Chest ruts bloating on an open pyre

Lavern and I are going to NYC in April! I've been dying to go back since I went for the first time in 2007, and it will be her first time going. We are doing it as tourist-y as possible, the double decker bus, tour of Ellis Island, and the requisite musical (I'm thinking "Promises, Promises" featuring Sean Hayes, but primarily because of the "Turkey Lurkey" number with which I'm obsessed on the YouTube).

Last Sunday was a charming holiday din din at the Osha with L Ha and Team Christy where we gossiped, drank, ate, and I dared Team Christy to give our burning hot Thai guy waiter her number (he's been stalking her ever since). I'm thinking, new tradition. We then walked our way to Union Square and took pictures in front of the big Christmas tree like fucking tourists. Endearing.

My Christmas wish this year is for all children to collectively have laryngitis for a week so they can't speak/yell/scream.

Tanks

Hannah invited me to her family's Thanksgiving, but I had to decline. I told her as much as I'd love to go and meet her clan in person, it would feel awkward, like I was the weird, gay roommate in a clown costume who'd randomly shown up. Her mother expressed that she'd really wanted me to come, and I told Hannah to thank her, but reiterated my position. At least it's nice to be wanted.

The optometrist put my left contact under a microscope to discover there was a hairline crack right at the edge of the cornea. I had looked the contact over up and down, but not seen a thing, and had thought that my eye had gone all wonky, so it was actually a blissful revelation. Moreso, a new one has been ordered that my insurance will cover, so I can stop feeling like I'm living in a dream world with that rank fogginess resulting from having only one good contact on.

The grandmother of my youngest sister, who is my half-sister but whole nonetheless, died a few days ago. She was a very sweet lady, and my sister was very close to her and her grandfather, who also passed away about a year ago. She realizes that her grandmother is in a better place, which, as much as it is a cliche to say, is actually the truth of it. Death is but a door that leads to something else.

Pop! Pop! Can you hear me?

It was an immensely fun Friday night at the End Up with DJ Hawthorne at the helm, all prompted by the promise of LG being in town. My newly svelte and newly blond buddy from the East Bay came with a brother and sister pair, the former of which sat down with me for a spell and spun some story of being clairvoyant. I entertained his somewhat entertaining speech for a bit before he had to potty, and followed along with the intention of waiting for him when he got out. But the music was amazing, true classic End Up, soulful/diva house shiz the likes of which I love. So I danced around like Mary at the end of "Party Girl" until I was pooped, and headed home around 3:00.

Saturday was supposed to be the Love Parade, but luckily I'd gone online to discover the day event had been cancelled. Pity, as I do love boys in hippie/raver attire.
But I met up with Mandy at Osha instead and soaked in the summery day with Thai appetizers and caprihinas.

My new roomie Hannah and I have plans to do the sushi place down the street some time next week, which will be a fun, month-late welcome home dinner for her.

I want to get a bunny, but I'm afriad Sugar will kill it. Plus I'm not too keen on the little bullet poops they leave everywhere.

Hannah bought this amazing aloe vera plus green tea handsoap that is like aromatic heroin. I am addicted to the smell of it.

It's all about adding lemon juice to your water and having some cottage cheese everyday.

Straight up now tell me is it gonna be juice or milk my bay-beh

I am a reflective motherfucker who always likes to evaluate where I am in life and where I'm going. I like to evaluate the incremental changes that occur in my life as part of this process. One thing for certain is that the higher volume and greater intensity of my workload lately has made me more driven by necessity. The way that trickles down to my personal life is that my natural sense of nostalgia seems to have been pushed aside to make room for the present. Like a sand sculpture slowly but steadily being swept away by the wind. It's not really even that dramatic or dire, but it's just something I've noticed recently.

One of the scenes in "Election"--that great flick featuring Matthew Broderick and the lucky-bitch-who-got-to-have-Ryan Phillippe's-penis-inside-of-her-at-least-twice Reece Witherspoon--that has always stood out in my mind because it is so authentic, is when Matthew Broderick's character is at that motel, preparing to sleep with his neighbor's wife. He's rushed home from school, done whatever to set the mood, and there's this scene where he quickly splashes some soap and water on his genitals to clean them right quick. Like he wants to be fresh for the imminent whoopee to occur, and is short on time. That had to come from someone who has been in the same situation. A piece of brilliant writing, I'd say.

In one of my classes in college, one instructor actually asked us all what we wanted to be after graduation. I can't remember the class or precisely the circumstance that this sophomoric topic was broached, but I'll never forget that one guy, this scruffy, sort of tell-it-like-it-is in stoner style guy said, with no trace of irony, that he wanted to be a film critic. I suppose he could have been a film studies major, but that always stood out to me as a particularly unusual and perhaps brave admission of a major.

Not that I didn't--and don't still--get my fair share of laughs for having majored in English, mind you.

Whirlwind weeks, world weary days, and whoopee! times

In the big ole basket of bullshit and brass I've been dealing with for the past several weeks, there've been some ups and downs, and never a dull moment. My first time at the helm of the company's annual bonus program has gone off well. We'll just cross our fingers and hope everything gets paid correctly and there aren't any errors attributed to my ass.

And last weekend, I interviewed a record four candidates for the new roommate after just two months with Zeke. Before I get into that lot, though, as an interesting, if not perturbing side note, I received a call last week from someone in a local area code saying they were going to rent to Zeke, and asking for a tenant reference. This was odd as he'd told me he'd lost his job and would be moving back to LA. I guess I should have noticed the red flags when he moved in and didn't want to buy a couch off of my old roommate because "it would be a pain to move out". And at one point early on asked, "And I just have to give you thirty days before I move out, right?"

Whatevs. Most everyone I interview for the place is wowed by the size of the room and the low rent. And this story does have a happy ending, not the least of which is that after this next roommate moves out, I'm most likely living solo.

A breakdown of the cast:

1. Joya - A rather sheltered girl who when I sat her down to interview her, asked about ripping up the carpets, retiling the bathroom, and painting the walls. Clearly someone who came from a rather cushy background, and wasn't suited to City life. Next!

2. Larry - A guy into animation with an easy laugh and an easy face to look at, he was a total charmer, and we seemed to hit it right off. Sugar ran laps around the room like a lunatic, so I knew he was a keeper. Unfortunately, though I offered him the place, he instead had a friend moving up to the city and decided to room with him. Drats.

3. Nessa - A chick from Singapore whose English had a cute British tinge to it, she seemed to be gathering her bearings in the city and taking it all in. She was talkative as hell though, and it was during her interview that my hangover really started to kick in. Still, she took the second place trophy at the time.

4. Hannah - I nearly didn't interview Hannah since she couldn't come on Saturday, but took the time to meet her on Sunday, and was glad I did. A 20 year old stylist who was nothing but sweet, called me "an awesome guy", and who Sugar literally dug her claws into and almost didn't let go. She also included those twelve magical words in her email response to the ad: "I won't be home very often because I work all the time." Loves it. She just signed the lease and dropped off the move-in check, so we're a go on that front.

Mr. Alterhausen is in town and living it up Frisco Disco style. I cocktailed it with him and Debelah at Lime last night, Shazam-ing the tunes played by the DJ, drinking it up, taking ridiculous pics, and the like.

It has been cemetery weather the past several weeks, like in "Silent Hill" when it's the limbo dimension with washed out gray everywhere, as if you're dead. Only I feel not so much dead as overly catalyzed and ripe for a nap

At da club, rub a dub dub

Remember the "Pac Man" cartoon show from the '80s? Lately at work, I feel like I'm in a perpetual state of being chomped--like when the ghosts would chomp Pac Man, and he'd be incapacitated.

Last weekend, I noticed Sugar's right eye was slightly closed, and had a gauzy film over it. So I scheduled a vet appointment for today, and thought it would be fun to take her out for a walk the couple of blocks to the place.

Talk about an idiot maneuver.

