Sunday

I can't tell if they are marketing sex or swim-wear. Whatever the case, I think I'm spending Christmas vacation in Australia.

So, yesterday, I'm out all day, traipsing around San Francisco. And out of it, not only did I get a slightly sunburned face, but I got four pictures of me, of which only one is decent, and not even decent enough to show, and then I go for a beer at one of the bars in the Castro. So I'm waiting in line for the beer, watching a Cher video, and I hear one barely-legal voice say, "Cher sings like a horse. I hate her." I was aghast. "How could you?" I thought to myself. Granted, she's not everyone's taste, but for crying out loud, she is one of the most gay icons out there, and to insult her in such a way, while I'm in earshot, is just plain wrong. OK, whatever. I'm over it.

The Bridge—A Metaphor

There was a man who had given much thought to what he wanted from life. He had experienced many moods and trials. He had experimented with different ways of living, and he had had his share of both success and failure. At last, he had begun to see clearly where he wanted to go.

Diligently, he searched for the right opportunity. Sometimes he came close, only to be pushed away. Often he applied all of his strength and imagination, only to find the path hopelessly blocked. And then at last it came! But the opportunity would not wait. It would be made available only for a short time. If it were seen that he was not committed, the opportunity would not come again.

Eager to arrive, he started on his journey. With each step, he wanted to move faster; with each thought about his goal, his heart beat quicker; with each vision of what lay ahead, he found renewed vigor. Strength that had left him since his early youth returned, and desires, all kinds of desires, reawakened from their long-dormant positions.

Hurrying along, he came upon a bridge that crossed through the middle of a town. It had been built high above a river in order to protect it from the floods of spring.

He started across. Then he noticed someone coming from the opposite direction. As they moved closer, it seemed as though the other was coming to greet him. He could clearly see, however, that he did not know this other, who was dressed similarly except for something tied around his waist.

When they were within hailing distance, he could see that what the other had about his waist was a rope. It was wrapped around him many times and probably, if extended, would reach a length of thirty feet.

The other began to uncurl the rope, and, just as they were coming close, the stranger said, "Pardon me, would you be so kind as to hold the end a moment?"

Surprised by this politely phrased but curious request, he agreed without a thought, reached out, and took it.

"Thank you," said the other, who then added, "two hands now, and remember, hold tight." Whereupon, the other jumped off the bridge.

Quickly, the free-falling body hurtled the distance of the rope's length, and from the bridge, the man abruptly felt the pull. Instinctively, he held tight and was almost dragged over the side. He managed to brace himself against the edge, however, and after having caught his breath looked down at the other dangling, close to oblivion.

"What are you trying to do?" he yelled.
"Just hold tight," said the other.
"This is ridiculous," the man thought and began trying to haul the other in. He could not get the leverage, however. It was as though the weight of the other person and the length of the rope had been carefully calculated in advance so that together they created a counterweight just beyond his strength to bring the other back to safety.

"Why did you do this?" the man called out.
"Remember," said the other, "if you let go, I will be lost."
"But I cannot pull you up," the man cried.
"I am your responsibility," said the other.
"Well, I did not ask for it," the man said.
"If you let go, I am lost," repeated the other.

He began to look around for help. But there was no one. How long would he have to wait? Why did this happen to befall him now, just as he was on the verge of true success? He examined the side, searching for a place to tie the rope. Some protrusion, perhaps, or maybe a hole in the boards. But the railing was unusually uniform in shape; there were no spaces between the boards. There was no way to get rid of this newfound burden, even temporarily.

"What do you want?" he asked the other hanging below.
"Just your help," the other answered.
"How can I help? I cannot pull you in, and there is no place to tie the rope so that I can go and find someone to help me help you."
"I know that. Just hang on; that will be enough. Tie the rope around your waist; it will be easier."

Fearing that his arms could not hold out much longer, he tied the rope around his waist. "Why did you do this?" he asked again. "Don't you see what you have done? What possible purpose could you have in mind?"
"Just remember," said the other, "my life is in your hands."

What should he do? "If I let go, all my life I will know that I let this other die. If I stay, I risk losing my momentum toward my own long-sought-after salvation. Either way, this will haunt me forever." With ironic humor he thought to die himself, instantly, to jump off the bridge while he was still holding on. "That would teach this fool." But he wanted to live and live fully. "What a choice I have to make; how shall I ever decide?"

As time went by, still no one came. The critical moment of decision was drawing near. To show his commitment to his own goals, he would have to continue on his journey now. It was already almost too late to arrive in time. But what a terrible choice to have to make!

A new thought occurred to him. While he could not pull this other up solely by his own efforts, if the other would shorten the rope from his end by curling it around his waist again and again, together, they could do it! Actually, the other could do it by himself, so long as he, standing on the bridge, kept it still and steady.

