Tale as old as time

Hi,

I spent the day with Ken today. We had lunch at our place, and then caught the large format version of Beauty and the Beast. It was being shown in the IMAX theatre at the Metreon downtown, and we both wanted to see it really really big. I love that movie. I saw it only once before when it first came out on video, and I had a little crush on the Beast. He was so tender underneath all those fangs and claws. I just wanted to give him a big hug. So when I saw it again today, same thing, and at the end, I kinda wish he didn't turn into the Prince because he lost all that lucious hair for a smooth chest. Plus, it's always nice to have candles that light themselves. Oh well, I hope Belle's having fun.

Now I'm having a great debate with myself. I want to upgrade to Mac OS X, no, I'm going to upgrade to Mac OS X, but at the same time, I need to buy a bigger hard drive for my iMac. Now it's only 10GB, and that's not going to cut it. A new hard drive is going to run about $150, the OS upgrade is $130, and the new version of MS Office, to which I am an unfortunate slave, is at least $250. Do the math. Over $500 in one shop. I don't shop like that. I'm a gay man in San Francisco (or the Bay Area if you must get picky), and I can't remember the last time I bought new clothes. All my money goes to music, movies, and my Mac. So, I'm wondering, with spring just about to bloom, or in the process, whatever, should I buy some new clothes and wait for the upgrade? Ugh. Decisions.

Of course, I could always move to Palestine and put my brother-in-law in line for the next suicide bomber mission. I'm sure my sister would give me a couple of bucks out of it...considering they're getting a fucking divorce. "Hi, Mike," my mom calls to say. "Happy Easter, your sister is getting a divorce, and your grandmothers are on death's door, you never call, you never write, and when was the last time we saw you?" Gee. How's that for good, old, Catholic guilt? Thank goodness for the simple concept of distance.

I'll just flip a fucking coin.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Well, my decisions have been made for me. Good old Uncle Sam and the Franchise Tax Board of California have taken all of my money away, and now I won't be doing anything for a while. And that sucks because I just got a new L.L. Bean catalogue in the mail. Oh well. And I wanted to go to Vegas later this month, too. *sigh*

Such a beautiful day out today, as I sit from my window typing this. I thought it was going to rain this weekend. So I didn't make any plans. And being the considerably predictable person that I am, I am not going to make any plans. In essence, I have already made plans by not making any plans. Sometimes I feel like a dog chasing its tail. Besides, J and I went in to the City already. I went to pick up my mail, and he wanted to cruise Crissy Field as he likes to do on days as gorgeous as today. So we obliged each other and took a short trip. It was nice. So I've said. But I am always amazed at the beautiful creatures Mother Nature beckons out when she shines on us. Wow. Lots of eye candy all over the place in short-shorts and tank tops. Arms, legs, butts, you name it. I love men. I wish I could have them all.

And then we went to Costco for a few necessities. Costco in San Francisco is always as fun as I imagine it. There are cute guy couples everywhere, and they are always checking out all the other cute guy couples as if to see what their competition is all about, or even to see what they're missing. But I'm not a shrink. I'm just a guesser. I love to flirt with all the couples, too. I am a big flirt. One guy who was cruising me—in another venue more suited for cruising—even called me a tease because I didn't want to go down on him after he followed me around forever. I don't mean to be a tease. I just think the chase is more fun than the actual dirty deed sometimes. Come on, I know I'm not the only man who does this either. I won't forget it soon, even though it was a while ago. He was almost angry at me. Well, OK, I can see his point. No more teasing. But flirting is OK, isn't it?

And then I listened to an uproariously funny episode of This American Life on NPR. This week's installment was about pimping. Yes, pimping and hookers. There was one act set totally in Oakland of the late 70s, and how kids used to drop out of high school to emulate their local neighborhood heroes, the pimps. It wasn't funny as in humorous. It was more funny as in this show is the best at bringing any segment of our culture and society, putting it on the air with related and sometimes unrelated stories, and making it interesting and entertaining. I live for this show every week.

That's all.