Cats like the familiar, they like to hide in underneath things, and be in a position where they can attack/escape if necessary. So big tall-ass building, roaring cars, and the like, are not fun to a cat. I thought at any moment she might wriggle out of my grasp, rip my face apart, and bolt. But after ten strenuous minutes, we made it to the vet, she was diagnosed with an ulcer in her eye (because sleeping and eating all day are truly, truly stressful activities), I got some ointment for her, paid the $146 bucks (!), was given a cat cart to tote her home in, and trekked back to Casa Fiesta.

I need to post the roommate ad on Monday, but before I do, I'm going to start a petition: No More Will Ferrell movies. I'm asking nicely.

Not for all the E in China

I am still without a right contact lens, thus making everything somewhat hazy, like I'm drunk without actually feeling intoxicated. Or like I'm in a dream. Which makes it seem like nothing really matters because it isn't real. This can't be constructive. A second follow up call to the optometrist is due next week. It's been a month since I ordered a new one.

Enrique Iglesias's "I Like It":

I like the jam.

I like the new Bieber-inspired 'do.

I like the continued absence of the eye mole.

Go on with ya llikealbe self, Ricky.

At one point you were a carefree child who said what you thought, before you became who you are today.

Metalocolyspe vs. Aqua Teen Hunger Force vs. My Little Pony

Zeke moved in a few days ago, and I've seen neither hide nor hair of him. Just his house slippers at the door and the emptied contents of the vacuum in the trash. Kind of nice living with someone who works nights.

Work has been hectic and a half now that the annual bonus program is in full effect, and I'm managing it on my own. I'd rather be in the thick of it, though, than in the months, weeks, moments leading up to the craziness. That precursor time is what really makes me nervous. Being in the eye of the storm at least means we're almost over the hill.

(That was way too many metaphors mixed up in one paragraph.)

If you're someone's first boyfriend or girlfriend, chances are you won't be the only boyfriend or girlfriend they ever have.

I miss playing Uno.

Prideful times

Friday night, I met up with Roze and Victoria at Tsunami near Mission Bay. The food was excellent, but the service blew. Roze and I got there first (in her awesome new ride), and had to tell the maitre d' and waitress about three or four times that we were a party of three. Then people who got there after us were seated first. We waited at the bar for Victoria, and as the bartender was shaking a drink, the glass broke, shattered, and ice went aflyin'. We weren't harmed or wet, but he didn't have a sense of humor about it at all, or even offer us a free drink because of it. Then the waitress fucked up our bill, charging us each half instead of splitting it three ways. You'd think these people were novices, but oh well.

Then it was off to Supperclub, for which I felt terribly under-dressed. Or, well, just not as interesting or fun as most of the other attendees: hipster alterna-homos and drag queens. But I was there to see Lady Kier, and determined to get through the predictable shock rock drag queen quartet, and chicken costume-wearing freak whose performance including throwing eggs at the audience (I kept the crate) to see my girl.

And just as I was getting fed up and wanted to leave for the End Up, there she was at the bar. I quickly grabbed Dascha who'd met up with us and had a camera, and approached Kier. I told her I loved her, she flipped around and struck a pose with me, then tended back to her drink before manning the booth and spinning some funky shit.

Saturday, Zeke came over with a friend to drop off a copy of the lease and the move- in check. He appeared to be a bit buzzed in honor of Pride, which was all well and good and made me think, This'll work. We exchanged the papers, and I sent him on his way.

Sunday was the Pride festival, and Dascha--who is moving back to Connecticut in August, so this will be her last Pride--met up with me at Powell, and we jointly trekked to Civic Center. She had unwisely neglected to bring a to-go drink, so we had to stop off at a corner store for some Southern Comfort and Diet Coke, but once we got there, we hung out at the hip hop stage for a time, desperately tried to find LG to no avail, then realized were at the wrong stage because the Backstreet Boys were at the main stage.

We hightailed it over there in time, barely seeing them through the crowd, but sang along to "I Want It That Way". They sang their two songs, got ten bucks apiece, probably got a couple free gay blowjobs somewhere along the way, and went home. Everyone was happy.

I am somewhat recovered, and back in high stress mode at work. I wish I could fast forward through the next two months because they're not going to be fun.

La week in review

Two out of three of my roommate candidates showed, and both were cool. They expressed interest in the room and appreciated the low rent, and I decided to go with Zeke. I'm not exhaling, though, until his credit check clears and the first month's check has cleared.

I went to the North Beach Festival with Dascha, Sobina, and two of their guy friends on Saturday, one of whom Dascha swore was secretly queer. We whiled away the day drinking on Washington Square, hit up a bar, did a little Italian spot for dinner, then went to another bar where Dascha, Sobina, and the other guy ponied up $100 for secretly queer boy to kiss me. Which he did. And which was nice. Then we danced in the downstairs club 'til the cows came home.

The ex-boyfriend of a good friend of mine suddenly died last week. It's a shock to say the least.

My poor 60-something grandmother is in the throes of divorce. Thirty years of marriage gone kaput. Terrible. I sent her flowers for her birthday to cheer her up.

The most trying of news is that one of the people on my team at work is resigning, just as we're about to work on the annual bonus program. It was sort of long in coming, and I'm happy for him that he's moving on to another stage in his life, but I am a little nerve-wracked. It will all be fine, I know. But in the meantime, I'd like to just clone myself, and let the other dude do all the work while I stay huddled in bed for the next few months.

Aaaand the cat's in the cradle and the silver noob...

Roommate interviews tomorrow. After a few appletinis and still charged from "The Real Housewives of New York City" reunion part 3, I did a little sprucing up and redecorating around the house that ended up quite nicely. Will do some final touches today, buy some flowers, and cross my fingers.

The three hopefuls are:
1. Zeke: Gay guy who was the first to bite, and had a colorful, fun, and vibrant response to my ad. He seems to be the most promising candidate, but words can be deceiving. We'll wait until we meet in person.

2. Sally: A self-described 39-year-old wild child, she seems like fun, but I worry about the fact that she smokes (though she insists she would do so outside) and, well, that she describes herself as a wild child. I'm fucking getting old. And my current roommate is barely around, so it's like I have the place to myself. And I'd kind of like to keep it that way.

3. Paul: The sparsest of responses was from this dude who works at a law firm, but has a degree in music. Interesting. I always have one person who really doesn't spark my fancy, but who I interview as a back up in case the most fascinating people fall through. Enter Paul.

Everyone gets a half hour to impress me. Then I want to climb to Parnassus Heights and have frozen margaritas 'til the cows come home.

In my amazingly small, yet quaint, apartment, Sugar has managed to recently find a new place to post herself. And it's on my desk.

My desk has upon it the standard lamp, laptop, and little flake flower stem plant, but also the following random ephemera:
a box of Band Aids
a curious remote control
a foreign letter opener from my grandma
An envelope for an iTunes giftcard
an itunes giftcard
a small photo album book
two ballpoint pens
one felt tip pen
a multi-purpose screwdriver
a CD on how to start or install your computer or something
an unused iPod
an omnipresent bag of pretzels
a box of Crest whitening strips
cocktail straws
a roll of scotch tape
a bottle of hand sanitizer
a roll of paper towels
a bottle of whitening mouthwash
a bottle of water

Cats really can acclimate to just about any habitat, yes?

Oil schpeels

One of my most favorite words which I rarely get the chance to use is "churlish". It means vulgar, surly, or intractable, and sounds like your about to spit a loogie at someone.

There was a meeting where a contract was being negotiated, and this one woman said to the other party, "There is a solution for your chronic unhappiness." I so want to use that phrase in real life some time.

Deodorant may cover up the stench of your sweat, but how can it possibly be good for your underarm pit skin? Especially if you're putting it on everyday? I mean, it's not like a lotion that absorbs into your skin and moisturizes it. It's something that covers up a smell. You don't spritz perfume up your bum after pinching off a loaf, so where did we get to this practice of applying deodorant every bloody day?

Stress mess or Tex Mex?

I've got the annual bonus program, wage increase implementation, and a potential strike at work, and at home, a new roommate to find. It never rains, but it pisses poor on ya. Not much I can do about the extra workload, but as for finding a new roommate, I am going to just make the minimum payments on my credit cards this month, and make sure I have enough to cover Brandon's half of the rent. Not the preferred avenue, but it puts my worry wart prone mind at ease.

