This or That

1. Soup or salad?
I end up having salad, but when I see the steamy bowl of soup, I wish I had made that choice.

2. Hot or cold sandwiches?
Cold.

3. White or whole wheat bread (or rye, etc)?
Anything but white. It's so boring.

4. Pack a lunch for work/school, or buy it?
I'm going cheap right now, so pack it in.

5. If you eat out...fast-food chain, or mom & pop type place?
Usually fast-food, and mainly because there are fewer and fewer mom & pop type places around here anymore.

6. Tuna or chicken salad?
Chicken. Specialty's has a great chicken salad sandwich with apples in it. It's always good. Plus they make their own bread, and the slices are like two inches thick. And they always have cute guys working there. And their brownies are delightful.

7. Cheese: Swiss or cheddar (or American, etc)?
Anything. I simply adore feta, too.

8. Mustard or mayo?
Never mayo. It's disgusting. It makes me gag.

9. Sandwiches: wrap/pita pocket, or regular bread/roll?
Bread is good. Rolls and wraps are for other things, not sandwiches. Plus, when I eat a sandwich on a roll, the contents always seem to be pushed out the back end before I get to them. Maybe it's me.

10. Sweet stuff: cookie/cake or fresh fruit?
I wish I could eat more fruit, but I don't, so I'll say cookies or cakes. I love cookies and cake.

I'm trying to get some time off to drive down to LA later this month. My bosses are being a little stubborn about it. "We need you here as much as possible," they say as they board their 747 to Rome for a week. "Bite me," I reply. "I mean that in the best of ways, of course." So, I've pretty much demanded (as much as I can demand anything) that they give me an extended weekend off.

That's all for now.

Chips

You know what really aggravates me, besides pigeons and assholes, that is? I was driving down 101 at Hospital Curve this morning, keeping up with the flow of commuter traffic, when out of nowhere zooms in a CHP. Instantly the flow of 75 m.p.h. traffic screeches to a modest 50 m.p.h. as dictated by the speed limit signs. I looked in the rear view mirror to see the traffic start to pile up, hoping that no one would rear-end me. So, the presence of the highway patrol shatters a wonderfully flowing commute rendering all of us snails on the road in fear of being crushed for speeding and whatever else Mr. Chip wants to give out that morning. That's what aggravates me. I can understand their need to monitor the traffic and prevent accidents and shitheads from clogging up the roadways, but when the circulation is unhindered and efficient, albeit above the limit, they make a mess of things. I know that they can't monitor the commute from anywhere else but the roads, and maybe I'm more irritated by the people around me who slam on their brakes even when they see a San Francisco police car show up on the highway. But with the climate of the SFPD as it is nowadays, I should be wary of them, too, I suppose. So after that being said, I don't really know what aggravates me, either. It's just another rant.

Thursday Threesome at 3:00 p.m.

Onesome: Cold—Are you a cold weather person and you just deal with it, or do you prefer temperatures closer to the century mark?
I'm definitely a cold weather person. I can't stand the heat. Even inside, I prefer to keep the thermostat down. If necessary, I'll bundle up in sweaters and blankets to keep warm. When it gets too hot in the Bay Area, I get miserable. Thank my stars for air conditioning in the car.

Twosome: and Misty—What makes you misty-eyed? Do you cry at Hallmark commercials, or do you get all sentimental when you hear a specific song?
There are plenty of songs that make me cry. I won't bother you with a long list, but two in particular that spring to mind are "Every Road Leads Back to You" and "Shiver Me Timbers" both sung by Bette Midler. Dogs always get me misty-eyed. I love dogs so much, and I don't really know why they affect me as they do. I think they're great. And there are plenty of movies that make me cry, too many for me to list here, so I won't even try.

I guess the short answer would be that I'm an emotional, sentimental, and sappy kinda guy.

Threesome: Morning—Mornings or evenings? Which is your time of the day?
I am definitely a night person. It's very hard for me to wake up in the morning, and it's even more difficult for me to be cheery in the morning. It really bugs me when people come into work all sing-songy and skipping and shit. "Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day..." Blech. With that said, you can guess that I'm a night person. I prefer looking at the stars and watching the moon as it moves across the sky. With the Internet and 24 hour Safeways, it has become much easier to be a night person.