Sound Check

I don't know if this consultant work is right for me. I just spent the last four hours arguing about bugs in Microsoft Word that Microsoft has known about for years and hasn't done anything about. I am supposedly this Word guru, which is far from the truth. I think I'm an advanced user, yes, but there is a ton of shit I don't know about it. Anyway, so this client—who's not really a client of ours but a client of another consultant and it's all incestuous and twisted so I'm not going to draw a diagram—was trying to get me to make Word stop what it was doing. In essence, she wanted me to crack the code and fix the bugs. Yeah, uh huh. I'll give you a crack. It's hard enough to train people how to use this shit, but it's worse trying to defend an already buggy program to someone who thinks that it should make coffee and walk the dog, in addition to creating and messing up documents, that is. I was at my wits end. I have a problem controlling the volume of my voice, too, which certainly didn't make things any better.

For some reason, I have a tendancy to yell what I'm saying instead of just saying it. It doesn't matter where I am or to whom I'm talking. My voice is loud. I have to consciously make an effort to lower it to a more acceptable conversational tone. So, on the other end of my voice, it sounds like I'm either pissed off or chastising the other person when more often than not, I am not doing either. I don't know why I do this either. I remember my mother telling me when I was in high school that I mumbled and didn't speak clearly enough. I also remember when I was younger not being able to get a word in edgewise no matter where I was. Could it be that now, fifteen years later, I have finally made up for it all? Could it be that as I've grown up, my emotions have grown as well, and the sound of my voice is in direct relation to my emotions? I have admitted freely that I can be an emotional wreck and that being able to control my emotions like a Vulcan would be the best thing in the world. Dunno. I'm not losing my hearing in either ear, which is always a sign if one talks too loudly.

Anyway, I was so frustrated that I couldn't get my point across to this person, that I was raising my voice. I had to stop and restart in a lower, more calm voice, and it was just not good. It's getting to the point where I wish that I could just be an admin again. Life was so much more simple then. Desk job, office hours, few responsibilities that actually meant anything to me. Yeah, the pay sucked ass compared to what I'm making now, but I could learn to live with it again. But I am not a quitter.

Phew

Well, I've been experimenting with cascading style sheets in order to make my life easier. And, while they've given me a great deal more flexibility (or am I just plagiarizing the book I read?), they've also given me a scare here and there. And in the end, there's not much difference here, but I think it's cool. Who knew?

Uneventful day chattering away with cute Bulgarians in LA about the software. One of them, who RJ swears is the spitting image of his partner minus six inches (vertically), sounds just like Groundskeeper Willie. He's Bulgarian, but he has almost a brogue. I wish I could meet these guys. They're all so animated and really into their work. I like listening to them talk about their ideas.

Then I spent another two boring hours in the rain in traffic on the bridge trying to get home. I'll never understand it.

And when I walked in, I couldn't tell if it was X or J who dashed into the bathroom and stormed out without saying a word. It was too dark to tell. Just call me Her Majesty, Queen of the Nile.

That's all.

Abercrombie & Fitch

This is so sexy, both left and right sides. Damn I love men in bare feet.

I love Buffy.

But I'm sure I must have said that somewhere before.

Spent the day traipsing around the City again. Got the mail, bought a few books, CDs, videos, fries. By the way, Kylie Minogue rocks. She did a cheesy song back in the 90s or whenever, and I never thought I'd like to buy an album of hers, but I was at a listening station at Virgin and she just called out to me. Then I spent a couple of hours riding BART here and there. Ah, the life of a consultant.

Now I'm watching the incredibly cheesy Wolf Lake on UPN. Really bad dialogue. What is it with writers who think that every line should be a crack-up? I know, sometime I succumb to the same devices, but at least I don't try to pass it off as legitimate writing. I know I don't when it comes to this blog. It used to be that I only watched Star Trek and then pushed the unplugged TV back into its corner using the free electrical socket for something else more entertaining. And then somehow I got roped into watching one more show after another. And now, sometimes I let the TV run as filler noise in between shows that I really care about. Wolf Lake just happens to be one of those filler-noise shows. It's so outrageous that some of these shows actually get funding and a slot of air time. Like who's the group at the round table that said, "yeah, a town full of werewolves where the moon is always full, with a tough-talking cop from Seattle [sic] who goes to find his runaway girlfriend...and she's a werewolf, too. Yeah, that'll sell. Let's do it!"

That's really it.