"Now listen," he shouted down. "I think I know how to save you." And he explained his plan. But the other wasn't interested. "You mean you won't help? But I told you I cannot pull you up myself, and I don't think I can hang on much longer either."
"You must try," the other shouted back in tears. "If you fail, I die!"

The point of decision had arrived. What should he do? "My life or this other's?" And then a new idea. A revelation. So new, in fact, it seemed heretical, so alien was it to his traditional way of thinking.

"I want you to listen carefully," he said, "because I mean what I am about to say. I will not accept the position of choice for your life, only for my own; the position of choice for your own life I hereby give back to you."
"What do you mean?" the other asked, afraid.
"I mean, simply, it's up to you. You decide which way this ends. I will become the counterweight. You do the pulling and bring yourself up. I will even tug a little from here." He began unwinding the rope from around his waist and braced himself anew against the side.

"You cannot mean what you say!" the other shrieked. "You would not be so selfish. I am your responsibility. What could be so important that you would let someone die? Do not do this to me!"

He waited a moment. There was no change in the tension of the rope.

"I accept your choice," he said, at last, and freed his hands.

—Edwin H. Friedman
From the book Friedman's Fables

Work Sucks

You know where I want to work? I want to work in a place where people know what they're doing and don't have to ask you stupid questions like "Michael, how much can you fit on a CD? If it says 650 MB can I put 671 MB on it?" I want to work in a place where people can fend for themselves. "Michael, can you open this carton of milk for me? I just can't seem to tear paper today." (OK, not verbatim, but might as well be.) I want to work in a place where people respect your need to work and accomplish. "Michael, can you help me set up my Windows Media Player so I can play my MP3s?" I want to work in a place where people mind their own business and don't contaminate your life with their trash and drama. "Michael, do you know what my husband said to me as we were going to bed last night?" I want to work in a place where I can be rewarded for showing up on time and doing good work each day. If anyone knows of such a place, please let me know.

I Love Dogs

Thank you for cheering me up.

Have You Ever Been in Love?

1. How many times have you truly been in love?
With only a few true romances under my belt, and I would have to limit even that number to about two, I'd say I've only truly been in love once. I sleep around a lot but love far less.

2. What was/is so great about the person you love(d) the most?
He was/is intelligent, handsome, funny, totally down-to-earth with no pretenses. He had/has the bluest of eyes and the fullest of lips and the cutest of butts and the best of hugs.

3. What qualities should a significant other have?
The ability to laugh...at themselves, the world, Bugs Bunny, everything. The ability to relax and not take the world so seriously. The ability to love for the sake of love. The ability to accept people for who they are, quirks, foibles, bizarre senses of humor, and all. Be touchable and huggable. Have beautiful eyes...luscious lips...strong hands. I don't care if you're dumb as a stump, be nice to people.

4. Have you ever broken someone's heart?
God, I hope not. That would suck. I would feel horrible.

5. If there was one thing you could teach people about love, what would it be?
It's easier to love someone than you think it is.

Of course this is all just as fantastic as my search for the perfect job. I feel a little like Jane and Michael Banks in Mary Poppins in their search for the perfect nanny. Just imagine me singing the answer to the third question.

A little something I found today...

Unconscious Mutterings

1. Suspected :: [no answer]
2. Indulgent :: Chocolate
3. Advertising :: Darrin Stevens
4. Represent :: Wicked Witch of the West (no shit)
5. Ethical :: Unethical
6. Witness :: Kelly McGillis
7. Triumph :: SpitFire
8. Talons :: Eagle
9. Finals :: Schools, tests, summer
10. Squeak :: A Mouse! (Or was that Eek! A Mouse!?)

I don't know why I do these meme things. Maybe it's a need to express myself and make the world sit up (at least) and know who I am. Really, now, how necessary is that? Half the time I spend hiding and wishing the world would disappear, and the other half I dream of being the most popular person on the planet whose dance card is always full.

[Oh, Michael, you didn't just write that, did you?]

Whatever. This particular meme is all about saying the first thing that comes to mind based on what words are displayed. Sounds like fun to me. And thanks for the link!

I got a new phone today. Just 'cause. I wanted a color screen.

My Blog

I don't know what I was trying to accomplish when I set up this blog. I have been keeping a journal of all sorts since I was like ten. I remember hearing a story about a woman who had kept a diary every day of her life. She had a small library of her diaries, one book for each year since she started writing. She must have had over fifty little bound books of her life's story. They were nice, well-constructed books, too, unlike what is mass produced nowadays. Something in that story inspired me to do the same thing. I thought it was cool (and still think it is) to have a documented account of an entire life. No need for a biographer there.

