lot in life. At least god had the decency to make me a faggot. Without that loophole, I'd have stuck a gun in my mouth years ago.

So what that I'm overworked and underpaid. Or that August 15th just passed and I haven't filed '98 taxes. Or that after whiling away countless hours at my favorite S&M joint, I still can't get any play—and you know life blows when you can't entice some drunken bruiser to slap you around! Everybody's got problems, and nobody wants to hear mine.

Oh, I could churn out a column that would elicit sympathy—if I were willing to make sacrifices. I recall a colleague whose finest prose documented her protracted breakdown: cheating on her boyfriend and naming the real names; drug overdoses; bad checks. The only drawback? She wasn't lying. I'm too big a control freak to taste the cleansing release of complete mental collapse. The way my luck runs, I'd be turned over to my parents' custody rather than locked up in some snug booby hatch.

But so what if after all I've done to—I mean, for—Seattle Weekly readers, you're too wrapped up in your own tawdry drama to put my needs first. I can look after myself. And as a public service, I'm generously sharing a few of my nonprescription pick-me-ups with you this week. Why? Because there are some foul moods stronger than a bag of Chee-tos Curls (not the crunchy kind that lacerate your gums) and a couple Absolut and sodas. And—sadly—those are not my domain exclusively.

1. H䡧en-Dazs Dulce de Leche has proven my surest remedy for the mean reds— especially when layered with sliced bananas and hot caramel (the "Dulce Split"). After a particularly hellish meeting yesterday, I hobbled the humid Manhattan streets, shoveling spoonfuls of melting dairy goodness into my craw. There's something so fortifying about leering obscenely at an emaciated wannabe model as ice cream dribbles down your chin.

2. Since I'd been racking up the hours trawling for trade, I invested in a pair of leather wrist cuffs to augment my image (any excuse to accessorize!). Suddenly, upscale variations of this bondage classic are popping up in fashion glossies. This is the first time I've been ahead of a trend since childhood, when loneliness prompted me to befriend large stones in our backyard just months before the Pet Rock fad hit.

3. When my pretty face is creased with worry, sometimes doorpeople don't recognize me immediately and slipping past the velvet ropes to boogie proves impossible. No matter. I rush home, crank up Midnight Star's Anniversary Collection (on Solar/The Right Stuff) and turn it O-U-T to "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and the best jam P-Funk didn't write, "Freak-A-Zoid."

4. Sometimes, my numerous business and social engagements necessitate utilizing public transportation. But I wouldn't dream of leaving the house without my Sony MDR-G56 headphones in gleaming metallic blue. They hook over the ears and behind my head, eliminating the risk of slippage when my bald pate becomes slick with sweat. Better still, the oversized earphones drown out the surrounding idiots yammering about cargo pants, Belgian cuisine, and The Blair Witch Project.

5. Feeling wretched, yet wracked with guilt if you seek solace in junk food? Treat yourself to some fresh broccoli rabe, neglected cousin of the vegetable my Mom tactfully calls "the colon's broom." Saut頩t in olive oil with chopped garlic until the stems are just limp. Sure, it's bitter and stinky, but misery loves company.

6. My father was undemonstrative, my mother is in dentistry, and my little brother hasn't an ounce of body fat. But I never knew how unfair bloodlines could be until my true-crime fetish led to Shot In the Heart, Mikal Gilmore's 1994 memoir of his family—including infamous brother Gary. Aside from being a refreshing tonic to tabloid-style coverage of the ceaseless violence in America's schools, this heartfelt epic by the renowned Rolling Stone scribe offered me hope that music journalists can rise above their station.

7. When all else fails, try sedatives. I've exhausted my supply of over-the-counter valium from Tijuana, but Simply Faboo, the new CD by The Gentle People (on Rephlex UK) works just as well. Atop arrangements that are equal parts Kraftwerk, Esquivel, and 101 Strings, heavily filtered angel voices coo soothing lyrics about meaningful topics even Britney Spears doesn't dare touch: shopping, perfume, and hangovers. Like the song says, "Gentle People Are Love." Well, thank Christ somebody gives a damn!

 
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