“I’m pan” I tell my friends. “oh that’s great man, we support you! thanks for coming out!!” they say. I sigh deeply. I meant that I am pan, God of the wild. I truly am forgotten in this modern age
bf: (slow smile) what? me: nothin 🙂 me, internally: but was “reservoir dogs” actually meant to be that gay? the moony eyes, the first names, the hair combing, the shakespearean bloodbath, the tender cradling, the tortured deathbed confession. is tarantino capable of that kind of emotional sensitivity? even if he didn’t intend it, does it matter? can’t we assign meaning outside the intention of the artist? maybe the issue is not with tarantino, but with myself. am i ascribing homosexual undertones to a fundamentally paternal relationship, does my confusion about the nature of the interactions between mr. white and mr. orange reveal not only my own problematic expectations for “normal” male interactions, but the uneasy role of the Father in our society? truly the patriarchy confounds at every turn
Aries: Girls hit your hallelujah (whuoo)
Taurus: Don’t believe me just watch
Gemini: If we show up, we gon’ show out
Cancer: Don’t brag about it, come show me
Leo: I’m too hot (hot damn)
Virgo: This one, for them hood girls, them good girls, straight masterpieces
Libra: Got kiss myself I’m so pretty
Scorpio: Bitch, say my name you know who I am
Sagittarius: Make a dragon wanna retire man
Capricorn: Fill my cup put some liquor in it, take a sip, sign a check
Aquarius: Stylin’, while in, livin’ it up in the city
Pisces: Saturday night and we in the spot
EY FATTY BOOM BOOM 