Twenty-one years later, I hardly have a library of journals. In fact, I hardly have any diaries at all. I haven't figured out whether I prefer to write by hand or type into a computer the events of my days. Sometimes I even speak them into a hand-held tape recorder. Whatever the format, I feel that I need to keep track of these things. I have a lot of stuff going through my head, just like everyone else, and sometimes it really does work to have it all written down. I have spiral bound notebooks that have notes to self and stories and encounters scattered in between other stuff. I have computer files with thoughts or ideas that I've had along the way. On my first trip to England, I even brought a hard cover notebook in which I could detail the impressions of my journey. I'm so dedicated that I only have a few pages with any content, and another page that says "More to Come." I'm setting myself up for something.

One thing's for sure, I'm not doing this for popularity or recognition. I've seen blogs whose blog reference lists are pages long and whose links are reconciled on others' pages. That has never been my goal here. It's cool when it happens, though, I'll say that. I would like to meet people and make friends through this little hobby, but if I don't, I know it won't kill me. And I'm grateful for the people I have made contact with. One of the coolest things about the Internet is how it makes the world such a small place.

So where am I going with this? I was catching up on some reading over the weekend, and I felt a little left out, I guess. I have started to feel like the world of blogging is just another popularity contest in which I'm not entered. And when I accepted that rather short-sided, fucked up possibility, I realized that if that's really why I'm blogging, I'm doing it for all the wrong reasons. (I know there's more to it than that.) It's a boost to my ego to know how many people have come by and read what I've written, whether they find my site on Google looking for gay sailors or left-handed INFJs, or through any other link. But I can't let it depress me or become an obsession. "I must have more visitors!" I've said it before, and I'll say it again (as it appears), I'm doing this for me, and anyone who wants to peek is more than welcome.

Yeah, cheers, thanks a lot.

Catch Up

So, let's see. What's going on? Saturday I spent working all day, about ten hours. I was busy taking care of documents, cleaning off a network drive (which reclaimed over 7 GB of space, thank you), and goofing off on the Internet. I have been working long days for the last week or so, and Saturday was no exception.

When I left work around 11:30 pm (yes, I am a lunatic) I drove through the city on the way home checking out the addresses of a few apartments that I had found on Craig's List. I am looking for apartments again. I go through this once every couple of months, but this time I know it's for real. I really should have done this a long time ago, and I'm not in the mood to go into the sordid details here. Besides, the more I think about it myself, the more I realize how in denial I've been, and even that's saying too much. Anyway, I've been making a list of the apartments that captured my interest, and I thought I would drive around to see what they looked like. It was the middle of the night, and traffic was sparse, so I could linger outside of the prospective residence to get more than a passing glimpse. That took longer than I expected, and I got home late, so late that I won't even mention it. I'm starting to figure out the hidden meaning of Landlord English. "Charming" means miniscule, for instance.

It is so frustrating. Two of my co-workers are looking for apartments, too. We spend time comparing notes on places we've found interesting and sharing horror stories of the landlords. I think I've found a place in a kick-ass location, but it's run by a property management company. I've never had good luck with property management. They always expect their tenants to have golden credit, and when you try to discuss why your credit isn't golden and assure them that rent and PG&E payments come before food and new shoes, they seem to think you're an ex-con with a closet full of dead bodies or something. At least that's been my experience. But I digress...

I spent Sunday morning sleeping. I don't usually like to sleep in because it takes up the free time that I have on the weekends. In fact, I often wish I didn't have to sleep at all on the weekends. I like to cram as much stuff as possible into my two days off, and eight hours (or even less) of sleep per night takes away from that. Whatever. Sunday afternoon I went and got my new phone. After I bought it, took it home, figured out how to use it, I looked at my old phone and realized that the new one was such an impulse buy. Still, it only cost me $49, and it came with a $50 rebate making it cost AT&T a buck for me to buy their phone. OK. So, it's $150 cheaper than my previous phone, it's smaller and lighter, and it has beaucoup plus de features than the old one. It's amazing what technology can do in the span of one year. I like it. I especially like the Charlie's Angels ringtone that came with it.

Sunday night I spent looking for songs that I've heard on the radio but whose artist I didn't know. Turns out that all of the songs I thought were sung by Whitney Houston were actually sung by Deborah Cox. I didn't know who she was until this weekend, and I think I've fallen in love again. And who's this Tamia person? And why does it take so long for songs that are popular in Europe to make their way to the US?

Went to bed late, dreamt of bizarre things, woke up late Monday morning, and am now sitting at work trying to stretch a half-day project until 5 p.m.

I guess that's all.