I saw a woman on the street today with a puppy dog umbrella. That is, it had these painted, realistic looking puppies painted all over it, with those dead black eyes. Gross.

I fidget a lot. People who see me probably think I'm a crackhead.

And 'cause all good things must come to an end

Brandon just let me know he'll be moving out. It's been pretty much close to heaven having a roommate who's barely here, so I'm sure gonna miss that. I have that same combination of trepidation and excitement that I always get when a roommate moves out, and I go on the hunt for a new one. Could it be someone fun who I'll hang out with? Will it be someone chill who's easy to live with? Or will it be a nightmare roomie? It's a gamble despite one's best efforts, but time to gear up. And that includes the usual top to bottom cleaning of Casa Fiesta. This'll be the fifth roommate in my nearly five years of living here.

Have you ever known someone who's such a saint that they totally make you feel like a piece of shit?

I was watching "The Goonies" the other day, and noticed how many times they use my least favorite phrase: you guys. And it's derivative: guys. Never bothered me back in '85 when I first saw it.

When is the last time you saw a pay phone?

Sandy Clogs

Although it's raining, I'm taking my fat ass to the gym after work today. I didn't go at all last week, and it left me feeling like corpulent crap. With all the benevolence of Jabba the Hut.

In addition, my stylist was sick last week, so my haircut appointment was cancelled. Leaving me feeling like Chewbacca.

Jake Gyllenhal? Eh... I thought that was Jared Leto on that "Prince of Persia" poster. Jordan Catellano is way hotter.

I wanna shoop

I went to the orthodontist last year and he said I needed braces. I immediately panicked and thought I wouldn't be able to perform oral sex--not that these opportunities arise on a regular or even semi-regular basis, but still, one ought to be yare. I texted my friend Roze, who wore braces for a few years, and she assured me that it was still possible to go down as long as you did so with a bit more care. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Speaking of Roze, I asked her how her new job is going and if she likes her co-workers. She said she likes this one woman named Lynne who is like me, but "not as crude".

I saw a personalized license plate this morning that read "GOD 911". I wanted to ralph.

Cute news, new shoes

Last night, I dreamt that Sugar had a litter of kittens. One of them was all charcoal grey with deep granite eyes, and this kind of cool cosmos of patterns in its coat. I'd named it Greyson. It seemed to take a liking to me, which was sweet.

Brandon has still not returned from his trip to the Himalayas. He said he'd return mid-May. I would say this week would qualify precisely as mid-May. I really hope he didn't fall of a snowpeak and pass on. The odd thing is that about a week ago, his TV suddenly turned on. I finally noticed it when I heard some loud-ass commercial on around 3:00 in the morning. I had thought it was just the neighbors TV, but when I knocked on his door and opened it, I found that it was in fact his. Creepy.

I don't quite get the distinction between dot-com and dot-net.

Blackout (non-alcohol related)

I had the day off yesterday, which was swell until the power went out. At first, it was fine. I just lit some candles, had some cocktails, and read some magazines. Then night fell, and it got unamusing real fast. I played some music on my cell phone until it died, then finally took a walk.

As Mr. Alterhausen once confirmed, taking a walk outside without listening to any music is a bit like being on E. Because every sound and sight is amplified in a way you're unaccustomed to if you're jammin' on you iPod or walkman. To those who haven't done E, it's like seeing everything without hearing anything. Or hearing everything without seeing it. And it was a gorgeous, lovely night, with people out barhopping, clubbing, laughing, and a clear, velvet black sky.

Last night, I dreamt of a concert featuring Monie Love and Salt n Pepa. It was fairly awesome.

I don't think I've ever had sex with a guy who was uncircumcised.

Deport! Don't abort! Deport! Don't abort!

I love it when black people say, "I'm not the one!" meaning, I'm not the one to fuck with.

Does Kelly Bensimon, the inarticulate, street jogging, strapless-dress happy member of "The Real Housewives of New York City" crew, not know the word "extremely"? She is constantly saying "really, really". In fact, she described someone's apartment on the show as "really, really unique". Which made me want to just clock her.

I'm addicted to Pandora.com. Although I have several radio stations set up based on several of my favorite artists, I've been almost uniformly listening to the Miguel Migs one. Migs is an SF house DJ whose brand of music is very light, with real instruments. Reminds me of mornings at the End Up.

Something wicked this way claws

Weekday mornings suck in and of themselves, but mine are exacerbated by Sugar.

She begins meowing somewhere between 4:00 and 6:00 am, signaling that she wants food, affection, or to defecate. The food and affection can wait until I'm fully up, and a few warning shakes of my water bottle are enough to threaten her into silence for another thirty minutes. But the call to use the litterbox is one I cannot deny, and not uniquely sounding. I only come to find out that's what she wants to when tell-tale smell of cat poop/pee wafts over my way from the corner of the room and awakens me like no alarm can. So I almost always cow tow to any peep she makes, and am up to feed her or open the door.

Once I'm finally awake, showered, moisturized, and dressed, I then have to try and make it out of the house unscathed, because she attacks me as I'm trying to go. Her eyes will go solid black like the sharks in "Finding Nemo" when they taste fish blood, and she'll chase me down the hallway. I have to face her down and yell at her, which only kind of works, since she'll still look up at me with demon eyes and no trace of fear at the thought of attacking something ten times her size.

This morning, as I exited my room into the hallway, I saw her standing completely still before the front door, like one of those Egyptian cat statues. It was like something out of "The Shining", and creeped me out. So I maneuvered around her while trying to get my shoes, and tried shooing her away from me. She just meowed at me. Not in a "Please don't leave" sort of way, but as if to say, "If you leave, I'll cut you, bitch", like some sort of abusive boyfriend.

So, she leapt up to attach me and I deflected her. Then told her I loved her as I closed the door and left, her little claws reaching underneath the door grasping at me.

Silly puddy tat.

World travels = World woes

Brandon, my roommate, is on vacation in the Himalayas for the next two weeks. Can you believe that shit?

I once joked with Mr. Alterhause--a bona fide world traveler in his own right, who has been to China, all over Europe, Peru, Canada, and is toying with the idea of visiting Egypt this summer--that it would be like a prison sentence for me to travel to almost any other part of the world. Seriously. I mean, if I won some sort of contest where the prize was an all-expense paid vacation to Russia, Japan, and Cuba, I would happily hand it over to a friend or loved one without a second thought.

I'm a creature of habit, and I like my creature comforts. I once went to a wedding just a couple hundred miles north near Sacramento, and I was beside myself at the hotel because I didn't have my Brita pitcher. When I went to Disneyland last October, I kept an eye out for a mini-Whole Foods or Trader Joe's among the many stores.

I am cool with exploring the world from the comfort of A&E or Google Maps, but I reckon my ancestors didn't brave the Atlantic and 'cross the nascent United States in prairie wagons just for me to throw caution to the wind and temporarily defect to some foreign place.

Plus, kitties don't travel well, and I would be worried about leaving my Punkin Rabbit in the care of someone else. So there.

Swarmin' in

I just recently started omitting the www before I type in a website address. I don't know why it took me so long.

I was out yesterday and saw one of those flags advertising an event on a city lamp post, and it said "Disco Very". And I thought, well yes, disco is very! But upon closer inspection, the sign was advertising the museum, and it was because the pole had split the word in two, and was in fact meant to read as "Discovery".

This morning, I woke up and went outside still carrying my pillow. I didn't know where I was, but I knew that I needed to get to work. I crossed this multi-lane, busy road with cars racing by. A bunch of them stopped for me as I almost neared the other side of the road, but they didn't honk. Then I realized I needed to backtrack and try to get back home. So I crossed back over the road, and as I got to the other side I fell. I couldn't move my legs, and a van was closing in on me. I had expected it to stop or veer out of the way, but the driver was clearly irritated that there was a pedestrian on the road where they shouldn't be, and they kept driving towards me. I tried dragging myself out of the way, and prepared to feel the pain of the van running over my feet.

Then I woke up.

