Alan Horn's diary

March 27, 2008

My dark night of the soul continues.

I call my mother to ask if she still has my Snoopy nightlight.

She doesn’t.

March 25, 2008

I am presently in the midst of what can only be described as a dark night of the soul. Sounds dramatic, I know, but we all go through these periods from time to time, and we all have our own ways of coping when we do. Mine is huffing air freshener.

March 24, 2008

With prices going up and a recession looming, I’ve been forced to make some hard choices. Just this week I reduced the hours of the kid I hire to deal with my MySpace friend requests, making the position part-time.

I do feel bad for all those waiting to be accepted as my MySpace friend, and if anybody reading this happens to be one of them I hope this little peek behind the curtain explains any further delay. Perhaps it will help to know that it doesn’t mean as much as you may think--none of my real friends even use MySpace.

March 23, 2008

Stopping by the drug store this evening to pick up a few things, I felt a certain hesitation as I approached the check-out counter.

I was conscious of the fact that every item in my basket represented a physical problem of mine. None was especially alarming by itself, but, taken en masse, they shocked even me. Could the woman at the register fail to wonder what sort of person needed products to treat toenail fungus, hemorrhoids, gas, acne, dandruff, athlete’s foot, and bad breath? Would she not be likely to raise her eyebrows when she spotted preparations for both constipation and diarrhea? Surely she would nod to herself knowingly as she rang up the vitamin packs promising to enhance male potency. And so on.

But I was worried over nothing. When she briefly met my eyes to ask me to swipe my card, there was not a trace of judgment in her look. She had seen it all.

March 17, 2008

Happy to find when I stepped on the scale this morning that I had lost a couple of pounds this past week.

I don’t get over to the gym--or even out of my apartment--as much as I should, but I do try to keep active with a program of constant fidgeting.

March 16, 2008

Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, but this year I have learned my lesson. As much as I love to celebrate my Irish heritage, it’s simply too dangerous for me to do so, thanks to a stubborn psychological tic of mine.

My problem is whenever I hear someone crooning the hilariously morose ballad “Danny Boy,” as happens every fifteen minutes or so in an Irish bar on St. Patrick’s Day, I break into giggles. I can usually keep them under control for the first verse or so, but the lines “And if you come, when all the flowers are dying /And I am dead, as dead I well may be” never fail to leave me helpless with laughter.

It’s around this point that I generally get the question “What’s so fucking funny?” After the fourth or fifth rendition, my excuse that the singing is so soulful it reminds me of a clever limerick my Pappy once taught me begins to wear thin.

March 11, 2008

Checked out a lecture today at the public library called "How to Talk to Your Ferns." I thought it would be a good place to meet girls, but perplexingly enough the audience turned out to be predominantly male and middle-aged. I didn't stay long, but it was worth it just to see the lovely specimen the speaker from the American Fern Society brought in for practice--a lush, vibrant maidenhair. You could tell it would be a good listener, too.

March 9, 2008

Visited a hypnotherapist this afternoon to help with my nose-picking problem. After he failed three times to put me under I felt sorry for the poor fellow and made like the fourth try worked.

I suppose I should have spoken up when he started going through my pockets, but it would have been embarrassing to reveal my little ruse. A similar sense of delicacy prevented me from protesting as he fondled my inner thighs beyond shifting slightly and murmuring, “Stop it, Sheila!”

Fortunately there are only eleven sessions left. I don’t plan to schedule any more, and starting next time I certainly intend to carry less cash on me, and to wear thicker trousers.

March 7, 2008

Even people as spiritually evolved as I like to think myself to be are not immune to middle age and its indignities. I have noticed that my astral body is starting to go a little soft around the middle, while my third eye has grown so nearsighted lately that I can no longer read an aura from across the room.

March 6, 2008

Putting a call out for subjects to participate in an ambitious new study of the sexual behavior of female college students. My research will by no means be restricted to private schools like Columbia, Barnard, and NYU--CUNY students and others are encouraged to join. Unfortunately, though, my research criteria require me to limit my sample to undergraduates only.

Please don't feel that to take part you need to fit into somebody's preconceived notions. This is to be a very open-minded sort of study and absolutely no judgements of any kind will be made.

Those wishing to join the study are asked to email me at *alanshorn at gmail dot com* with their school affiliation, year, height and weight, two recent photos (face and full-body, please), primary sexual orientation, biggest turn-ons, and astrological sign.

March 1, 2008

Dilemma: If I grow mutton chops to minimize my jowls, will they only end up enhancing my meth mouth?

February 29, 2008

I don’t think I shall ever be able to pass the corner of 40th Street and 9th Avenue, as I did this afternoon, without thinking back to my days as a squeegee man.

It was something I sort of drifted into, almost as a lark. Then I got the bug and for three wild years my squeegee was no mere tool of my trade but nearly an appendage of my body.

40th and 9th was my corner. I was out there every night in all kinds of weather, along with my partner Lonny. Lonny was one of the greats. The second a driver would spot his hulking, six-foot-four frame staggering over with a bucket of dark gray suds and a deranged look in his eye, the window would roll down and a fistful of change would drop into Lonny’s cup.

Being of slighter build and craftier disposition, I had a different approach. I would come up quietly out of the driver’s blind spot so that I could start lathering his windshield before he had a chance to switch on his wipers. I never charged for this service, of course, but if the driver was kind enough to favor me with a tip, I would do him the additional courtesy of wiping the filthy soap out of his line of vision.