Naked Pregnant Lady

I went to the gym last night for the first time in forever. Yesterday morning, and I'm going way out on a limb saying this, I was bending over to tie my shoes, and it was so uncomfortable, I couldn't breathe. That is très embarrassing. So I went, did some aerobic work, showered, and then weighed myself. Even more embarrassing is the 216 lbs (98 kg; almost 16 stone) that I measured on the scale. That's even more than I've weighed in the past. So, as much as I hate to, I'm going to start working out again. In fact, I am so determined to get a handle on this thing that I got up at five o'clock this morning to work out again. I have it in my head to go twice a day for a couple of weeks to get a jump start on losing weight. I really want to get rid of it this time. I'm sure I've said this here before somewhere. Last night when I was at the lockers, I looked across to the mirrors that are everywhere in the locker room and I saw my profile. I looked like a pregnant Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair. All I need now is a liberal version of Bruce Willis and I'd be set. My head is hung in shame.

Getting up at oh-dark-thiry is not fun for me, especially when I have to go sweat my guts out. I'm cranky and pissy and generally unpleasant. I wish I knew why. Is it just because I'm not in the comfort and warmth of my bed? Then why am I pissy at night when I go to the gym? Is it because I'm not in the comfort of my chair, sitting in front of my computer? I guess. It's the all-American disease called laziness. My calendar is not so booked that I can blame my gain on being too busy. Last year at this time, I was on my way down to 195 lbs. All right, that's enough. No more bitching.

So, I'll take a moment to issue a global apology to anyone who is affected by my grumpiness. I'm sorry, don't take it personally. Maybe it will subside along with the extra pounds.

Day 3

Really it's only day two-and-a-half, but let us not quibble over such things. I worked my ass twice yesterday, and was completely exhausted. I was in bed by 10:30 pm, and as much as I wanted to get up and get working again in the morning, I couldn't do it. I think I may have been a little over-zealous in my attempt to get back in shape. I'm not Superman, and I need my sleep!! So I think I will have to tone it down to once a day. I will choose the morning workout because it is better for my mind and gives me energy for the rest of the day. Going at night is better in terms of the eye candy and the other various "opportunities" that the San Francisco Y can offer, but my whole evening is spent at the gym, I get home after ten o'clock, and eventually, I get behind in chores and tasks that I really need to do. This is not a cop out. It's a choice, and I will not give up!!

So, aside from being a little tired today, and a whopper of a blister on my little toe, I feel good so far.

And last night I had the most charming dream! I just have to tell you. In this dream, I am house-sitting for a friend in the entertainment industry. The doorbell rings, and when I open the front door, I see Sheryl Crow standing there. I am completely stunned. I invite her in, and ask her to sit down in the living room. She tells me that she was supposed to be there for an interview with my friend. I explain to her that my friend is on vacation but that I'd be more than happy and willing to conduct the interview, she looks at me skeptically and then agrees. Not having experience in these things, I come up with some pretty goofy questions to which she answers amicably, giggling at the simplicity of my inquiries. Other people arrive at the house and gather around us while I'm conducting the interview, and it slowly becomes a party. During the party, she approaches me and whispers, "Why don't you come to LA with me? We can sing and do Stoli shots. It's cool. Come on." I tell her that I'm responsible for the house until my friend returns, and she understands.

That's it. How cool!! I love Sheryl Crow, I really do.

In an unrelated dream, I am walking through a park and I stop at a huge fountain. I watch two people interact with a very large, solid black German Shepard. This dog is being trained to be a guide dog for the blind. The two people hide themselves from the dog in order to train the dog to find its charge. In the process of seeking out the trainers, the dog is saying in a frantic voice, "Steve! Steve! Where are you? Oh my, I have to find you! Where are you, Steve?" (I can see the dog's mouth moving as it speaks.) The dog sniffs out the people and jumps up on them with apparent joy in finding them safe.

And who says I don't have an imagination?

And one other thing

Those mirrors in the locker room are really a good thing. I am not depressed or angry at what I see. I am more bewildered at how I could have let this happen. It's hard for me to look, but I do, and I realize that other people probably see me like this as well, and it forces me to make a change. Self-image is important, but how others see us is almost as important. I've spent a lot of time talking myself into believing that what others think of me is irrelevant, but it's not. It's part of my ego, and I can't deny that any longer. A healthy ego is necessary in being a healthy individual, n'est-ce pas? I was so rebellious for so long. It was part of my mantra, "People need to like me for me. And if they don't, they can kiss my ass." Well after all that time in protest, there's enough of my lily white ass to go around, that's for sure.

Fuck. Piss. Shit.

How much of a pottymouth are you?

I fucking could have told you that.

Crabby Crabs

Had a nice meal of homemade crab cakes tonight. Roommate told me it was a secret recipe, and then taunted me with the question: "Want to know what it is?" I leaned into his face a little and said, "Honeeeeeeeey." He didn't get the joke. And it wasn't honey. He wouldn't tell me after that. Probably just as well. Sometimes, if the ingredient needs to be kept secret, it's better that way.

