Let me just share this with you

Yesterday, I got paid.

I went to the bank at lunch to deposit the funds in to my withering bank account. During the deposit process, the teller called for customer service. A supervisor came over.
This was Hallowe'en, mind you. The teller looked like Johnny Depp in Benny and Joon, although I don't know if that was the look she was hoping for. The supervisor was dressed up as some skanky ho from a slasher flick with her throat cut open and dried blood crusting her neck wound. Ick.

The supe says, "We're going to have to put a hold on this check before we can make the deposit."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because of the amount being deposited," she answered.
"No," I start. "Why? That is my monthly deposit amount. It's the same each month. Why do you have to put a hold on it?"
"It's our policy, sir," she says.

Don't sir me, honey. I'll reach over and slash your throat with my tongue. So I says, "OK. Let me talk to a manager who can give me a better explanation than that."

By this time, after two minutes of dialogue, but that's how quickly I get heated up, my face is red, my hands are just starting to tremble, and I'm getting way pissed. I don't like to play the bitch, although I can when the part calls for it. Yesterday the part called for it.

The manager (aging hippy...really aging, although I don't know if that was the look she was going for either) comes over and takes a look. "Hello. How are you? Let's see, yes, we will have to place a hold on this check."
"Yeah, that's what I've been told. Can you give me an explanation why?"
"It's our policy with an amount this large."
"Um, no. I do this every month. This hasn't happened before. So, can you give me the real reason?"

By now I am just about to raise my voice. And, the customer at the window next to me is looking at me with disdain. "Have you no couth, young man?" I can hear her saying to me in her head. (She's important in a minute.)

Aging Hippy replies, "Normally I can't give this information out, but it looks like this is not a normal situation. When the check was run through our meter, [I'm paraphrasing here] it gave us an error code that suggested that the account on which this check was drawn might not have sufficient funds for the transaction. We need to put the check on hold until we can contact the bank to make sure that there are enough funds in their account."
"What?"
"Do you know who wrote this check?"
"Yes, my employers. It's my paycheck."
"Oh, I see. We need to hold it for two business days to allow it to clear their bank before we can release the funds to you."
"Two business days? That means Monday, right?"
"Yes, Monday the fourth."
"Oh, I see. Well I guess that's acceptable."

NOT, but at this point what could I do? It wasn't my fault. So, Aging Hippy apologizes for the inconvenience, and I apologize for causing a stink, "it's just that this hasn't happened before, and I didn't understand the first answer I was given."
"I'm sorry, sir. Have a happy Hallowe'en."

At that moment, like it was rehearsed or something, the snooty woman next to me drops her deposit bag full of quarters on the floor and they spill all over the place with the whole branch looking on. I don't think she could have been more embarrassed. It was like my angels were watching over me...or maybe even witchcraft or something. Hee hee. All I could do was smile and walk out, knowing that it wasn't my fault the check was on hold, and that all the bitching and moaning I've done over the last few months has been justified. My boss can't even keep the money in the bank to pay me. Hmmm. What to do? What to do?

Egregious

I have finished the latest of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, Blackwood Farm, and while there are no spoilers here—at least no more than what the dust cover of the book can reveal—let me say it was extraordinary. A beautiful fusion of two of her grandest story lines, the Vampires and the Mayfairs. A sign of future stories to come? I was completely enthralled in the whole story, and did I ever doubt that I would have been? I just have one question for Ms. Rice: Why must you bring me to tears while reading your books? At several points in the narrative, I was weeping, and the last six words of the book itself brought a torrent of tears to my eyes. And then I had to go to work. I love those books, which is clearly an understatement.

Oooops

Surprise, surprise. Been there, done that.

Literally. I was at DLI for nineteen months, the entire duration of my enlisted military career. I studied Arabic at DLI. Frankly, I had the time of my life at DLI. Learning Arabic was not easy, but it was fun. It's one of the hard languages to learn from a latin-based language standpoint, and it was a great challenge for me, and regrettably, I don't remember a whole lot of it. I remember some words, and the alphabet.