Mmm mmm good

J and I had the most peculiar discussion this morning. I was fixing myself a PB&J, and he commented on my use of strawberry jelly. He thought it was a sacrilege to put anything but grape jelly on peanut butter. I informed him that it was all a matter of taste, but he insisted that it is a commonly known fact that peanut butter only goes with grape jelly, while strawberry goes very well on toast or muffins. ??? I guess I shouldn't tell him how much I love apple jelly. So, it was another instance of agreeing to disagree, which really does work for those of you who wonder. Besides, I don't criticize him when he insists on buying creamy Jif. Everyone knows that Skippy crunchy is the only way to fly. I love that stuff. And I'll admit something that I would never ever ever admit in public, I love to eat it by the spoonful. Not that I sit and pig out with a jar of peanut butter in my lap, but it gives me a fix when I need one.

Let's see, did the laundry, cleaned the bathroom, did the dishes.

I'm going over to see R&W this weekend. It's a weekend of camp. No, not that kind, although that would be fun. The weather is extraordinary. No, I mean Valley of the Dolls camp, and whatever R has to surprise us with. Just as long as we don't have to suffer through Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf again, because gawd, I'd have to go out and kill myself that movie is so depressing. But I love VotD. And we both agree, though that Anne—a.k.a. Barbara Parkins—didn't suffer nearly enough before she kicked the dolls. I mean really, one bad trip, you throw yourself on the beach, get washed in by the tide, and that's it? Give me a break. I want body bags that you have to rip yourself out of with your toe. Another classic moment in film history. Damn Jacqueline, is this supposed to be anyone we know? How great is Hollywood....

So it's camp and cocktails. In fact, my invite said to bring me and my liver, so I know what that means. You know, I went three whole damn weeks without a cigarette, and now this. There's no way to get out of it this time. Oh well. At least I know I can quit if I have to. So funny that I don't have an addictive personality, except for things that are so not real, like Star Trek and Charmed, and sex, too, and that truly is real. Thank my stars it's real! And you know, in my last life, my name was Heidi Abramowitz.

So, if you don't hear from me in a while, call up Betty Ford and have me paged. Bye.

Sparkle, Neely, Sparkle

Wow. What a weekend. Booze and dolls. R had the creative inspiration to represent the dolls by buying a shitload of Mike and Ike's. We separated the dolls by color (Anne took the green ones; Jennifer took the blue ones; Neely took them all!!), and it turned into a dolls party that was reminiscent of a drinking party played with movies and TV shows. But I loved it. I gotta read the book.

And I'm back in reality now.

A week from today, I'll be taking my first trip to LA. I've been in California since 1990, and I've never been to LA. Been to San Diego for Navy boot camp, and Newport Beach for a conference, but never LA. Lucky for me our partners in the software development group have asked for all of us to join them at their offices. So, not only do I get my first taste of LA, but I get to spend it with hunky Bulgarians. Woo fucking hoo. I know I'm excited.

And that's all. Kinda bored. Anyone know anyone in the 845 area code? Got a call on my mobile today and caller ID said 845. Didn't know who or where that was, so I guess I'll never know.

Road Trip

Well, there has been a slight change of plans. I'm still going to LA on Monday night/Tuesday morning. RJ wants to leave around 2 a.m. in order to reach Burbank by 10 a.m. We're driving from San Francisco to Burbank. I think he's insane, but I agreed to go on this road trip with him and W. After our day-long meeting in sunny, downtown Burbank, we're off to Las Vegas. I didn't expect this, and I told them that I had a lot of work to do with one of our clients, but they insisted, saying that R's sister, Phyllis, is coming back on Wednesday and is flying into Vegas for the rest of the week. What a better time to go and have some fun? So, I'll be holed up at the Bellagio (weep for me, would you), with fru fru casino drinks and a laptop. I hope it's not that bad, but it very well could be. So I'll be gone for about a week. I really do intend to post my news here. I'm sure I'll find something to write about. We'll drive back on Sunday sometime, if any of us survive the Bitch Goddess this time. I am going to put up a fight for sure.

The other cool news is that we have a wireless internet connection in the office now. I know it's not exactly new technology, but it's so awesome that I can sit with my laptop in the corner, no wires anywhere, and still have access to the web. I love wireless. I can't wait until they let us have 12-hour laptop batteries. I've heard that Europe and Japan have 8-hour batteries already, so why can't we? But then again, they have better cell phones, too. Whatever.

So that's all.

Monday/Tuesday

Monday/Tuesday, 22–23/04/02
We were originally planning to leave for LA at 3 a.m. Tuesday, but after R came home on Monday night, he thought we should leave then instead of sleeping for a couple of hours and then trying to wake up. So we did.