I don't have to do jack shit this weekend. Except my laundry. Got the fourth season of Buffy on DVD, so don't expect much from me. Sex and the City, too, fourth season. If I watched them all in a row (which would kill enough brain cells to render me rather vegetative), it would last over thirty hours. Hmmm. No, not this time.

That whopper of a blister that I mentioned the other day exploded last night. The top (or is it bottom?) layer of skin on the pad of my little toe was completely separated from the toe itself and had to be cut away. It was a gross process, but all too necessary. I dabbed some hydrogen peroxide on the exposed layer and watched it bubble a little. For some reason, that sensation of burning that is caused by alcohol or peroxide in an open wound or sore is not at all painful. It's almost a little exhilarating. Anyway, so thank god for Neosporin. Such a good thing. I bandaged it up and promised myself that it will not prevent me from getting rid of the poundage. I am sick and tired of not being able to bend over. Ohmygod, so much over-sharing.

[It's not really that bad.]

Night!

WWBD?

Let's see, where did I leave off? Saturday, I went to a book sale at Fort Mason. Roommate and I are bookworms, but he even more so than I. He told me of this sale and suggested it could be potential cruising grounds for single, attractive men. That's not why I went. When we got there, we realized that it was a mini-sale, which was more apt to leave us wanting than buying. And that there were no single, attractive men. It's funny what I learn at events such as these. After the first few minutes, I discovered that I was not as interested in reading every single Judith Krantz novel that exists, even though I could have picked them all up at this sale for fifty cents each. I discovered that some people don't know that it is a good idea to shower (at least) before you leave your home to circulate among other people. I discovered that some people are to books as I am to...I can't think of anything right now.

I was browsing, very slowly, over a table of paperbacks. I wasn't really interested in buying anything, just browsing to kill time. This guy, not too much older than I, bumps into me and keeps going, almost pushing me along. When I put my hand on the table to stop him from pushing me completely over, I heard him say "keep up or get trampled on." Huh? So I sit and watch him for a minute or so, and I realize that he's the kinda guy that's all "oh my books! Don't touch my books! These are mine! Hands off! I know you want them, but you cannot have them!" I sat outside for the duration of the visit to the sale. I figured that the poker game on my cell phone was so much more exhilarating.

After that, we walked over to Crissy Field and sat by the beach for a while. It was a gorgeous sunny day, lots of half-naked men jogging by, and even more friendly, furry dogs. I love dogs. There is a breed of dog that I would love to have, but I don't know what they're called. They're fairly big dogs, like golden retrievers, although they have a black body, a white chest, and fringes of brown here and there. They look like a St. Bernard on a diet. Anyway, they're just plain cute, and I would love to have one. In fact, if I were a rich man, I would buy a huge plot of land somewhere, go to the nearest animal shelter, and take all of the dogs home with me, and let them run free on the land. That is so silly.

Saturday night I did my laundry. The place I go must have a rotating work schedule because every time I go, there's a new person working. To my enjoyment, the attendant on this night was a laundry nazi. I really don't like that word, but it's so accurate. Long story short, two hours later, my clothes were clean, and I was praying for a washer and dryer for my birthday.

Sunday was spent exactly as I expected: watching Buffy. That's all. Nothing more. No fun, no excitement, just Buffy and the Scooby gang.

Monday is quiet, quiet, quiet. Half of our staff is in San Antonio, Texas at the 39th Annual DIA Conference, the pharmaceutical/biotech industry's yearly get-together, mega-convention. We're "officially" showing our product at this conference to the unsuspecting public. It's a good product, it's finally stable and honestly, I like it. I hope it goes well, although that means so much more work for us later this summer. That's OK. Job security, you know.

That's all, I guess.

Bernese Mountain Dog

After some (rather exhaustive) research, I found out that the dog I saw was a Bernese Mountain Dog. Who knew that the American Kennel Club had a website?

Teeny Tiny Things

Another thing we did on Saturday was examine microbes under the microscope. Roommate has a microscope fetish (and that's all I'll say about that), but it provides a bit of entertainment for me. I like microscopes and telescopes, too, although I'm perfectly happy to not collect them at the same time.

So, we drove out to Aquatic Park in Berkeley to cruise for microbes. The brackish pond is murky and a wonderful ecosystem to breach with our plastic bottles. We took samples and returned to the laboratory to view the contents under the scopes. It was really cool. At first, all I saw were little paramecia swimming around in three dimensions!! That was trippy. I looked at the slide on which was the drop of water in which the paramecia were doing backflips and my head exploded. How could something that small do flips in a space so small and how could I see it all? What the fuck. Keep me away from these instruments. I tell ya, just a little bit and I start to think I'm an intellectual or something.

After a while, we found an amoeba. Much bigger than the paramecia we saw earlier, this thing was amazing. I haven't seen creatures like this since eighth grade biology with Ms. Sweet. She was cool. Ms. Sweet taught me something I will never forget as long as I live: you spell diaphragm dye-a-p-h-raggum. Also never tip your eyedropper upside down while it contains a sample. The rubber of the dropper will contaminate your specimen. I just don't know how I could live without this information!