I was also a marine mattress. I was a little navy ho, and you know what? So was a huge percentage of the men and women all around me, in all the services, including all of the roommates that I had there (I had four different roommates). I will always think the rejection of men and women from the military simply based on their sexuality is not only stupid and wrong, but terribly self-defeating, especially right now when our fearless leaders insist on destroying Iraq. The guys and girls around me knew that I was gay, although we didn't talk about it except in hushed whispers off-base around Monterey, it couldn't have been more obvious. And yet, I was almost Sailor Skippy Squared-Away. I would have been a careerist. I would have served my country with honor and pride, and I would have conformed to their idiotic clothing and hair styles.

But nooooooo, I can't serve on a submarine because I'm gay and that might offend the other sailors on the submarine. I can't possibly write in words how much that makes me laugh and for how long! ROTFLMAO doesn't cut it. Besides, one of the first, foul, navy jokes that I learned from a smug, ugly 2nd class petty officer (who was obviously surface warfare) was: What do you get when 150 men board a submarine for a six-month cruise? Seventy-five couples at the end of the cruise. Ha ha ha. Can you imagine how much fun that would have been? I'd be happier than a faggot in Boy's Town, I'm sure.

And that's one of their main arguments nowadays, isn't it? Homosexuality in military installations, on naval vessels will deter morale and prevent the GIs from carrying out their duties. What a load of bullshit. And when I came out to the Navy and told them the whole thing, they discharged me, a general discharge under honorable conditions. In the process of waiting for my discharge, which took about six months, I worked for the commanding officer in his administrative office as a yeoman of sorts (I did office jobs like typing and copying—in retrospect, I should have been a yeoman instead of a "spook"). The day before I was given the boot, he presented me a certificate in a semi-formal ceremony praising me for my work in his office, above and beyond the call of duty and all that jazz. As I was leaving, he said very candidly that even he thought the reason I was being forced to leave was wrong.

What does that say? It says that some key personnel in the military or even higher up are so insecure with their own sexuality that they have to treat those of us who aren't insecure about our sexuality like we're not worthy of serving our country and fulfilling our patriotic duties, that's what. *Sigh* It's just so pointless to vent about this stuff sometimes. You know? I'm too old to join the military again even if they did make it acceptable, and if they had, and if I were young enough, I would have re-upped. I really would. And don't get me started about the grand, powerful, upstanding US of A being the last major military in the developed world who discriminates against gays and lesbians. What the fuck ever.

Cl

I love the smell of chlorine. When I walked in the Y last night to work out, I was hit with the smell of the pool one flight above the entry. As I climbed the staircase heading for the locker room, the scent became stronger until finally, I reached the pool itself and heard the splash of the water as swimmers made their way through their laps. And after I had swum my 32 laps (really), and after I scrubbed myself down in the shower to rinse my hair and body of the chlorine, I could still smell the chemical on my body. And when I woke up this morning, and after I took my shower and scrubbed again, there was still the faintest trace of the odor. It gave me a little charge as it always does, I have to say, almost an erotic charge, like there's some memory of chlorinated water and sex in my mind that I just can't seem to remember right now. That's OK, I'll let it come to me if it needs to. But I love the smell.

My nose is bigger than the average nose, thanks to the mixed genes of my parents' own mixed genes. Both mom and pop have big noses, so there was practically no getting away from it. That's fine, too. I used to be afraid of having such a huge proboscis on my face, but now I'm OK with it. It's one of the more distinguishing features of my face, but not grotesquely so. And I've realized in the last few years that my sense of smell is somewhat more developed than some of the people I've met. I can smell more subtle odors than others, but that leads to being more overwhelmed and annoyed by people who insist on bathing in their perfume/cologne/eau de toilette/or whatever. It was especially bad last night when some guy poured Obsession all over himself and the locker room, and then left the building. I could follow his cinnamony scent, literally, out of the locker room, down the stairs and out the door. It was almost like following a rope through a dark room or a trail of bread crumbs in the forest, it was so obvious and potent. Plus, Obsession was the choice fragrance of a guy that I lusted after in high school unrequitedly, so the memory was not necessary.

And that's the other thing about smells: supposedly they trigger memories better than any of our other four senses. I believe that. Just the other day, I was walking around this pharma that I'm stuck at and I smelled something like a mix between coffee and copier toner. Not exactly roses, but it reminded me of a small office I temp-ed at for a while. Their copy room was also their break room (it really was a small office), and the smell of fresh coffee mingled with the smell of fresh copies all day to produce a unique sensation that can now only remind me of the one place on earth where I smelled it first. So when I smelled that the other day, I was instantly transported to that small office in Salinas, California for a brief moment.