A little story: When I was discharged from the navy, I went home to Iowa for a spell. During this time, I was planning to enroll in the community college to try to earn some sort of degree. I found a job working third-shift production at a doughnut shop. That meant working 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. making the doughnuts. To this day, that was the best job I ever had. It didn't pay well, just above minimum wage, but I loved it. It was night, there were no customers, and we fucked around to our hearts' content. Then I decided to move back to California, and I quit that job. I have had a few night jobs since then, and they were always much more fun than day jobs.

I guess that's all.

Travel

Well, it has been decided. I'm going to Seattle for an overnighter and then a presentation at a potential client. I didn't want to go at all because I think I'm just not the presenter type, but bossman insisted. So, in my search for a decent airfare, I came across this gem: I can book a one-way flight from San Francisco to Seattle on ATA (whatever that is) for $161. That's the lowest fare that Expedia could find for me. The catch is that they fly through Chicago!!!! From San Francisco to Chicago to Seattle. Eleven hours of travel time. Is that the most fucked-up itinerary? That's like flying from San Francisco to Australia via Istanbul. Why on Earth would anyone take that flight? To save a few bucks? Whatever. Clip some damn coupons already.

It's amazing to me the power of a good cry. I was on edge and a complete raggy bitch all day yesterday. No one was safe from my moodswings. I am coming to my wit's end; I can see it rising in the distance, coming to bite my ass. I have no patience for anyone or anything anymore. I simply don't understand why it is so hard for people to do things for themselves. "Oh can you do this for me?" "Oh, can you help me read the newspaper?" "Oh, can you wipe my ass for me?" For instance, regarding the travel plans mentioned in the previous paragraph, I needed specific dates for the plane ticket. That's pretty understandable, right? I'm not asking for clairvoyance, just a calendar. I asked a coworker in the office to give me the phone number of the hotel in Italy where our boss is staying for a week (on business, or so he says). It was noon-ish PST, so about nine-ish in bella Roma. "It's too late there to call now." What? After a few minutes of argument, I lost it and yelled "just give me the damn number already." I don't typically lose my temper at the office. It's just bad form.

And then I get this way fucked up e-mail from my sister who says that she's preggers again from her deadbeat fuckup husband. Oh but it's OK. They're getting divorced soon. Oh, right, how Jerry Springer of you. I'm so embarrassed, but I'm supposed to be happy that there's a new life on its way into our family. As I type this I'm seriously considering editing this paragraph before I post it just to give the WWW the illusion that I have a white-picket-fence family, just like everyone else, right? Fuck. And to add to that, my grandmother and aunt are leaving their house—with a pool—in Nevada to move to my hometown in Iowa. My father wants them to be closer to him. That's all well and good, and now I'm in the midst of planning a trip to see them before they move so far away, which means my trip to LA to visit Ken in his faboo new digs has to be rescheduled. I know it sounds like I'm kvetching about a visit to my grandmother, but it's the reason I'm visiting that pisses me off the most. My grandmothers are not so young and spry anymore. I'm very afraid that they won't be here much longer. That's what's fucked up.

Death is life. Life is death. You can't have one without the other, young grasshopper. Dip me in chocolate and bite my ass. I share a birthday with my paternal grandmother. I haven't seen her in...that part I will keep private. I know it will happen. It's going to hurt like a motherfucker when it does. And I am so dreading the phone call from my mother to announce that her mother has joined her father in eternal bliss. (That was so cheesy. Sorry.) When I was a kid, like eight or nine, I knew that my grandparents would die someday. But 23 years later, that same knowledge, well, it brought me to my knees in tears last night. I was almost about to scream out in emotional pain. I guess that further illustrates just how deep in denial of my own life I've been. I'm so glad that J was there. He gave me the comfort and support that I really needed last night. And after shedding tears by the bucket, I feel more calm today. I don't like the idea of losing my grandmothers any more now than I did last night, but I can get past the illogic of it a little better now.

Don't worry, I'll say it for you: "Damn, honey, you got issues."

I guess that's all for now.