So this amoeba was wriggling around our field of view, we could see the cilia, we could see its nucleus. We could watch it move around doing whatever amoebas do. I won't personify it too much, but I do have to wonder if it is conscious. Yes, I'm serious. It's like because I can see it, I know it's there, I become aware of it, and I wonder if it's aware of itself.

What the fuck did I say up there in paragraph two? It's not conscious. It's just a thing. Right?

And then I watched Bowling for Columbine. My head exploded again, only this time it was to learn just how scary this country can be. Did you know that the average annual gun-related homicide rate in Japan is 39 while in the US it's over 11,000! And did you know that Charleton Heston is an ugly old man who should have been gone a long time ago? OK, maybe that part was opinion. I was completely disturbed by this video. I guess that's the point.

I've never liked guns. My father had a rifle of some kind, no idea, it was long with a nice, light brown wooden handle. He took my sister and me to the shooting range one day to give us a chance to shoot it. I didn't like it at all. Then, when I was in navy boot camp, we had to go to the shooting range to give us an introduction to guns, etc. We were given a bunch of rounds, can't remember how many, maybe just ten, and were told to shoot at the targets. OK, no biggie. If Farrah Fawcett and Kate Jackson can do it, so the fuck can I! Bang! Bang! I hit the target only three times out of ten. And those shots weren't even close to the center. I think I may have shot the manufacturer's seal on the target instead of the target itself. Needless to say, I am not familiar with how they work or how to use them. I don't like guns. Guns scare the piss out of me. Strangely though, I love Lara Croft and other shoot-em-up type video games. In fact the bloodier the better. Go figure.

Tick Tock

It may be cheesy, but I was so happy to hear that they fixed the clock on the Ferry Building. I drove through the city this morning just to see the time. In fact, I got there right at nine o'clock, and I was able to hear the bells at the hour. It was cool! I love clocks, watches, calendars, all instruments of time. I don't know why, but I'm fascinated by the passage of time. OK, whatever.

Forgive Me

I have a confession to make. I work with a couple of people for whom English is not their native language. In fact, out of ten, there are only three native speakers of English, but whatever. From time to time, when we converse, I giggle and chuckle at the words they use and the format of their sentences. (I'm sure my own English grammar leaves a lot to be desired, but that is so not the point.) It just occurred to me today that my reaction to their broken English can be considered fawning and somewhat rude. Somehow, and I haven't done this consciously, I have turned their attempts at communication into a joke or a game for me. I have sat and listened, waiting for the inevitable flub, and that's just wrong. I am sorry for this puerile behavior. My co-workers are intelligent and capable, and they are quite fluent in English. Even though I've spoken French for fifteen-plus years, prepositions still fluster me. Adding a preposition where it doesn't belong (or forgetting to add one), can change the meaning of the sentence. So I guess I should take this little part of me and remember it the next time one of my friends says something unintentionally charming.

One thing about that though, it's funny how speakers of English as a second language grab onto a cliché or a popular phrase and how they use it all the time even though it's not exactly necessary or appropriate. Maybe it's just "funny" because I don't want to be accused of being insensitive. I tend to say voilà and ça va a lot more than perhaps I should. Come to think of it, I know a lot of people who say a lot of things they don't really understand but they think they do so they say them anyway. Oh, this is getting tedious.

Hair

1. Is your hair naturally curly, wavy, or straight? Long or short?
My hair is naturally wavy and kept short. It's brown.

2. How has your hair changed over your lifetime?
When I was a teenager, my hair was always long, down to my shoulders long. My hair is very thick and wavy, and it was a bit messy when it got that long. I can't remember if it was an 80s thing, an act of rebellion, or just a midwest teenaged thing, if there's any real reason behind it at all.

3. How do your normally wear your hair?
I keep it cut short. My barber left San Francisco and moved to Palm Springs, and now I'm in a quandry. It's getting to that time of the month, and I must set out in search of someone new. It's not easy for me. On the other hand, it's hair, it's dead, and it will grow back, right?

4. If you could change your hair this minute, what would it look like?
I would like it to be a little more curly. Not tight tiny curls, just more wavy.

5. Ever had a hair disaster? What happened?
I don't think I had a bad cut, but when I was in the navy, I dyed it a dark red, chestnut/auburn color. That is not something you can do without the permission of your superiors, and since I was already having a hard enough time trying to stay gay in the navy, it probably wasn't a good idea. One of my superiors asked me point blank, "Is your hair a different color?" I just shrugged and said, "No." I mean, I would notice something like that right? It was scary. I didn't know if they would believe me or not. I don't think they did, but they didn't pursue the matter, and I discontinued the color until I was discharged.