That's all.

Easy come, easy go

I got up at two o'clock this morning to witness the Leonid meteor "storm" as it was called. It won't be around for another century, I'll be 127 when it does return, so I figured I'd forego the sleep I needed in favor of something that only happens once more in my lifetime. Besides, my list of "things missed in this lifetime" shouldn't grow much longer. We drove up to Fish Ranch Road which is high enough above the cities to be away from their direct lighting in the hopes of being able to see stuff flying across the sky, burning up in our atmosphere. We sat there for about forty-five minutes before we went home again. I saw one here and there, but overall, I was a little disappointed. I don't know if it was the time that we were out, the full moon, or our physical location on the globe that prevented us from seeing the storm of burning space rock, and it's too bad. I like space stuff when I get to see it with my own eyes. I think I saw the space station in its orbit crossing over my head on Saturday night, although it could have been a simple satellite instead. I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it was bright and moving very quickly across the sky. As I said, I like that stuff. It makes me think, and it reminds me of how small this planet is and how much smaller that makes all of us citizens who live on it.

Enough philosophy. I'm too damn tired. Instead, try this. I think they're serious.

Pindick

I haven't been doing much of anything lately. Hang on, that's not true. It's just that I've been doing the same thing for the last few days, so it just feels like nothing else. I've been defending my reputation against an arrogant, pin-dicked vice president who has decided that his tiny little part of the NDA, albeit very important, is a piece of shit, so he's deflecting the blame down the ladder, and as usual, I'm at the bottom of that ladder, and I have to take it all. Bah. Mother. Fucker. I hate you. You short, ugly man. You over-educated, homophobic pud. How dare you trash my abilities and blame me for the state of your pitiful document. You don't know me, and I didn't write that shit. Really now, all you have to do is look at this piece of work to know that I have at least some talent! Bitch.

So then I get a lecture from R telling me to put up with it...BUT...to defend my reputation at the same time. "Play with him, like a cat would a mouse," as he makes little swishing moves with his hands bouncing an imaginary mouse between them. I'm sorry. I don't have time for games. If only I could speak my mind without getting my ass canned. I hate being shit on by anyone.

On a lighter note...

Saturday night I discovered how easy it was to barhop in the City after BART shut down for the night. I was amazed at how easy it was. So I stayed at the Badlands until they turned the lights on and shooed us all home. Girl, I was tore the hell up. And I paid all day Sunday, driving the porcelain bus. And all I did was drink Bass all night. And just a few pints. Six maybe? I can't remember. All I remember was thoroughly enjoying myself watching J-Lo's rump bump and other music videos that I don't get to see at home. Who cares about the crowd. I go there for the drinks and the videos. I thought they had Newcastle on tap, but they don't. I swear some place in the Castro had Newcastle on tap. Must find out.

Two days 'til Turkey Day. I'm not having turkey. I'm looking forward to the four-day weekend, though. I'm not a big fan of the holiday season for lots of reasons. I just wish they will hurry up and pass me by for another year.

Let's see, what else? I watched Buffy for the first time since the season premiere. They're doing some weird shit on that show. I'm lost. And Buffy looks old, not like an old woman, but more like a mature young lady. Her face is more hardened than it was say oh, seven years ago. I guess time does that to you. Can you imagine being married to Freddie Prinze, Jr.? Where do I start?

That's all.

Sooooo dreamy

I'm so glad that BMW is making more films, and I'm so glad that Clive Owen is the Driver again. I just love him. With his gorgeous looks and deep, sultry voice, he is the perfect man for me. If it weren't so provocative in this starched-collar pharma, I would have pictures of him plastered up all over my cubie walls so I could stare at him and gaze into his eyes all day long. Gawd, how old am I?

That's all. I spent all of today, from the second I sat down this morning until about fifteen minutes ago, working for The (Little) Man. And now, he asked me for my mobile number so he can call me if he needs me this weekend. All in the interest of good business. "It's all about the bling bling, remember," said R. Now how can I forget about the bling bling?