We left at 8 p.m. and drove all night. We took I5 all the way, and I got to see the Grapevine at night. I had never seen it before at all, and for some reason it was really cool. Don't ask why. Can't explain. To our collective surprise, we arrived in, well, Sylmar at 2:30 a.m. Our meeting wasn't until noon, so we found a Super 8 and slept for six hours.

Tuesday, 23/04/02
We started again at 9 a.m., slowly making our way down the five-mile strip to the office in Tujunga. How odd it all was.

Our meeting was really cool. We met with the guys who are programming our software. They are all Bulgarian, and they are a bunch of hotties. Ivo especially. And they're all married, too. Just means I have to work a little harder at my job, I guess. But it can be done.

We ended our meeting at 4 p.m. and headed west via BelAir and PCH before getting on to I10 to head to Las Vegas. We were on Mulholland Drive and then Sunset Boulevard for most of it while R&W played tour guide for me, the toursita. We had to leave West Hollywood, Santa Monica Boulevard, and the boys for another trip.

I'm afraid that my first glimpse of LA county unfairly influenced my opinion and once we got closer to the city proper through the surrounding cities, I began to see an attraction to living down there. Now, I just have to lose thirty pounds, get in shape, spend some time in the sun, trade in my aged VW for any convertible out there, and I should get by OK. Yeah, uh huh.

We made it to Vegas about seven hours after we left our meeting. With the scenic detour, it was another long car ride. I am so lucky to have friends like R&W to spend the time with. There is another person whom I owe a trip to LA, and we'll do that soon, I promise.

Now we're at Harrah's for one free night before moving over to the Bellagio for the rest of the week. W gets all sorts of deals on rooms, and this is one of them. Two totally comp nights at Harrah's. And then they upgradeded us to a suite.

Wednesday, 24/04/02
Pretty uneventful. Phyllis and Margie showed up, R's sister and Puff Daddy's aunt, respectively. Seriously. Margie used to "wipe [R's] and P Diddy's ass." OK. Thanks for that. Nice to know their relationship, though. She's a great woman, well-travelled, well-spoken, and respectable. I certainly won't mess with her. Although, the first time I met her, I know she thought I was a prude. Hmmpf. Fat chance, darlin. Have a seat and we'll talk. Sure you've got thirty years on my ass, but I can tell you stories of my own...none of which will shock you in anyway, and why do I gotta prove myself anyway?

Spent the morning in the hot tub. Checked into the Bellagio. All in all, a day of rest for the weary travellers. Spent the night at Harrah's in the jacuzzi bathtub watching some sort of rat race/scavenger hunt in Australia on the boob tube.

Thursday, 25/04/02
You can take the girl out of the Bronx...
Went to a buffet breakfast with W and his parents. Happy birthday, Lois. Spent the afternoon gambling and drinking with Phyllis. Had an excellent dinner at Picasso in spite of Phyllis' drunken embarrassment. And that's not just my opinion.

Picasso is a fru fru kind of place that is all about fabulous. There are at least five waiters per patron and they're all there to do your bidding. You've got a bread man, a water man, a sommelier, a head waiter, servers, and people to clear it all away. If you leave the table, you'll have a freshly folded, clean napkin waiting for your return. New glasses for every new bottle of wine. It's not the kind of place where you can order a burger, some wings, and a Bud. The first time I went, we all dressed up in suits and ties, and bless my mother for having made me buy a blazer, because I didn't have a full suit. I still don't. I almost refuse to buy one simply because I don't like them. They're too stuffy.

So I was sweating bullets, the whole fork issue resounding in my head: outside in, outside in. The resto itself is on the outside border of the hotel, right on the water. So at night, the patrons can watch the water shows with a clear view. It was designed by Pablo Picasso's son, and some of Pablo's original works are on display on the walls of the restaurant. In other words, it's fancy, elegant, the kind of place where one digs up their finest manners.

Apparently, this wasn't clear to everyone. Phyllis had so much to drink before dinner that after two bottles of Veuve Cliquot, La Grande Dame, she was pissed that there wasn't any more. And then, at the end, after R had been humiliated by his overbearing, drunken "lush" sister, she had the noive to say, outloud with the waiter present: "Leave a big tip." Not once, but three times.