Spoilers

Do you think it's wrong to spoil the ending to a book or a movie for someone who hasn't read or seen it? I don't. Do you think it's necessary for the person to fully experience the book or movie, unhindered by someone else's bias? I do. But you know, I would rather know the ending to a movie or a book or even a TV show. In fact, when I start to read a book that might turn out badly, I always flip ahead towards the end to see which characters' names show up. That's my way of appeasing my apprehension. I don't really like suspense that much, so when Captain Archer or Buffy get themselves into a pickle, I know nothing severely bad will happen because their shows haven't been cancelled...well, Buffy is over after this year, so the sky's the limit with that one. And now since the advent of DVDs, it's much easier to skip to the last chapter to see what happens. A friend of mine just watched Signs, and since I hadn't seen it, I wanted to know what it was about, if there really were aliens, and how the movie ended. He didn't want to share with me at first, but he did, and I still want to see the movie for myself. Those kinds of spoilers don't spoil anything for me. It gives me peace of mind to know how it's going to turn out. Like with Moulin Rouge, no one told me the ending of that movie (and though I like spoilers, I won't spoil anything intentionally for someone else), and so I had no idea that what happened was going to happen. It made it that much more intense, but I wish I had been prepared. And yeah, whatever, you can't prepare for life, you can't know the ending to life (unless you're Sylvia Browne), so watching the endings to movies before I watch the movie is my way of cheating life, etc., yadda yadda whatever. I don't know. Maybe it's just a control issue.

Coins

I found a quarter today. Yeah, big deal, what can you get for a quarter anymore? It was dated 1969. That got me wondering. Where have you been, George? How many countries have you seen? How many people have you met? What did you buy with yourself? Thirty-four years is a long time to be floating around untethered. I always wonder that about coins. They're not as earthbound as stamps, for instance. They are much more apt to be passed around. Stamps are used to for point-to-point communication, usually ending up in the recipient's trash bin. Coins are used, re-used, passed around, re-used some more for decades. However, I have tens of French francs, British and Irish pounds, and even Canadian dollars in a little box at home. I keep them for their memory value as well as their monetary worth. The franc and the Irish pound have been replaced by the euro, of which I have none yet. I like the British pound. It's small, but it has enough weight to be heaver than the other coins. I like the sound that pound coins make when they come together. It's unique to my ears: a little shallow, but distinct. It brings back pleasant memories. I know I say this a lot, but I really do love England, and as I've said equally as often, I can't wait to go back. Do Australians use dollar coins? Or do they use paper dollars? I wish American could get used to using the dollar coins. I like them better than the dollar bill, although I haven't decided whether I like Susan B. Anthony better than Sacajawea. As long as they're both legal tender, I guess it doesn't matter.

Fonts

Anyone who knows me well knows that I love fonts. I am a self-avowed fontaholic. Some people go gaga over shoes, others over art, and some even over Britney Spears. I go feckin crazy over fonts. I simply adore a well-published, well-formatted piece of text, be it a book or an ad on the side of a bus. I am saving my pennies to buy Adobe's Font Folio one day. It's like $9,000, but it's so cool. And, anyone who's read this long enough knows that I love those silly online quizzes that seem to be everywhere. So imagine my joy when I found this little one!

test yourself at fontlover.com!

Love that. And aside from the fun and playful part, it's fairly accurate, too.

That's all. There's a storm a-brewin' off the coast. Love that, too.

Friday Five

1. Do you like talking on the phone? Why or why not?
It depends on who I'm talking to. If it's to a friend, I would rather sit and talk face to face rather than linger on the phone. It gets uncomfortable after awhile. If it's a company or a service, then it's OK, but it still bothers me.

2. Who is the last person you talked to on the phone?
My boss. Last night.

3. About how many telephones do you have at home?
Including mobile phones, we have five. One per floor, plus two mobiles.

4. Have you encountered anyone who has really bad phone manners? What happened?
Hello? See previous rants on customer service. A lot of customer service calls are recorded "for quality assurance," and yet these people still have jobs. I guess they don't listen to their own employees, only what the customer says, and then not even. It's sad. I don't even bother complaining anymore because more often than not, it's futile.