Yup, this is the new theme of my nightmares: being discombobulated beyond belief. It's gone from this fear that I haven't graduated from college, or that I have had to move back home and resume my high school job of working in a movie theatre, to this. Losing control. And not in a good, Missy Elliot featuring Ciara "Lose Control" way. Dios mio, yg.

Raise your hand if you're shore!

I saw "Eating Out 2" last night, a gay comedy that was actually good. Most gay movies suck not just because they are independent and don't have a lot of cash for production, but because the writing is just labored and hackneyed, and the actors are just novices or models trying to break into the business. Every joke doesn't need to rely on being gay as the punchline. But this movie had me laughing out loud, rewinding, and admiring all the hotties in it. Thumbs up!

My newest nickname for Sugar is Fur Worm. 'Cause when she lays kind of prostrate with her feet underneath her, her paws tucked in, and her tail perfectly aligned against her side, she kind of looks like a gray Glo-Worm. Minus the goofy nightcap and the incandescent internal light.

It used to be that when I saw quarters, I thought of video games. Now I see quarters and I see laundry.

Long live the emotionally inconsistent

Friday night, I met up with Mandypants at Martuni's and drank about it for a bit. I almost didn't get my credit card back since one of the callous cow queens at the bar was barely in the mood to help me. Apparently, there is at least one or two of them there that have that kind of reputation, but it was no matter as I tracked my actually very friendly server down, paid for our fare, and was off.

I spent Saturday watching Rainbow Brite videos on YouTube and Sunday taking a nice long walk, the likes of which reminds me of how happy I am to be alive sometimes. It's the cheesiest thing in the world, I know, but when you go take a walk outside sometimes, unplug your iPod, put your phone away, and just look up at everything around you, that feeling can sometimes come to you.

Then I Monday, I woke up with my back janked up, and had to call in sick to work. Which annoyed me greatly. And today, I've just felt like I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Or, ideally, I wish I could be Sugar for the day, and just find a nice shoebox to curl up into, and take a seventeen-hour nap.

Mid-week kerfuffle

I saw a woman on the bus this morning whose hair looked like a coonskin cap over a mullet. Not attractive Ms. Ma'am.

I want to meet Armistead Maupin. I've started reading "Michael Tolliver Lives", and it's so nice to rediscover my old friends from Barbaray Lane again.

I was in a meeting between our fabulous new labor relations director and one of the unions and it got me all revved up. So much so, that I'm still kind of shaking. But it was certainly invigorating. The best part is is that I'm too amped up to take my usual lunchtime nap, so I'm going to get to take a walk for lunch like I used to. Noice, yg.

Truffle shuffle time

Dixie Carter died! Sad. But she was seventy. She was also a Republican. Also sad.

I had Friday off and did a little bit of nothing, but on Saturday, I met up with the girls at Farmer Brown for brunch. It's a sort of soul food-styled place, with a jazz band, and they just do a kind of buffet for brunch with not a whole lot of selections for $16.50. However, they had a cocktail menu and I got my kiwi slurricane thingy on (and on and on) while we all gossiped away.

Saturday night, Mr. Alterhausen called fresh from a club performance by the one and only Deborah Cox. So jealous. But we chatted away 'til well nigh 3:00 am, then I slept in today until 3:00 pm. Which I should actually do more often.

It's rainy and icky out, and tomorrow the work week starts yet again. Le sigh.

Talkin' 'bout turrible Tuesdays

Friday night, in seemingly typical fashion, I texted not one, not two, but three whole people to see if they were down for dancing, but not a one of them was up for it. I had intended to go to the End Up, but nixed that after seeing the steroid injecting, tina-snorting circuit queen who was spinning that night on their website, and had hoped instead to hit the 'Stro. Instead, I hit the hay, and called it a day.

Saturday, Shelley, Dascha, Tommy, and I went all the way out to Redwood Shores to celebrate Roze's birthday at her new place. It's always odd to get out of the City and into suburbia for me. I nearly had a panic attack. But it was good times in abundance in her Alice in Wonderland themed party, and the place was gorge. Unfortunately, I made the egregious party foul of forgetting my phone there, and Roze called us as we were nearly halfway back. I could hardly believe it, but at least it was there (on the welcome mat, no less. Good thing we weren't still in the city, otherwise that sucker'd be gone and sold.) By the time I was deposited back at home, it was 3:00 am-ish, and I conked right the hell out.

On Easter Sunday, the day of our lord and savior's resurrection, I took a drunken power walk as far out towards the Mission as I could before the incessant sprinkling vexed me past the point of insouciance. I called a cab and waited in front of a store for it to pick me up, only to be joined by a woman with a stroller who too was looking for a cab. As I saw my cab begin to near , she asked, "Are you waiting for a cab?" And I said, "Yeah, I just called one." Then I felt guilty that I was sort of stealing a cab from a mother with her child on this holiest of days, so I said, "Do you have your phone on you? Just call 333-3333 for Yellow Cab. They're pretty good." And she did. And I felt less guilty.

And as the Bible would say, And it was good.

My first facial

Two things that I staunchly dislike are:
1. Being touched.
2. Being in any state of undress in front of others (unless the other is someone with whom sex is imminent).

However, I do like to try and feel purty. So I undertook the feat of scheduling my first facial, and just came back from it.

I had it done at the same place that houses my gym, so I'm aware enough of the facilities, but the brochure made mention of taking a shower or shvitzing in the sauna a good 15 - 20 minutes before your session. This was enough to horrify me. I also made the egregious error of not bringing any shower sandals, so once I hastily disrobed down to my panties and cinched the robe on tight, I had to walk the twenty steps from my locker to the spa area in bare feet.

EwwwwwWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. (Make no doubt, I scrubbed those suckers to pieces when I got home.)

But after I figured out where to go, I found myself in a quaint hallway with soft lighting and soothing decor, and read a magazine for a bit before my esthetician fetched me.

Jeanine looked like a sort of old school hippie chick, friendly enough. She led me into the room, invited me to sit down, and asked me to take off my robe as she left the room. It was all a bit lurid to me, especially since there are spa houses all throughout the city that mask as sex dens housing underaged Asian prostitutes.

Unpleasant.

But once she came in and began, I kind of got the vibe of it, and she was calming and understanding enough that it was my first time.

About ten minutes or so in, she said, "You know what would look cool? If we tinted your eyelashes." Like any fag susceptible to a beauty recommendation, I agreed. At first she thought a shade of brown would do, but then said, "Or ya know what would make them really pop? Blue black!"

Now, I dyed my hair blue-black during my junior year goth phase of high school. Against my highly white skin, it clearly stood out. And I can look back on that time as a lark and a phase, one that shalt not be repeated.

So I nixed the blue black, and she proceeded with the brown. Aside from the slight burning which terrified me enough to think I might go blind (she kindly soothed my panic with a hand massage), we finished the tint, and I took a look.

Okay, now I know that any color you put on will fade with time, and granted when hair is wet it looks darker, but I looked a bit like I had mascara on. I mean, as I left my appointment, looking in the mirror, I felt like some extra in "Cabaret" with my fucking stage make up on.

Nonetheless, she finished massaging oils and creams and forget-me-nots that kind of all just felt like water and lotion to be honest into my skin, explaining what each one was and how each one would improve this or that. I have to tell you, though, that I just couldn't relax and enjoy the massage. I mean, I know that I'm paying this person and this is their job, but I just felt self-conscious, and my body would not surrender to the feeling.

I just can't pay someone to touch me. They have to want to, I guess.

So to summarize, it was an interesting experience, but if I'm going to make any self-improvements, I'd rather go under the knife. If I'm going to have someone touch me, I'd rather it be with a scalpel and laser-precision instruments enacting fabulous results.

That's all, blokes!

Why are Mondays so gross? Like, they just really truly are.

Anyways, I had Friday off, and applauded myself for getting up before noon and *gasp* going grocery shopping. It's the oddest thing to be out in the morning and not on my way to work. The familiar City blocks I passed draped in the morning sunshine and filtered through cityscape shade made me feel like I was in a foreign country.

Saturday, I met up with Roze and Dascha at Osha to celebrate Roze's new job. I'm so happy for her and glad that she will be leaving her current intern job with its thankless twelve hour days, and moving on to something that is paying her bank!