GIRLFRIEND!!!

What do you say to something like this? After I picked my jaw up from the floor, I had to ask myself if this could be real! Can you imagine? Oh là là!!

Prime Rib

H and I went out to the House of Prime Rib for T-day dinner last night. I love it there. It's all beef. Even though their menu says they offer fish, why would you go to the House of Prime Rib to have fish? Whatever. Creamed spinach, yum. Yorkshire pudding, yum. Mashed taters, yum. Good, hearty red wine, yum.

And then there's this. I was bored yesterday, so I got creative with America's favorite niece. Here is the original source picture that I used to work some Photoshop magic. I just love this. I put little boxes in her hair so she wouldn't have to hide the crack in her shoes.

That's all. I'm expecting to hear from the The (Little) Man today. I gave him my mobile number in case he needed my assistance during the four-day weekend, as I've said here before. I'm only doing this for the bling bling. One thing I have to say is that he's British, and I love everything British, especially meeting British people and talking with them. I love their accents. It's so simply charming and inebriating, even The (Little) Man can sort of weave me into his (little) web.

And speaking of webs, this is what I found hanging outside my front door this morning. I hate spiders. I simply hate them. I almost screamed like a little girl when I saw this thing suspended in mid-air. It's one of the biggest spiders I've ever seen. It's at least the size of a quarter (or a 10p coin). Ick, so very ick.

Saturday

So far an uneventful weekend...lucky for (Little) Man. Haven't heard a peep out of him. *Knock wood.*

I'm supposed to sup at Kincaids with R and his family this evening. There will be eight of us, I think. It's the family night out, and I'm family for some reason. Margie came out from New York and even she's excited to see me. I can't quite understand that. I know I've spoken of Margie before, but it's just puzzling how I could have affected her as much as I have. Phyllis' daughter came out from Virginia, and that will be cool. I haven't met her yet. I hope she's a darling girl. And then there's Mother, of whom I've only heard the most outrageous things. I'm driving, too, so I'll have to face this all sober as a stone. I'm smiling now, in case you can't tell. I have to start now to practice and make it look natural before half-eight tonight. Do you think it will work? It will take a miracle.

Now I'm out for a walk with H and a quick trip to the drug store to purchase a new writing tablet so I can write my father for the first time in seven years. That's my chore for Sunday. I'm still smiling.

Whatever

OK, another change in plans. Let me say that this dinner we were supposed to have was supposed to have been for last Tuesday night. Then it was Friday night. Then it was tonight. So, on my walk with H, they call me up to say that they have spent the day drinking fish bowl punch or some shit. "It's alcohol served in a fish bowl with a long straw," R slurred out. So they've postponed dinner again until tomorrow evening. We'll see about that. I guess I can stop smiling now.

Then, same phone call, Phyllis asks me if I can chauffeur them up to Cache Creek tomorrow during the day. We did this once before, and since she and Margie are big gamblers, they couldn't pass up such an opportunity. Personally, I think this place is cheesy and over-crowded with people who are desperate to give their money away. So unlike Las Vegas. At least Las Vegas is entertaining. This place is dreadful. R didn't want to go. W (the Chameleon, I'm now calling him) didn't want to go, and so it was passed on to me, who is the only other person in the Bay Area that Phyllis knows who has a car big enough to hold everyone who wants to go. "Sure," I said, hesitantly. I didn't really want to write my father's letter anyway. *Sigh* Why do I have to be so nice? Maybe they'll call up and cancel on me.

So, now it's on to the Y for a last minute swim before they close. H has been toying with the idea of going out again tonight. If I recall correctly, last week was a blast while we were in the moment, but the aftermath was painful. And besides, I don't need a man. I need a nice, big TV with digital cable and a handy remote control.

And as a final note, for anyone who is a pet owner (or pet guardian, as San Franciscans are to call themselves now), the pet store around the corner from where I live is offering pictures of your pet on Santa's lap. Not you and your pet and Santa. Just Fido or Fluffy and Santa. FYI.

One more thing

Tomorrow morning is confirmed. Bright and early at nine o'clock. And now I have a cold, or at least the beginnings of one. I'm sneezing and stuffy and that always means imminent floods of mucus. I know, not pleasant, but hey, big noses make big noises and big messes.