5. Would you rather pick up the phone and call someone or write them an e-mail or a letter? Why or why not?
I would prefer handwritten mail, and then e-mail, and then the phone as a last resort. Plus, nowadays, it's not only the gays who screen their calls, it's everyone. So, rather than subjecting myself to the sometimes humiliating phone tag with someone who won't answer the mobile phone that they bought so they could be reachable to everyone, I would rather send mail.

Eyes Without a Face

This is the neatest thing. I tried to make one that looked like me, but I couldn't get the nose right. I won't show you the results because it will end up being a study in what I would want to look like or something else psychological, I'm sure. It's a good tool for creating the perfect man...or woman, whatever your persuasion.

I wonder sometimes if offering psychology as a class to non-psych majors in college is a good thing. I knew a girl once who took psychology with no intention of ever becoming a psychologist or psychiatrist. She thought that she was an expert at reading people based on her one semester of psych in college. And she went around dispensing her "knowledge" to people even if they didn't ask. She also studied people's reactions and their choice of words looking for hidden clues as to who they were. I just thought she was a big ol' freak, and I stayed away from her. But I still felt like she was taking a big risk in getting her face pounded by someone who didn't want to be analyzed by a quack. I wonder where she is now, counseling people on park benches in Central Park, probably. "Your left eye twitched when I asked you about your mother. Why is that? Hmmm, let's explore..." I can't stand that.

Lazy Afternoon

I did my taxes this weekend, or should I say, I organized my tax material so the nice man will do them for me. This is the first year since I started working, sixteen years ago, that I was unable to file the 1040EZ form, otherwise they would have been done and I would have had my refund by now. But no, this year I was a consultant, and I made over the base amount for the EZ form, and I have too many deductions...WTF? It's so hard. Why is it so hard?

Now I have to find time to meet with the man who will do my taxes. I probably won't get it done before I leave. I'm starting to wonder if I'll be going anywhere after Monday. Happy Saint Patty's Day everyone. I hope it all works out. And then there's this obnoxious virus thing that won't die. Jeez. Let's see, what else. I wonder if doppler radar will detect swarms of locusts. Silly me, I'm sure it will.

So then I finished up my case of Rolling Rock...there were only three left...OK, four. And then I finished off the third season of Buffy. I totally loved "Doppelgangland" with evil Willow. That was really cool. I had no idea that Anya was on the show for so long. And I already knew Buffy blew up the school, ooops, spoilers, I'm sorry, but I wish that she and Faith ended differently...see how I hid that? Now I have to wait until June for season four, of which I have seen nothing. So that's cool.

What else. It was supposed to rain today, but it was sunny instead. And I was inside with my calculator and pencils, finally singing to the song I've searched for: "I put my arms around him, yes / I pull him down to me so he can feel my breast." I love that. It's so...I don't know...not me. I can just imagine someone grabbing the back of their boyfriend's head, by the hair, and pushing his face into their chest, bosom or no. It's, I don't know. I think Bette Midler, I think Tina Turner, I think Karen Walker, I think of me with...oh never mind.

Oh, I found the absolute bomb of shareware. (I am so too old to say the word "bomb" in a non-incendiary sense.) It's called the Konfabulator, and it is simply the coolest little piece of software. You'll just have to take my word for it, unless you're running OS X, in which case, head on over and check it out. The weather widget is beautiful, but I wonder if it works properly. I have had it for about two weeks now, and I never see the numbers rise above 60 degrees F or below 50 degrees F. Maybe that's just the Bay Area talking to me. I'm not complaining.

I guess that's it. I'm sort of in a quandry about this coming weekend. I mean, I'm looking forward to getting out of town, but I'm not looking forward to why I'm getting out of town. Growing up sucks, even if you're pretty much grown up to begin with. I wish I had a dog. A dog would make me feel better, I just know it.

Good night.