Sunday, I got up from a nap around 4:00 and went into the hallway to see Brandon, a man, and a woman. The man and woman kind of stared at me, and I kind of just assumed they were Brandon's parents. I passed them in the hall as I made my way into the kitchen, and heard the man and woman speaking in Spanish to one another. Which really confused me because Brandon is Indian. It turns out, he hired some cleaners and that's who they were. Which was wonderfully coincidental as I'd contacted Merry Maids for a consultation, and these folks cost far less and did a bang up job. So nice to have a clean place!

I am getting my first facial on Thursday. The excitement is overwhelming.

Take me to the magic of the moment...

I did a random Google search for Fag Friday the other day, which was a weekly party at the End Up for about 11 years, before moving to Pink in the Mission, and discovered it had ended in 2008. I mean, it's not like Pink and The End Up aren't still there, but that particular party, which had been around longer than most and had the same promoters at the helm since its inception in 1996, is over.

I can remember going to Fag Fridays in the early 2000s, when Ruben Mancias and David Harness were their primary DJs. It was this brand of soulful diva house the likes of which I'd never heard before. Much slower than the hiNRG techno I'd always loved growing up. It was also the kind of music that you couldn't easily find at the record store or even necessarily online since they were white labels or original remixes by David or other SF DJs.

Fag Fridays was where I met my ex Sean. It's also where I've had many crazy, wonderful adventures and good times. They still have a Friday night at the End Up, though. It's not the end of the world. I'm just being dramatic. And it reminds me of how sometimes, I kind of hate change. It feels like dandelion petals floating up into the air and out into the wind away from you forever. But I'd better get used to it since the older you get, the more change you have to face.

No wonder old people are always so cranky.

Bad, bad, bad

Monday night around 3:00 am, I suddenly heard this pounding on the roof like people were running across it. It scared the bejeezus out of me, and immediately woke me up. I went to our front door and looked out the peep hole to see if the fire escape door was open. Due to my sleepiness, not having my contacts in, and the fish eye view of the peephole, I really couldn't tell.

Yesterday, however, my neighbor confirmed that some guys were scaling the rooftops, and he'd shined a flashlight on them to scare them away. Yup, rooftop thieves, looking for a top floor fire escape door to enter and break into apartment buildings. It's the second time it's happened in the four years I've lived here. And I had a hard time getting back to sleep afterwards. I have this terrible fear of my apartment being broken into, my laptop stolen, my social security card taken, and Sugar catnapped.

I am also dealing with these new contact lenses that, while they give me better vision, also feel kind of like mini-sand dollars stapled to my eyes. That is, they hurt.

Our refrigerator broke over the weekend, and all the food went bad. I spent Monday night last night tossing everything, but they wheeled the new one in today. I say new as in it was the most current, not that it was new in condition. But at least it works. Unfortunately, our slumlord landlord denied my request for a rent credit since we had to toss all the food in the fridge.

So I am tired, my eyes hurt, and I don't have a lot of food at home. This all equals unhappiness, and when I am unhappy, I don't go to the gym because I cannot take that amount of self-punishment. Hopefully, I'll get off my duff and go today.

Not good. Not fun. Not a single thing.

Way laid, yo

Saturday I brunched with Mandypants at Catch to celebrate her acceptance into nursing school. I'm so proud of her and happy that she's beginning this new chapter in her life, though I probably won't see her again for a year since it's an accelerated, hardcore program. We then segued to the Look Out for cocktails overlooking the 'Stro, and had a grand old time.

Sunday I had a nice long chat with LM catching up on gossip, commiserating, and talking about SF. I really hope she and her hubby can get out here to visit sometime soon. Of course, once she's here, she'll probably never want to leave!

Then this morning, I had to go to a doctor's appointment and they did all these blood tests that have left me feeling nothing short of airy all day. I mean, I ate and everything, but I have just felt thoroughly out of it. One wonders if while extracting blood from my veins if they didn't inject a little heroin in there somewhere. Oy vey.

Razmatazz dreams

Now that I've seen "Precious", I have to fight the urge to scream out "PRECIOUS!!!" everytime I see a black girl on the street. It's really hard, you guys.

My new favorite meal is brown rice with vegetables. I realize this is Noemi's diet in "Showgirls", but my take on it is vegetable melange topped with red tomatoe hummus with pepper. Totally savory, you guys.

When I think of Facebook, I pronounce it with an Italian accent, like Fah-chay-book-uh. You guys.

Girl smack talk

Girl insults are a riot because they attempt to incorporate an element of reverse psychology in their every effort. Whereas guys will be straight up derisive, use foul language, and consign vicious names upon their target ("Faggot!", "Bitch!", "Asshole!"), girls are a bit more indirect with what I feel is a much less effective, yet altogether hysterical, outcome.

Let's review, shall we?

1. "Oh really? Really? Really?"
This is the classic set up line before a girl delivers the blow. It's meant to be a sort of Are-you-ready-for-this-because-I'm-about-to-deal-a-most-deadly-blow? line, but it is actually just a rhetorical expression of little value.

2. "Maybe you just feel bad about yourself/insecure about your own relationship/etc."
What better way to attack someone than to infer that their attack is actually an attack on themselves. Because...wait...What?

3. *complete silence*
I was once at a party where my roommate and a friend were talking about music to put on their radio show, and another chick, who was actually a staff person at the radio show but who my roommate and her friend didn't care for, made a suggestion on what to play. My roommate and her friend completely carried on their conversation as if she hadn't said a word, and it was like a glacier wall of silence had been dumped on the radio chick. I actually give this tactic props because when you ignore someone who's speaking to you, it makes them look like they are talking to themselves and are therefore insane. Choice!

4. "Sweetie..."
When a girl starts off a statement with that sarcastic "Sweetie" or "Honey" like they're some sort of New York drag queen, you know the rest of the statement ain't gonna come out nice. It's almost endearing to hear a girl talk this way because I would normally expect that kind of language from...well, a New York drag queen.

5. "If that's how you feel, then I feel sorry for you."
The number one, absolute BEST girl insult is not a bad word, not a personal insult, but the complete 180 queen of responses, which is to say that you don't hate the person, but that they clearly hate themselves, otherwise they wouldn't be so nasty. A recent and enjoyable example of this insult was on the season of "The Real World: Sydney" where the pretty, white Christian chick was attacking the only ethnic person on the show name Parisa, and she used this very same insult. J. Co and I busted up laughing, and it became a house catch phrase for many, many months.

Personally, I think that calling someone a sad, stupid sack of dog shit is a mighty effective way of hurting their feelings, but that's just me, yg.

People are stupid because...

They make excessively ornate requests for their cappuccino/express/coffee orders.

They hold up the line counting out exact change.

They think of themselves before thinking of everyone else when they should think of themselves and everyone else.

They drive to the grocery store in gas guzzlers, but bring their own bags.

They jump to conclusions and blurt out responses before thinking things through.

They say, "I borrowed him the money" instead of "I loaned him the money". (nod to "Judge Judy")

They talk on their cell phones when they're on the bus.

They are loud when they should be quiet.

They speak when they should think.

They talk to children like they're retarded munchkins with a hearing problem.

They think Christmas is religious holiday.

They like to make generalizations about themselves that are inconsistent with their actual behaviors.

They don't know how to use commas.

*****
Feel free to add on!
*****

Requisite R.I.P. Corey Haim post

My first thought when a very attractive (or at at least formerly very attractive) celebrity dies is, "Gosh, it's such a shame he didn't have kids so he could pass on those beautiful genes."

A rather insensitive sentiment, surely, but that's what I thought when Jonathan Brandis died several years ago. It's what I thought when River Phoenix croaked in 1993. And it's the first thing that came to mind when I saw the headlines that Corey Haim had bitten the dust today.

That boy was a slice of hotness back in his day. Those lush little lips and those big blue eyes were straight up dreamy. And he remained just as hot, if not hotter, as he matured into his early 20s. There is this scene in "Prayer of the Rollerboys" where Patricia Arquette's character begins to, um, service him, and of course, we don't see the action, but I can remember it got my 13-year-old heart racing back in 1990.