So, look. Why should I care? Because, I'm uncomfortable and insecure enough wearing a suit and tie, and I already feel like the room is critiquing my eating habits and manners...AND...all of the waiters and servers were hunky men who must have been having sex together in the back to produce all of those pheromones to get me so fluffed...that I didn't need a 46-year-old former-debutante drunk to make it more difficult.

With that said, I really did have a nice time. Tony Curtis was there, too, with his Amazon date. Damn, she was big...in all possible ways.

But the crowning glory of Thursday was a conversation with Ken. He had been calling me frantically trying to find me, and with shitty cell service in the hotels—I swear they block the signals to make you use their $20 a minute phones—I had been missing them all. So, I finally got through to him and he broke the great news. He invited me to a reading for the movie he's working on. I don't have any other details yet, but I don't need them. That in itself is so exciting that I was all "why do you have to ask?" Of course I would love to do that! So that's next Wednesday, and I can't wait. That is going to be the highlight of my year.

Friday, 26/04/02
As usual, strange beds = strange dreams. But I love them all.

We have two days left as I write this. Today started with a conference call with one of our clients. Then after this, I'll be in the pool burning my lily-white ass in the hot, desert sun, and tonight we'll have dinner at the Tour Éiffel at Paris Las Vegas, and then we'll see Cirque du Soleil's O. And just to be cheeky, I had dinner at the real thing, a long time ago, in what seems like a galaxy far, far away. I hope this one is better than the real thing. Believe me, not all of Paris is high class.

The End

After an eight-hour "flight" from Vegas, we got home on Sunday night. I was a little tired, but I managed to stay up well past midnight. We hit I5 around four o'clock, and it was practically bumper to bumper until 152. I couldn't believe how ridiculous it was. A two-lane interstate, of course it's full of semis going to wherever they're going, and all the stupid people driving 55 in the fast lane. I don't need to waste my time talking about traffic here.

After our fabulous dinner at the Eiffel Tower, with a remarkable raspberry soufflé for dessert, and I mean remarkable, we saw O which fucking blew me away. I was prepared to be dazzled and stunned, and the preparation was a little understated. From the moment the curtains were whisked away until they were returned to the stage, I was on the edge of my seat. I was simply amazed, and that's all I can really say, except that anyone who hasn't seen it needs to go and see it, and book the tickets well in advance, because if you're not a guest at the Bellagio, it's booked until the end of May. We found out that little trick, and that was the main reason for staying at the Bellagio, and really that was the only reason. After Steve Wynn sold out and the Bellagio came under MGM management, their level of service went down hill pretty bad. But whatever. You're not supposed to be in the rooms anyway.

Saturday, I spent the day at the pool, as I said, burning my lily-white ass in the hot desert sun, and cruising, darlin, cruising. Married men, straights, even the fellow gay boys appreciated what I had to offer. I haven't done that in so long, I forgot how much fun it is. Especially when the married men's spouses glare back at you for invading their turf. Yeah, whatever. Glare at your husband, hobag. He's the one looking at me.

And it ended on Saturday night at one of the newest casinos, the Palms. It's off the strip, and it has a very young crowd. R and I had a blast looking at all the little hos in their thigh-high denim boots, their blouses cut down to there, and the hair, oh Lord, the hair. By the end of our brief stay there, we decided that desperation does not make one look attractive. It was so obvious looking at these guys and gals that all they wanted to do was hook up and get laid. Why else would the girls imitate Jennifer Lopez? And it doesn't make you look any more attractive either. I mean really, if you feel that the only way to find a date is to become an outrageous carricature of something else, then you're playing to the wrong audience, or at least you're only going to get a sloppy one-night stand. What is the old saying? A 2 at 10 is a 10 at 2? And I can say that only because I knew that it was going to be near impossible to get laid on this trip, so I didn't even try. I was myself, and it was easy.

Whatever. I'm home now, so I can concentrate on the mundanities of every day life in the Bay Area where it's freezing. We left the desert, drove through Baker with the world's tallest thermometer at 75 degrees, and at nine o'clock in San Francisco it was like 50 or some shit. Damn, that's cold. But I love it. This was the longest Vegas trip I'd ever been on, and it was a little too long. I wanted to go home on Thursday, and by Saturday, I was ready to stay for another week. I guess there was some sort of adjustment period that I went through. Anyway....