The White Cliffs of Wales

I had a dream last night that I was staying in a hotel on the coast of Wales. It was some sort of resort with a hotel on the cliffs. (I've never been there so I don't know if they have cliffs in Wales.) The room had four full-sized beds, and it was only me in the room. After I fell asleep, in the dream, I heard a knock on the door, and then I heard two drunken people stumble in and fall into two of the other beds. I looked up and there were Prince Charles and Camilla. I was freaked out. I pulled the blankets over my head and prayed that they wouldn't talk to me. What could I possibly have to say to either of them that wouldn't sound silly or patronizing? Besides, I don't really like her that much, from my limited point of view. Anyway, the next morning, I woke up and followed Camilla, or rather I shadowed her like a private detective, to Paris where she walked the streets looking for the mayor of Paris. I was stunned to find this out. I ran into an office building where I found Dame Judy Dench sitting at an enormous wooden desk. I told her that Camilla was having an affair with the mayor of Paris, and she was thrilled to find out this news. How bizarre.

So, tomorrow I leave for my trip to Seattle, if the skies are safe enough to fly that is. I'll probably have to get to the airport three hours in advance, depending on whether we start bombing foreign countries. I am travelling up there with a girl / woman / co-worker who I've worked with for the last four years. (I'll explain my indecision in a second.) We've travelled together quite a bit in those four years, to England, Ireland, France, and throughout the US, on business. And now that we're working together at the small startup with limited funds, we were going to share a hotel room. We've never done that before, and I don't see why a lack of company funds should change that. So I booked my own room this morning. I know it's not that big of a deal, really, but last night I was upset that I would have to sacrifice my privacy like that. We get along, really we do, and though we're both quite opinionated, it shouldn't be a problem. It's just that it is a problem, so I've fixed it. "We're all a family," the boss says. "We've been through thick and thin. It'll be fun roughing it" at the Seattle Hilton. Oooh, that hurts all right. Just thought I'd share that.

So my indecision on how to refer to her is something that I have to come to terms with, and not just this particular person, either. I don't see myself as an adult a lot of the time. I am, and I'm mature enough to realize that I'm not a kid anymore, but I rarely refer to myself as a man. I'm a guy. I am a male human being. It's just odd to call myself a man. And that's not because I doubt my masculinity, either, because I know that I'm a man, and I like being a man, especially a gay man. And when I refer to her as a woman, it sounds weird to me. I don't want to call her a girl, because she's not. I don't want to sound condescending, like I don't honor her as an adult. We are the same age, and for some reason calling her a woman just makes her sound older than she is. Does this make sense? Like the only women in the world are my mother and aunts and grandmothers. Like the girls that I went to school with never grew up, and will always be girls in my mind, even when we're in rocking chairs at the old folks home. It's very weird how my mind works.

Ok, enough of that. Happy Tuesday.

Overnight Observation

I'm in Seattle now. We flew up on Southwest this evening. I have never flown Southwest before, and while the service was better than I had experienced in recent flights, the mad dash for the first open seat on the plane, was a pain in the ass. I didn't check any of my things, so I had to go to the back of the plane to find an open overhead compartment just for my smallish garment bag. I stowed my laptop under the seat in front of me, and took the closest seat I could find. It was kind of odd just because I'm so used to having an assigned seat. Nevertheless, we landed safely.

And then the comment was made that D and I seem to travel when America is striking or being stricken. The last time we traveled together was September 11th. I don't think I have bad travel karma. In fact, I have rarely, if ever, had a bad travel experience. *knock on wood*

I booked my own room in the Seattle Hilton, contrary to the original plan. D and I were supposed to share a room to save on cost. But considering that she's in a family way, albeit early on, I didn't want to bother her by staying up late, waking up early, smoking, talking on the phone, watching TV, etc., so I got my own thing. They were all incredulous at the front desk when I gave the desk clerk my name. "What?" "You got your own room?" "Are you serious?" What's the big deal? I didn't think it would be a problem. It's my card, my money. Whatever.

I've never really been to Seattle before. I can't see much of it now, though, because at 10:45 pm, it's kinda dark. The hotel is right downtown, and with the windows open, the traffic below is kinda loud, but it's OK.