He may have been a wash up, and the years of drug abuse clearly took their toll on his once princely appearance, but there was still that hint of the cutie within, even as he began to clean up. It's a shame on so many levels.

Goat herders.... Really?

To all the straight people in the world: God loves you, He really does. But sometimes you bug the fuck out of me.

Tonight was meant to be a fun night, and 96% of it was. I met up with old HR alumni Tammy and Frida, and we had a grand old time drinking away, discussing Frida's new baby, dishing about former co-workers, and revealing heretofore unknown gossip. But as Tammy continued to drink away, she got it in her head to call some gay boy friend of hers and invite him to the bar. Prior to this, we had all given a summary of our love lives (Frida: Happily married. Tammy: Between two boys. Myself: Gave it a shot last year, laying low for now). She kept texting and calling him urging him to come. Then she told him that her friend Frida and a gay boy were with her.

"Let me jump in the shower," he texted back.

I was so not in the mood nor feeling cute enough to meet some random gay dude who considered this a potential romantic situation. To make matters further grosser, Tammy told me that the guy was a fundraiser for the Republican party. Yes, he helped get Arnie into office. This was enough on a fundamental level for me to realize that this was not someone with whom I wanted to be intimate. I mean, my boss and her partner are Republican, and I love them beyond belief. We can amiably spar about our political differences in a fun-spirited way, but I cannot bed down with someone who not only believes in but helps fund a political party that, at its core, believes gay people should be shipped off to an island and blown up.

There is a tendency in some people to try to match make. But when that is taken to action with gay guys, it's like you know one gay guy from work and one gay guy from whatever, so surely they must want to know each other and fuck and marry and adopt little African children and live happily ever after! Because they're both gay, right!

Gay people still go through the same courting process as straight people. There's still the complexity and the rough road to getting to really know one another. I know that in the gay community, sexual mores are a bit more relaxed. But that is not universal. And it is certainly not the case with my ass.

So despite my repeatedly trying to tell Tammy that it wasn't worth inviting this guy, he gets all pampered up, we're there forever, and he finally shows up as Frida and I are ready to leave. I kind of felt like a jerk, but I didn't set up the situation to begin with. And the whole Republican fundraiser thing did not exactly get my dick hard.

So we departed, although Tammy and Frida both tried to convince me to stay, and Tammy even said in my ear as I was getting my coat, "You're coming back, right?" and I had to say no.

Kinda don't like when happy hours end on an indecorous note.

Mr. Munchkinbutt and the Giggle Fairy

On the way to work today, I passed a girl who looked like Heather Small from MPeople. You know, all Africanized bouffant to the sky? Loves it.

Whenever I remember that I ever used non-bank ATMs, I cringe in horror, shock, and disgust. A $2.50 service fee plus "any fees your bank may charge"? Not on my watch, Vivica Rose. Better to trot your ass on down to the Walgreens and buy a pack of chewing gum or a cupholder, and get some cash back STAT.

I have the urge to watch this episode of "Jem and the Holograms" where Stormy's diary is stolen by the Misfits, and her secret thoughts about her friends are revealed. And as sweet revenge, she writes a song called "Dear Diary" that somehow makes it alright in the end:

Dance I said

A combination of cabin fever, Oprah, and some old blog posts of mine got me out of the house and onto the dancefloor Friday night.

I stayed home from work for the second day in a row still feeling sniffly and shitty, but a little bit better than the day prior. Still, being stuck indoors, incapacitated, and feeling like crap is a recipe for madness. My mind constantly craves stimulation and my body needs to get up and out and around into the world from time to time.

I hopped onto my new best friend YouTube, and came upon a clip of Oprah on "Larry King Live" discussing that book "The Secret". It's a bit hokey and gimmicky for my tastes, but she talked about how the book's theme is what she's been trying to get across all this time, which is that what you put out there is what you get. Karmic energy, basically.

I can get down with that.

Then I took to reading some old blog posts of mind from 2005. In my memory, this was a difficult time that involved my recent break up from Sean and my subsequent move to Treasure Island, where, after a month of living there, one of my roommates moved out and I had to cover his part of the rent. It was rough and tough, but I made it through. And I danced despite all of this. I went out clubbing and still had a good time.

I can't tell you how much I love house music. I've innately loved it for as long as I can remember even though I grew up in a very white, straight environment. I can remember hearing Technotronic's "Pump Up The Jam" on the radio in the car and just feeling it. Or when the cheerleaders would perform their little routines to those awesome techno mash-ups at pep rallies in high school, I would get goosebumps. Before I could even get into clubs, I loved club music. In fact, I didn't realize that most people go to clubs to hook up. I just thought they went there to dance. That was all I wanted to do.

And I used to go all the time. To the End Up Friday nights, Universe or the Stud on Saturdays, and back again to the End Up for the T-dance on Sundays. Since moving to Nob Hill, which is closer to the End Up and the Stud than I've ever lived before, my clubbing habits have dramatically decreased. The last time I went to the End Up was in June, and I was accused by a security guard of groping some chicks, which was ridiculous. I've also become a little more self-conscious in my old age, and am less willing to drag my chubby ass on my own to the club without someone to come with.

But I never used to care that much about how I looked since there will always be someone more gorgeous than you regardless. And since the separation debalce with Gideon in September, I think my energy may be a little stand off-ish, which just doesn't suit me. Plus I was sick as fuck of being indoors.

So I took myself out, had a few cosmos, danced under the disco ball lights, and had a blast 'til well nigh 2:00 am even though I was still a bit sniffly. I don't regret it for a second, and really think I should do it more often. You put out there what you get, and I just wanna dance.

Oprah told me to.

Kitty assistance

I'm sick with some bastard cold, and am staying home today. I was up at 4:30 AM sneezing non-stop and have icky muscle aches and a swollen throat. Sugar took this as her cue to begin bugging me for her breakfast, so I had to shuffle over like a decrepit mummy to her food bowl and feed her.

I wish you could send cats out to do personal errands. I would love to send Sugar to the store to pick up some provisions, but I can just see how that would go. She'd pick up turkey instead of tofurkey so that she could have some. She'd buy PMS medicine instead of cold medicine to infer that I was being a bitch on the rag. And although I'd ask for a two-liter bottle of Diet 7-Up, she would just bring back a can of regular 7-Up claiming the bottle was too heavy. Of course, most of her time in the store would be spent in the pet aisle, buying new toys and treats, maybe a new litter box.

Then she would take her dear sweet time getting back to the house, stopping to rub up against every stranger, checking out alleyways, ferreting through the crevices of a few buildings. And she would get home about an hour later, dump the stuff in my room, not give me any change (because she'd spent it on herself), then leap up onto her Mad Hatter chair and take a nap, exhausted.

Smile on, pass it on

I'm a generally optimistic person despite my sardonic disposition. I would say this only because most people around me tend to be rather negative and unhappy when I find that they should be a little more grateful for the things they have and the people they have in their lives. My boss actually said I was a pragmatist the other day. I don't really see the glass as half empty or half full, but I know it's evaporating so you better find a way to fill it up, and enjoy every sip you take.

So when I occasionally hit a bout of depression, which doesn't happen often, it really kind of spirals. It's like I'm wading through the pool of life, and a barbed tentacle darts out from the deep and wraps around my leg pulling me down. And I'm in pain, and I can't breathe, and I keep getting pulled down and down.

Yikes! Call the suicide hotline! No, but I always lift up out of it after awhile.

Yesterday, though, I was innocently tooling around on YouTube when I decided to look up this song called "Ana's Song (Open Fire)" by a '90s grunge band called Silverchair, which is fronted by this super cutie named Daniel Johns. It's a sort of unique song in that there's a key change right when the chorus comes in, and it comes in kind of off the beat, and it's just an epic, beautiful song.

I looked up the lyrics and tried to find out what the song was about, and it turns out it's about the singer's bout with anorexia (ana = anorexia). I'd always thought young Daniel looked a bit gaunt, and here was the reason why. I watched an interview with him now, when he's supposedly healthier, still terribly cute (nipple rings and all--yum!), and he seemed sort of sad. And gay. He talked about when he was younger, everyone either wanted to beat him up or be his best friend.