I burned out after three years and never looked back. Soon after that the city declared war on the squeegee men, and today they are no more. The last time I saw Lonny he was sleeping on a park bench barefoot. I often wonder with a little shudder where he is today, and whether he knows it was me who made off with his shoes.

February 23, 2008

The Internet, I find, has something ineluctably erotic about it. I’m not talking about all the fetish porn floating around, or even about those penis-enlargement therapies, which by the way are a complete waste of money and time. It’s not the content I’m talking about, but rather the Internet itself and the feeling it gives of being connected so intimately to so many people.

This state of affairs may go some distance toward explaining certain communications that have come my way lately from one or two readers of this diary. Their nature is such that it is difficult to know how to respond to them directly, particularly without first knowing a little more about the other parties.

But if any of them ever happen to be in the area, I can sometimes be found in the fresh-fruits section of the Atlantic Center Pathmark, especially on Sundays between 2:30 and 4:00 p.m.

February 21, 2008

If this diary is to fulfill its promise of offering a warts-and-all look at who I am, I suppose it is time to start talking about my wart problem.

Unfortunately, as soon as one tries to open up about such matters in a healthy, straightforward way one instantly comes up against a host of misconceptions and prejudices. Say the word warts and right away people start thinking of witches and toads and Ehud Olmert. The truth is that many people who are not creepy or evil suffer from warts at some point in their lives.

Another big misconception is that warts are brought on by overly vigorous masturbation. There is no evidence to support this belief. In my own case, the warts clearly spread from my hands to my genitals and not the reverse.

February 17, 2008

Told my analyst, Dr. F., about an entry I was thinking of posting here today.

I was going to reference the arrest this morning of a man charged with the recent meat-cleaver attack on two Upper East Side therapists that left one dead and the other near death. Then I was planning to write something like: “Police say the suspect spent fifty minutes hacking up the victims, then checked his watch and said with a sneer, ‘Let’s pick up here next time.’”

Dr. F. (after a pause): Is that all?

Me: Yes. (two minutes of silence) I know you’re thinking this is about yesterday.

Dr. F.: What about yesterday?

Me: When I complained about the way you always say “Let’s pick up here next time” at the end of every session.

Dr. F.: (consulting notes) And I asked you why you felt that way, and you said it sounded like a cliché.

Me: Not just a cliché. You say it every time. Whether I’m at a point that’s worth picking up at or not.

Dr. F.: And that makes you angry.

Me: Yes, because you don’t really mean it. It’s insincere. It’s just something you say. (pause) But that’s not what it’s about.

Dr. F.: What what is about?

Me: The entry. Or the hostility expressed in the entry.

Dr. F.: So what is it about?

Me: This is what I think, anyway, that it’s about the way, each time after I tell you about an entry I’m working on, you always wait a few seconds and then say, “Is that all?”

Dr. F.: (writing) Yes?

Me: And I’m not sure if that irritates me because, even though I know it’s against the rules, I’m always hoping for a chuckle, or because that phrase Is that all? relates, you know, to my toilet-training memories.

Dr. F.: That’s interesting. Let’s pick up here next time.

February 10, 2008

Sex today with M., who was having sex with B. at the time.

R. was there too, getting blown by L., but he wasn’t paying attention to any of us. The whole time he had his eye on W., who was getting a rim job from K.

When will R. notice me? And why won’t these people tell me the rest of the letters in their names?

February 8, 2008

Got up this afternoon and made myself a cup of instant coffee, adding milk to it as usual. Someone had bought one of those great big gallon-sized plastic jugs, and after pouring I set it down a little too hard on the counter. About a third of the milk inside sloshed out all over the counter, the floor, and my new fuzzy slippers. A horrible thing to happen, especially so early in the day.

January 30, 2008

Rumor that a worldwide bergamot shortage threatens to send Earl Grey prices through the roof.

I may have to switch to Lapsang Souchong.

January 17, 2008

Haircut today. With the busy holiday season just past, I’d missed my last appointment, and as a consequence my hair had grown out considerably. So there was a lot to work with, and I couldn’t pass up the chance. I opted for the retro-classic cut made newly fashionable these days by Javier Bardem in the film No Country for Old Men.

I haven’t seen too many of these in New York yet, so maybe a lot of men are waiting for their hair to grow out first. Could it be that my sloth last month has ironically put me in the lead?

January 13, 2008

A Christmas gift to myself this year was a mini-fridge. I have a regular refrigerator, of course, but this one I keep next to my bed to chill the tomato juice I use to mix my wake-up bloody marys. Saves my having to get up and walk into the adjoining kitchenette, as before.

I make four or five of them, one after the other. Then I get up and go into the bathroom, where I run the tap until the water is ice cold. I splash it vigorously onto my face for several minutes, puke up the bloody marys, brush my teeth, do a few sun salutations, and I’m ready to face my day.

January 9, 2008

I can’t believe it’s taken me nine days to figure out that several of my New Year’s resolutions are at odds with each other.

My resolution to grow grotesquely long fingernails conflicts with my resolution to learn Japanese origami, my resolution to become more environmentally aware conflicts with my resolution to worry less, and my resolution to feed dependent family members more regularly conflicts with my resolution to cut down on expenses.

I take a moment to think about who I am and where I’m headed. Looks like origami class, the environment, and that extra food budget will have to wait until next year.