On another occasion, my civilian hairdresser friend, who later became my roommate when I was discharged, cut my hair in a "faddish" way, although we didn't really intend to do so. Apparently, the military has ultra-strict rules for men's haircuts that I wasn't aware of. During my outprocessing, after I came out and after they started the discharge paperwork, I was working in the CO's office as an admin. The XO (a bald, ignorant, deeply unhappy man) came up to me and yelled, "What is that in your hair, sailor?" I was stunned. I didn't know what to say. "Is that a faddish haircut?" I didn't know faddish was a word. "I want to see that gone by tomorrow, is that understood? I don't care if you're on X-Division, you're still a member of the US Navy, and I expect you to act like it." I freaked. The whole office was stunned. I remember the quartermaster, this totally cute blond chick from San Diego, coming up to me later and saying something like, "Don't worry about it. He's probably jealous that you have more hair than he does himself. Just get it fixed." Scared the fuck out of me. Months later, after the XO left NSGD-DLI Monterey, he was given a small command in Hawaii where he was later found dead of a heart attack at his desk.

Happy Friday!

Can't Trust that Day

Mondays are not good for me. And no, it's not because I hate Mondays or because Mondays are the beginning of the common work week. I'm not that much of a cliché. I hate Mondays because I'm always late. I stay up 'til all hours on the weekends, and that spills into Sunday which spills into Monday morning. For instance, I was awake and active until 4 a.m. on Saturday morning. I was in the middle of stuff, and I didn't want to stop. So I didn't. I was up until 2:30 a.m. Sunday morning doing similar things. Then Sunday night I stayed awake watching videos until midnight. So Monday morning, when my alarm woke me up at 7 a.m., I promptly turned it off and went back to sleep. It's a terrible habit I have. In fact, I can't remember turning the alarm off or even hearing it go off for that matter. I just know I did turn it off. How do I break this habit, especially when I'm such a nightowl? I've tried to move my alarm clock to another part of my room so I will have to get out of bed to turn it off, but I guess I'm so lazy that I can't will myself to stay up. That's the magic word: lazy. Not too proud of that, but hey, I'm human. Poke me, I bleed. So maybe I can set multiple alarms to make me wake up. My cell phone has a marvelously piercing ringer on it that would work as an alarm clock. That should make a difference, huh?

The Best Just Gets Better

Makes me weep.

Whatever You Say

1. Tumbler::on the rocks
2. Recital ::horror story
3. Reform::something really old like, I don't know, the Civil War or something
4. Nipple::milk
5. Jackal::and Hyde
6. Mailtruck::old mailman with pants up past his belly button
7. Merchandise::sales, baby
8. Comma::period
9. Erotica::"I don't think you know what pain is, I don't think you've gone that way."
10. Ferment::yeast

OMG

Everyone's back from the trip last week, and this place is a wreck. As I've said before, make someone a VP, and make them a bigger asshole than what they were before.

The Thursday Before the Friday that Starts Pride Weekend—or—Roommate's Birthday

First of all, I should have known that mixing with someone born not only in the same sun sign as myself but also on the same day as that of a high school crush (which ended horribly, tragically, and bitterly) just couldn't be a good thing. In any case, happy birthday to H.

Which leads me to my more pressing matter. I have a question. I need some advice. Let's say that you're in a ten-year relationship with someone. As with any relationship, you've had your ups and downs, goods and bads, your funs and not-so-funs, but after ten years, it's gone south, and it's gotten really ugly and nasty and hateful. But neither one of you is financially able to extract yourself from the living situation. So, you're kinda stuck in this deathgrip dance thing. You don't have friends or family to rely on, and you're really just stuck together or out braving the streets of San Francisco, which we all know are not friendly to the homeless. My question is: How do you stop caring about the other person so that the hate and the anger and the bitterness and the resentment doesn't bother you anymore?

And I'm really serious about this. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Thank you bye.

The Friday Five

1. How are you planning to spend the summer [winter]?
Behind my desk at work. I doubt that I will be taking any holidays this year.

2. What was your first summer job?
I had a paper route.

3. If you could go anywhere this summer [winter], where would you go?
I would really like to go to Hawaii. I've never been there, and I think it would be nice. I never mind going to Europe.

4. What was your worst vacation ever?
Let's see, that had to be every one that I took in the five years that my father was married to his second wife. For some strange reason, every trip that we took with my first stepmother ended so horribly either with the two of them fighting like cats and dogs or with the weather raining like cats and dogs. One summer, we went to our favorite spot in Door County, Wisconsin only to be shut in for the whole week due to torrential rain, thunderstorms, and fucking tornado warnings, not watches, mind you, warnings. They actually saw them touch ground. I remember that trip so vividly.