So a little more research discovered there were gay rumors about him as well. And that in between songs during one concert, he'd said, "I'm not fucking gay." Such staunch declarations of heterosexuality are generally a staple of the closeted.

So I just felt really bad for him. Like, all day. And I'm also in love with him. So there.

Sleeping booby

I made a sizable dent in my sleep deprivation Monday, which was Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday, or President Washington's wedding anniversary, or Lincoln's bar mitzvah or something. Since I knew I had the day off, I convinced myself to sleep in as late as a I could. This turned out to be 11:30, which is pretty late for me since my brain won't allow me to remain dormant without stimulation for too long a a period of time. Even when I was little, I would wake up in the middle of the night, go out into the dark living room, and watch cartoons at 2:00 in the morning until I got tired again. Can you imagine if I tried to meditate?

As a result, I feel a little more lucid today than usual. And I have Monday off again, so we'll give it another try, shall we?

Chirren

I hate children. And I'm not just saying that because Kathy Griffin always says it. It is sort of true. Specifically, I hate teens and tweens. That whole middle school/high school lot. Little kids can be kind of adorable, and babies are just loud lumps of flesh that mean no harm, but teenagers are savages who find themselves unfathomably--albeit erroneously-- clever, and so I make to you this proposal:

Bear in mind that I understand that I was once a teenager myself. That I have nieces who will one day be teenagers as well. And that I remember crystal clear those years of my youth where I was unmercifully tortured by my peers. I can remember walking to school one day and thinking to myself that they should have separate high schools for teenagers who were more mature. An admirable concept that merits expansion.

I propose that every city have a section of it cordoned off and divided into two parts: one part will be the school for the Decent Kids (DKs), the other, the Indecent Kids (IKs). Everyone starts off in the DK School. You take all the same classes that you would take in middle school and high school, but you also take a class on Social Responsibility and Respectfulness. This is where you learn not only your pleases and thank yous, about waiting your turn in line and saying sorry when you may have slighted someone, but you're also taught the value of empathy and compassion.

Think of it as a sort of How to Be Like Jesus class.

If you mouth off, act like an ass, or behave in an unseemly manner--boom! You're shifted over to the IK School. There, you will begin every morning being beaten so as to take the fight out of you (not in a way that leaves any permanent damage). You are forced to wear a brown potato sack to emphasize the virtue of humility. You take all the same classes that you would take in the DK School, but after lunchtime, you're forced to run in circles while being whipped to calm you down before classes resume for the rest of the day.

Think of it as a sort of concentration camp for miscreants.

Sound harsh? I'll give you that. But effective without a doubt. And I invite any naysayers to speak with Mr. Alterhausen, who tells me regularly of terrible tales from the classroom.

The little bastards need to be reigned in. And, like the Jackie DeShannon song goes, "And the world...will be a better place for you...and me...ya just wait....and see!"

Closer to sublime

I was up at 6:00 am today to get to eat brekkies and be at an off site meeting by 8:00. As a result, it's all but 10:00, and I feel like it's 3:00, yet I've 7 hours to go. Let's not forget the menial pre-meeting yapping I had to endure from people chit chatting and introducing each other. God, I hate that shit.

I watched "Jennifer's Body" last night, not expecting much, but I have a thing for Meagan Fox. Her and Jennifer Connelly. It's that dark hair, laser blue eyes combo that I guess gets me. I remember seeing Jennifer Connelly in "Labyrinth" and thinking she was beautiful, but those awful '80s duds. And then later in "Requiem For a Dream" where she's a tortured heroin addict, and she's just stunning. Chicks I would switch for. At least for a mo'.

Leonardo Dicaprio should avoid roles that require him to speak with an accent. Unless it's a retarded accent. He was, after all, great in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?".

WBM Enterprises, Inc. (Whine, Bitch, Moan)

I came into work first thing Monday with a meeting to go in to. Fine. Then the rain came, my feet got wet as always, and my zombified state was set in motion.

I had to co-present a management training course today that I was so nervous for, I got up at 6:30 something. I know that is nothing for some people, but for me, it's heinous. The training went well even though we were grilled afterwards by two people who weren't in fact managers and really shouldn't have been there. I also have to be on an agonizing conference call in about an hour with people who don't understand you can't put your phone on hold during a conference call because then we all hear your waiting muzak, you nimrod!

I have a big project due at the end of the week that I kind of need my managers' assistance on, but she is in meetings all week for a new system implementation.

And Friday, at the hair-butt crack of dawn, I have to be at an off-site meeting that begins at 8-friggin-A.M.

I feel up against the wire and irritable. But I guess I just need to keep repeating one of my favorite mantras to myself, At least I have a job, At least I have a job, There's no place like home, There's no place like home...

When someone says, "Don't look!", what do you do?

IFC has this fascinating series on film censorship with filmmakers, critics, directors, and actors speaking their piece on the issue. It seems to mostly focus on the censorship of sexual imagery, but they do make mention of the fact that we as Americans are more tolerant of violence than sex in our movies. That is, a movie with gore aplenty can still get a PG rating, whereas a film with two guys kissing--just once--is an automatic R.

But one concept that they really only skim the surface of is that eventually, all kids are gonna see this stuff, whether it's when they're young, when they're a little older, or when they're a full grown adult. But the idea of protecting children now from this incendiary imagery they'll see eventually begs the question of what will happen when they do see it. (Didja catch that?)

It would seem to make sense to me that a kid have an adult nearby when watching a scary movie for the first time, so they can explain it. I remember the first scary movie I saw, "The Shining". My stepdad had taken us over to a friend's house, who had rented it, and there we sat watching the Stanley Kubrick masterpiece. And I was seven. And it scaaaaaared the living fuck out of me. After that old woman in the bathroom scene, I refused to take a bath unless the door was open slightly.

It would have helped if my stepdad had reminded me that it was just a movie, or asked if I understood what was happening in the movie, then explained that this was a haunted hotel, and that the woman in the bathtub was a ghost, that would have assuaged my fears somewhat.

It's that unknown that is as titillating as it is fearful, which is why I think it's so much better to face it and to talk about it, rather than relegate it to some mysterious taboo that oughtn't be touched.

Good eats

I stopped eating sweets some time last year when I joined the gym to assist in getting myself in shape, and only partake of them on the rare occasion. It was a bit of a bummer at first since I'm always used to having a little chocolate chip cookie with my lunch, a little blueberry muffin for dessert, etcetera. But I got used to it, and life has gone on.

Still, I'll occasionally have dreams about eating something sweet, and can fully taste it in my dreams. Last night, I dreamt that I was in Paris celebrating a high school reunion. Oddly enough, the people at the reunion were really only people with whom I was acquaintances for the most part. The urge for something sweet and scrumptious suddenly struck me, and I went over to the buffet table and procured a few old fashioned donuts and tortilla chips.

Then it began. I just kept eating them, and they tasted so delicious. I figured I'd eaten enough to ruin any chance of being healthy for the day, and said, "I suddenly have this craving for chocolate donuts!" You know, the little ghetto packaged kind that Hostess makes? And my boss appeared out of nowhere and suggested we go to Whole Foods to pick some up. So we did, and I ate them, and they were just scrumptious.

I felt a bit guilty, but then I woke up, and felt a mixture of relief that I hadn't actually eaten all that crap, and regret that I hadn't eaten all the crap.

Disclaimer

Call me a racist. Call me a xenophobe. Call me a tim buck howdya do. But I really don't think I could ever be in a relationship again with someone who spoke English as a second language.

My feeling is that you meet someone and start something off because there's a spark. They're hot, they have a compatible personality, and things begin to take off. But surely down the line when the spark has faded to a fine ember and the physical part of the relationship has, if not slacked off considerably come to a halt altogether, you just want someone to reminisce and laugh with. And I can tell you as someone who dated a non-native speaker of English, and whose English didn't improve over the course of our three years together, it was no shock that the relationship did not improve either, but rather quite deteriorated. They do say communication is key to a successful relationship.