I watched the end of Queen of the Damned and had to wonder why they bothered making a movie at all. I know that movies sometimes don't hold true to the original novel's storyline, but there was no mention (that I could see) of Maharet's twin sister, Mekare, and it just ended too quickly. I'm a purist. I like books so much that watching them transformed into a movie to span less than 120 minutes is sometimes painful. Can you understand that? And I especially like Anne Rice's vampire novels. They are so full of imagery and action, that movies cannot possibly do them justice. And besides, they skipped over The Vampire Lestat. Whatever. That's why I keep the books. I'm really hoping that they don't even try to bring The Witching Hour to the screen. Lena Olin was pretty good as Maharet, though. I was thinking more like Susan Sarandon with the red hair and all, but Lena was good. Maybe I should see the whole thing before I judge it so harshly?

And then we bomb Iraq. Can't say much more about that.

Home Sweet Home

Ok, I've said some bad things about Chokeland before (see?), but when we landed at OAK this evening, and when I walked into my apartment an hour later, I was so glad to be home.

Our trip was a success. The client loved the demonstration and presentation. They were all thrilled that we had taken the time to make their lives easier. Uh, yeah, that's what we did. No, girlfriend, it's called bling bling. OK?

I woke up this morning, had a beautiful bowl of blueberry yogurt, an English muffin, and some hot chocolate, and that's all I had all day long. I was so freakin nervous about the presentation that I couldn't stand the sight of the Whoppers that everyone else ate at lunch, and for me to pass up French fries, it had to be bad. (And as a side note, I don't know who the fuck was that decided that we needed to change French fries and French toast to Freedom this and Freedom that, but they need to go. OK? I'm not changing my fucking show.) I was nearly sick to my stomach. I always get sick when I have to present in front of an audience. I thought it would have been easier considering I know the content like the back of my hand, but it was still rather uncomfortable. Luckily, though, they were all very casual, and they were friendly! No stone faces in the crowd of five ladies from Seattle. They were receptive and engaging, and they knew what we were talking about and what we were trying to do. It turned out to be OK. All that worrying for nothing. As usual.

So after the meeting, we made a mad dash for SeaTac so we could jet on home early. We got one flight ahead of our scheduled trip, and I got home earlier than planned. That's so nice. Now I get to go to bed again, for tomorrow I'm off for the desert for the weekend. As I've said before, folks, this won't be a pleasure cruise.

Oh you should have seen the queen they got for head flight attendant. Rocco, former model for Mandate and former Falcon star we all agreed, put on a floor show to beat all. Southwest, I guess, has a fairly relaxed attitude when it comes to doing their jobs. That's really cool, especially now when we're all under the stress of [insert your brand of stress here]. I was so used to the tight-lipped, (mostly) dolled up attendants on United that their behavior was a shock at first. But they were trying to lighten the mood, and they succeeded. I think it's nice to see a team work together and still have fun together. Service was great. I'm not too crazy about the Oakland airport as I do prefer SFO, but whatever.

That's it. I'm stuck with an empty stomach and the resulting migraine, so I gotta go.

The Weekend

Let's see if I can get all of this right. So I arrive in Vegas on Friday night around 5-ish. I check into my hotel, The Luxor and sit down for a minute. Then I pick up the phone book to call my family there. I knew they would be busy preparing to move, so I found accommodations for myself out of their hair. Found the number, dialed, and got a recording. "We're sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again." So I check the number and dial again. Same lady's voice, same recording.

So, I sit back and wonder what the fuck.

The next day, Saturday, I talk to Mom. She tells me that they're already in Iowa. "Oh, I see," I said. So my contacting them kinda just fell through the cracks and they left early? I'm not sure how to take this yet. I got kinda pissed and then really depressed. I hung up, went downstairs, sat at the slots and got free wine to drunken me up. By the end of the night on Saturday, I was bawling my eyes out. I don't know what to think yet, so I can't really continue this, uh, this whatever it is.

Let's back up a bit, to Friday night. After I got that miserable recorded message, I ordered some room service, watched CNN repeat the same news and same video clips over and over, and then I went to the spa at the Luxor. Now, the Oasis Spa at Luxor is open 24 hours a day, six days a week (they close early on Tuesdays). It's segregated men's and women's spas, which is so nice, no offense ladies. And it is known as the cruisiest spa on the Strip. I like the hot tub because it relaxes my weary bones, and this particular night, after an eight-hour drive and some confusing news, I needed to relax.