Oh, and then there was one time we went camping. It rained that time, too, but that wasn't the worst of it. I had just learned to drive, and my father insisted that I learn how to fill the car up with gas, too. So, I did, and I can't remember if the gas pump had the automatic shut off mechanism that gas pumps do nowadays, but I ended up overfilling the tank. The gas backed up the pipe and spilled all down the front of me. I was almost hysterical. I thought I would burst into flames just by sitting in the sun. So we got back to the campground, soaked my clothes in the lake, and then set them up by the campfire to dry. (That was brilliant, I must say.) Later that day, my sister and I were out around campsite, the father and stepmother were messing around inside the tent when he comes ripping out of the tent. "I have to take *bitch's name* to the hospital. She's in insulin shock." My sister, in a classic move, said, "Is she dead?" "No, she's passed out. Stay here, we'll be back later."

My stepmother was a diabetic, and she always had trouble regulating her blood sugar levels. And as such, she always found a way to fuck up our trips together. She never made any bones about hating my sister and me, either. It was her favorite thing to do. Hated it.

5. What was your best vacation ever?
The first time I went to London, in 2000. Awesome. A close second place was an impromptu road trip up the coast from San Francisco to Vancouver, BC in 1998.

Friday Drama

I almost had a queen moment this morning. I know, I know, "what do you mean almost?" Queen moments are part of my everyday life. Whatever. I went out to my car this morning to find one of the tires flat. "Fuck me backwards. It's Friday, and I have to go to work!" Of course, in the sixteen years that I've been driving, I never once had to change a flat tire. First time for everything. And because I have always had old-car troubles, expensive, bank-breaking car troubles, I expected the worst. Fortunately, the tire was easy to change, and I found the spot where the tire was punctured. There was a two-inch long screw stuck in the tread. Roommate assured me that it would be easy to fix, "just go to a tire shop and they'll patch it up." I drove to work on the spare, found a tire shop full of cute, friendly guys, and in fifteen minutes, they fixed the flat. Phew. I just had to share. So much easier and more painless than I anticipated. Enough of that.

Pink Saturday—Sodolicious

Let's see. I spent most of Saturday working. We're supposed to have a release coming this week, and I was kept busy most of the day preparing. Saturday night, I went to Pink Saturday in the Castro. I had an amazingly good time. I had been to this festival only a couple of times in the past, so it was still a newish experience for me. I was completely overwhelmed by the number of people there. The entire block of Castro between Market and 18th streets was a giant swarm of proud people. Gorgeous men everywhere. I met Sister MaryMae in the flesh, and only for a few seconds, unfortunately. There were, how shall we say, "happy people" trying the good Sister's patience, and she was whisked away all too soon. That was the first time I'd ever met a fellow blogger in person. I hope I made a good first impression!

So then, after the party was rudely ended by the city's street cleaning teams, Roommate and I started our arduous journey home to the Least Bay. Normally, it's easy to catch the L-Owl down Market Street, but last night there was nothing easy about it. We walked from Castro down to Church just to get past the part of Market Street that was blocked off. We waited for the bus for almost an hour before deciding to settle for a cab. Now, I'm not usually a stingy person, despite my Scotch/Irish/Polish heritage, but cabs in San Francisco are simply ridiculously over-priced and over-rated. But last night it was a necessary $10 cab ride to the Transbay Terminal. We took the bus across the bridge, fine, no issues. Lots more cute guys I didn't see before. When the bus dropped us off on Broadway in Oakland, though, we experienced another simply fucked-up transit delay. Normally it would have been easy to catch the 51 down Broadway, but last night, we waited there for almost an hour again before hailing another cab for another $10 cab ride up Broadway. Bite me, OK? It took us about two hours to get home. At 4:30 am, my head hit the pillow and I was out like a light. Woke up at 11:30 am, missed the parade entirely, and am resolved to spending the day in my pjs watching movies. Plus, I'm a little hungover.

I had a great time. I want to do it again next year. I love big street parties like that. I've never been to the Castro Street Fair or even the Folsom Street Fair. I hesitate to visit the area on Halloween because it's just too too freaky. Maybe it's that I'm paranoid. I don't know. Maybe I should just relax and learn to have fun. Whatever you say, dear.

Unconscious Mutterings

I feel like an idiot when I post this particular meme, but I love it too much not to. So I'm an idiot.

1. Trolling :: The Castro
   
2. Profile :: mugshot
   
3. Tin :: Grease, the movie
   
4. Phenom :: Backstreet Boys
   
5. Mug shot :: OJ
   
6. Tubular :: Totally
   
7. Six Flags :: Marine World USA, Vallejo, CA
   
8. Pickup :: The Castro
   
9. Auction :: Please don't
   
10. Astonishing :: How fun it is to be gay
    

This Is Why They Pay Me

[take the test] - [by krystaljungle.com]