Sure there are exceptions. Some people can learn and if not become proficient, actually master multiple languages. Most, though, cannot.

School daisies

Usually when I have dreams about college, I dream that I actually didn't get all the units I needed to graduate. Last night, though, I dreamt that I went back to college (I know not why), and not only re-matriculated, but decided to live in the dorms.

I'd signed up for a room early on to ensure I would have a place, but when welcome day arrived, I got there quite late. And one of the soccer/PTA/stage moms running the orientation day said, "I'm not sure if we still have a room for you." She led me to one of classroom buildings on campus which had this odd door that you had to duck under, then to a medium-sized lecture hall with part of it cordoned off to store supplies.

"Here's your room!" she said.

Besides the fact that it wasn't in fact a room, but some storage area, the makeshift walls separating it from the seats in the lecture hall were clear, so anyone could see into the room clear as day if I were nekkid and changing.

"Where do I sleep?" I squealed.

She then showed me to some room behind the podium, which was like a professor's office with a bed.

She noticed my appalled look, so we headed back to the orientation area to find the Resident Director. Unfortunately, the Resident Director was not only of no help, but didn't want to deal with me. I can remember in the dream trying calmly to explain that I'd reserved a room in advance and I couldn't live like this, and she hit back saying that if I didn't want a room in the residence halls I could just forego my little storage room dorm, which made me panic because I had no where else to live.

The saving grace of the whole dream was the hot football player type guy who, as I was going to talk to the RD, stopped me in the hall to kid around with me, then full on hit on me. Which was hot. And nice.

And I only wish THAT had been the main plot point of the dream instead of this dorm BS.

Weak week

It was destined to be one of those weeks that just bugs the crap out of me, but in all truth, I'm glad it's here. Sometimes my life is just too cozy and quaint that I just keep waiting for the other foot to drop or ball to drop or whatever the saying is.

'Tall began Monday night when a big storm hit the Cali coast. I said my nighttime prayer, and right after I said, "Amen", a great wind struck the window like Satan himself was tossing boulders at my room. From there, it was a more or less constant stream of rain--loud rain--and a massive thunder clap every hour, one of which jolted young Sugar from her careless slumber. So I began my workweek on Tuesday after a cheery three-day weekend on virtually no sleep.

Today, I was meant to awaken early to get to work, make my little fake-on (fake bacon) and English muffin, and eat it before our monthly staff meeting. Well, when I stirred my sleeping beauty eyes to look at the clock, it was well past the time for me to wake up, and I jolted from the bed to get ready. Apparently, I'd set my alarm at a later time instead of an earlier time. And, true to form when you're in a hurry, I showered, moisturized, tinted, dressed, and just as I was putting my belt on, the fucking buckle broke.

Sexy on some. Not on my vodka gut butt.

Then I had the sheer pleasure of boarding a bus driven by The Slowest Bus Driver in San Francisco. I've taken the bus when it's been driven by TSBDISF, some old fuck stretching out the day 'til retirement probably, but today, because of the rain, he notched up the slow-ass factor, and went extra slow, stopping at green lights and waiting for them to turn red. Stopping at bus stops for passengers that weren't there. Going slowly and carefully 'cause he just don't care. The I got to work just in the nick of time and sat starving for an hour and a half through the meeting.

So not only do I have to trek out to buy a new belt, but also need to buy groceries and Sugar's overpriced cat food. Keep your fingers crossed, and maybe a great big wallop of rain will crash down on my head, wreck my umbrella, and douse the lot just for ambiance. Fun!

It's all a Blur. Like the band.

I am having a rough go of it today. It didn't help that I had to send one of my "Please use a more professional tone in your email communications" email to an employee this morning (which translates to "Please don't be an asshole to me or I won't fucking help you, bitch").

I shirked and YouTubed on Saturday day before heading out to Esperpento near Valencia for Dascha's birthday at night. It was tapas, sangria, and good times, but it wiped me out, and I came home and crashed.

Sunday, I trekked out to Dog Patch, which sounds like some podunk horror of a place, but is actually a quaint suburban-like patch of Frisco that affords a gorgeous view of the downtown skyline. It was one of those days where it's bright but not sunny, and crisp without being too cold, and it made me happy to be alive. I picked up a few new work clothes at Van Heusen (I know it's terrible that the economy sucks, but for those of us still gainfully employed, these crazy 50% off sales are sssssimply delicious), and later on in the evening, chatted with LM about her "All About Eve" moment at work.

I've been tinkering with the idea of moving. I say tinkering because I'm not fully toying with the idea whatsoever. I just figure, if I'm going to move, now would be the time while rents are down. And I could possibly find a place with a view. It seems you can't walk down a block in this city without seeing a For Rent sign. But I hate moving more than anything. I had to move my senior year of high school and every year in college. I've been at my current place for over four years now, the longest I've ever lived in one apartment since I moved to SF. And I pay next to nothing in rent.

It's a bit of a debacle to deal with, yes.

Gym gin

I'm one of those people who's a little neurotic about how I smell at the gym. I don't go so far as to take a shower before I go to the gym, douse myself in Axe Body Spray, and lather my arm pits in deodorant, but I always wear a newly washed set of gym clothes and change into new briefs. I make sure they I don't eat anything with onions during the day so my breath doesn't smell as I'm huffing and puffing away at the elliptical, and I down four or five mints before I go and gulp down some water so the mintiness is coated down my throat. I spray my face with some Vitamin C Re-energizing facial spritz, cross my fingers, and head on over to the gym.

When I am on the mats stretching next to someone, and they get up to leave, I wonder if it's because I smell bad. Or when I get one of the bicycling machines and the person next to me gets up to go a minute later, I wonder if my breath smells something ungodly.

I have to say, true to form, it's the women who manage to smell the best. They all cover themselves with body cream and forget-me-nots, and are sure not to bear a bad odor, no sir. But I do not want to smell of apricot or berries, so I will not be doing the same anytime soon.

I just go, work my shiz, and get my farty self out of there at my earliest convenience.

Me steaks

I hate it when I make mistakes. And I make them quite rarely, but I become enraged and humiliated when I do. This pertains mostly to work, but rather well applies to regular life as well. I think very highly of myself--I've gone through a lot of blood, sweat, and bullshit t0 get this far--so it's not a happy time when I err.

I like to point out when other people make mistakes. And I make a spectacle of it as well. It fills me with joy to march over to someone's office with a jacked up personnel action form or printout of an erroneous entry, and begin, "I think you might have been a little bit on crack this day, but ya see this?" or "I don't know exactly what's wrong with you, but...." or "I know that you're gonna have an attitude because you do have one, but I want to point this out to you." I even created a wall of emails from one co-worker who would always respond to emails saying, "Thanks fro the update!" and called it "Jackie 'Fro' President!"

It is for this reason, and many more, that I know I'm going to hell. Amen.

Not for all the t-shirts in China

My New Year's was spent with Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper in Times Square since no one was available for End Up-ing. Aaron ended up canceling his trip to SF due to boy problems, LG was working, and Mandy actually said to me, "You know I don't stay up that late!" No worries, though, as a minute after the new decade rolled in, Mr. Alterhausen called me half in the bag, and we had a lovely chat while listening to his CD of '50s diva songs well nigh until 3:00.

Friday was one of those misty, rainy days where the sky is a deep periwinkle, and it almost looks like heaven in the evening time. I ventured out to the outer Mission, where I hadn't been in some ten years. Nothing terribly special, except the area is sort of raised above the rest of the City, and has a great view of the skyline.

Saturday, I texted Mandy for a power walk along the Presidio, always a fun time.

But mostly, my four day weekend was spent chillaxing and checking out YouTube videos with a courtesy cocktail nearby. I'm all up on the "My Little Pony" and "She-Ra" series.
Sugar, envious of my new toy, has expressed her displeasure by not once, not twice, by three times a lady taking a shit and piss in my room. Totally nasty. But I've exacted revenge by playing videos of kittens meowing, throwing her all into a tizzy as she looks for the meowing youngsters all about the room, though she eventually caught wise and has since stopped responding.

I sat behind the Dutch Tranny today on the bus, and she smelled like stale Ritz crackers.