So I'm down there, minding my own business (really), when I see two guys go into one shower stall together. The showers are quite private, with two doors separating the shower from the outside world. From what I've read on various parts of the Internet, the male attendant who works the night shift is supposedly gay or gay-friendly and wouldn't mind if a little hey-hey was going on around the joint. It was Vegas after all, anything goes, right?

About fifteen minutes later, I see "Mike," the attendant grab a basket of towels, open the exterior door to the shower next to the two guys and start knocking on the occupied shower's door saying something like "you can't do this, you can't do this." English was not his native language, so I think he was at a loss for words other than "you can't do this." The two guys come out of the shower dripping wet with their towels barely secured around their waists, effectively blocked in by the basket of towels and the open door. "Mike" had set up a barricade. "Mike" pulled over one of the uniformed janitors to be a witness to this "crime." Both "Mike" and the janitor stayed in front of the two guys as they pleaded for their freedom saying such things as "we're sorry," "we meant no harm," "we'll leave right now and never come back," among other things I couldn't hear clearly enough.

Keep in mind, please, that I am sitting about twenty feet away from this, with a clear view, but sitting, and melting in a divine hot tub with jets pounding my lumbar region, and fountains dribbling water near my ears, so the only thing I really heard was the shouts of either the two guys or "Mike." I inferred the rest.

Shortly after they had emerged from their shower stall, a uniformed security guard entered the spa. He looked around the place for the attendant and spied a half-dozen naked, soaking men in the hot tub who were enthralled in the proceedings. One guy sitting next to me mentioned that this was a crime. I looked over at him with shock (really), having witnessed him and another unnamed male person in the eucalyptus steam room having a go at things. He continued clarifying that it happens all the time and that they probably didn't tip "Mike" enough money to keep his mouth shut. "Oh, I see," I replied. Is that all it took? And the "crime" the naked stranger referred to was the fact that these two guys were being ostracized in the face of plenty of other offenders who got away with it.

So, after a brief interrogation by the rent-a-cop, "Mike" escorted the two visibly shaken men to their lockers where the security guard took over and escorted them out of the spa. I don't know what happened to them after that. All I knew was that I had had enough relaxation for one night, and it was my turn to leave. I dried off, dressed up, and left. I took a shower in the privacy of my own room. It was a shame, even though by someone else's standards clearly unacceptable behavior. I mean, who gives a rat's ass? They weren't hurting anyone, the spa's reputation clearly preceded itself, and honestly, there wasn't a straight man in the place that night, except maybe the janitor, and even he looked like this was a waste of time.

So back to Saturday: I hadn't seen Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones yet, and they were showing it in the Imax theatre in the Luxor, so I sat and watched it. It was pretty fun and big. That was before the slots and the wine. I thought the movie would distract me a little. I guess it worked for about two hours.

Sunday I relaxed some more, reading a little, watching a couple of DVDs I had brought with me on my laptop, watching the Oscars (no comments about the Oscars by the way, good show, congrats, etc.). Today I drove home. Another eight-hour trip.

I have decided that I want to drive the big rigs. Yes, it's true. I love to drive, and I would look stunning behind the wheel of those behemoths, cruising (not literally) down the highways of America. If our little software dealy doesn't work, or if and when they sell the stuff to the highest bidder, I think I might seriously consider driving a truck. Go ahead, hit me with your best shots. I've already got one person who thinks I'm joking. But she's a foreigner to whom English is still a burden, so I don't think she understands me too well.

I guess that's all. I'm very disappointed in my weekend. I don't know what to think about this. I guess I'll have to process this in my own way, the subconscious. Speaking of which, and I simply couldn't close my entry without mentioning this, I had the most fun dream last night. I dreamt that I was bitten by a very old vampire who ended up siring me. I went off in search of Angel, and ran into Willow instead, who threated to stake me with her own little version of "Mr. Pointy." I convinced her that I would not kill her and therefore she had no reason to stake me, and I took off flying search of Angel. While the dream was certainly a release dream, it clearly illustrates that I am in need of more real human interaction, n'est-ce pas?

And that really is all.