Think of Me While You're Walking Down the Street

Today is my two-year anniversary in my current position...officially, that is. I was hired at this job on 1st June 2004, but I started as a contractor in April, right after 04/04/04. But because I was sort of in mourning at that time this year—mourning my sometimes regrettable decision to stay on here—I didn't celebrate properly. I'm not going to celebrate properly today either, but I felt like I had to mention it.

Something to Believe In

I may have mentioned this before, but I have been having a recurring dream...or perhaps a dream of a recurring theme would be better. Ever since my Rabbit was broken into and my stereo and case of cassettes was stolen almost fifteen years ago, I've had dreams of my car being vandalized, blown up, you name it. So it's not always the same dream, but it's the same idea. Last night was the first time in a while I've had one like that, but it was enough to curl me up in a ball in my bed and cry. In the dream, I am driving with other people through Carmel Rancho in Carmel, when I see my car in the parking lot. My car's doors are wide open and the hatch is up. I ask my friends if that is my car and why it is open, and then the dread hits me. Someone has broken into my car, again. I get to my car, and all I can think of is that my TV, my TiVo, my iPod, my beloved old iMac, everything (every tangible thing) has been taken from me, (say it with me) again. I'm running around the car, looking underneath it, in the glove box, everywhere for my stuff, and all I find is my "man purse" completely emptied out—apparently the thief was too butch to take the bag with him. I cry and cry and cry over my lost things, replaceable stuff, you know, things that I don't really need to begin with, and on which I place far too much importance...well, except for the iPod; that thing is golden as far as I'm concerned. Eventually, my eyelids flutter open, I notice that it's only five twenty-six on a slowly-sunny San Francisco Friday morning, and it was all a bad dream. Clearly, I have some issues with my possessions.

But, as much pain as my soul was put through unconsciously, I was wide awake to get up and start my day. I had an eight-o'clock appointment at the Department of Public Health, and I needed to get up early anyway. I haven't mentioned this yet, and I guess now is as good a time as any. I've joined a clinical trial of an HIV vaccine. I haven't actually received the vaccine yet—I haven't even finished the baseline visit—but sometime in June, I'll be starting the regimen.

I have always felt it necessary to contribute something to the fight against HIV/AIDS, but I'm just shit rotten at outreach—you know me, Mister Out-Going and all—so I can only really do something behind the scenes. When I lived in Monterey, I volunteered at the Monterey County AIDS Project for a while, I can't remember how long, and though all I did was type letters and address envelopes, they all told me that I was doing something to help. And then, a couple of years ago, I started seeing signs asking for volunteers for HIV vaccine trials. At the time, I wasn't in the right frame of mind to participate, but it was always in the back of my mind. Since I work for a pharmaceutical company and since I publish the final reports and submissions related to drug trials, I've had an interest in how clinical trials were performed from the subject's point of view. So, like the day after I moved to my new place, I'm walking in the Castro when I'm approached to volunteer for another vaccine study and I gladly agreed. Couple days later, I get a phone call, set up an appointment, and get started.

I was squeamish about being stuck with needles and having blood taken from me, but it's for a worthy cause, and it only hurts for a second. But then, how do you test the efficacy of an HIV vaccine in a healthy, HIV-negative person without exposing them to the virus? Well, it's simple—so simple that it creates a "duh" moment every time I re-think it. The test site injects me with the study drug (or placebo because this is a double-blind study), and a certain time later, they draw blood from me and expose that drawn blood to the HIV to see what happens. Simple. No version of HIV, dead, alive, dormant, or otherwise is ever used in the injectable study drug. So, the only way I would be exposed to the virus is if I were playing unsafely.

As I said, all of the studies the Department of Public Health is performing are double-blind studies. That means that neither the subject nor the site knows whether the subject is given the study drug or the placebo until the data is unblinded—or the study is over and the data is ready to be analyzed and scrutinized. Supposedly, it's the best way to collect unbiased information on the drug and how it affects the subject. Personally, I would like to receive the placebo because it allows me to participate in future studies as is needed. If a subject receives the study drug, they will be ineligible to participate in future studies, indefinitely I believe. That's no fun. I don't mind being a guinea pig. I know they're not going to euthanize me just to dissect my tissues and such like that, and I know that this vaccine is safe because of previous safety data that reports it as such. All in all, it sounds exciting to me, and I am ready to get started. So that's something else I'll probably write about more as it happens.

And the reason for this digression is that this morning, I had an appointment to get set up, but there wasn't enough time to get all the baseline—or first visit—information out of the way. I think they've already collected the inclusion/exclusion criteria because they've determined that I am eligible for any of the studies they're currently performing. It's all routine and it's good for me because I haven't seen a real doctor or had a physical since I was discharged from the navy...what was it...fifteen years ago or something. I don't like the doctor, and thankfully, and despite the cigarettes, I'm still a healthy man (knock on wood). I just need to eat more veggies.

I started writing this entry just before noon on Friday, and as I'm finishing it up, it's after seven o'clock Friday evening. The sun is setting behind Mt. Sutro, and there's still plenty of light for me to watch the comings and goings on 19th Street. This is such a great location.

Raiders of the Lost Ark is being shown at the Castro Theatre. I guess it's a re-release or a new print or a restored print or something like that for the 25th anniversary of the film. I cannot wait to see that. It is definitely on my list of things to do this weekend. I love that movie.

I guess that's all.

Get some

I play solitaire a lot. I play it on my phone when I'm waiting around. I play it at work (both the generic Windows version and the more sprightly Shockwave version through The Zone whether anyone is around or not. And I play it at home on my Mac. I even play with real cards on a table, but it's too easy to cheat that way. I'm kind of addicted to moving cards around, trying desperately to complete the suits to win the game. Ever since I got my first Mac, a Performa 550 back in 1994, I've been searching for the perfect solitaire game made for the Mac. And just a few months ago, I found it: Burning Monkey Solitaire. What's more is that the monkeys have been burning since 1996, and somehow I've remained ignorant to them. My regrets.

It's a great software that runs well on my aging iMac. It's reasonably priced and very cute to look at. There are lively characters in a theater setting who sit in the front row and watch the cards on stage, sometimes offering witty jokes and remarks, sometimes suggesting that I give up already. The whole package is made up of a couple dozen somewhat obscure variations of solitaire, but the standards—Klondike, Free Cell, Pyramid—are present. It will give me hours and hours of enjoyment while I sit at my desk and watch San Francisco pass me by.

Like, why the hell am I writing a review of software? And why am I spending so much time inside when I moved to this place to get out and do more things? I'm so sure. Raiders of the Lost Ark's last night at the Castro is tonight, and I'll be damned if I miss it because of incendiary simians qui jouent aux cartes. Jeez.

And then there's TiVo. Damn that thing for being so fun. I'm not even sick of the little bleeps and blurps it makes when you're moving around its interface. I haven't watched so much Star Trek—in all five flavors—at one time...I'm permanently scarred and frankly expecting to run into extraterrestrials on the street. But in the Bay Area, that's wholly possible, Star Trek or not. And I finally get to watch Oprah again! God bless her...

And then there's the San Francisco Movie Bears, from whom I receive a constant stream of reminders and invitations to movies, but to whom I have yet to respond. Yes, I admit that attending a Bear event of any kind is so overwhelming and intimidating that even though they're planning to gather for the opening night of the new Superman flick in IMAX, I'm still debating it. I'm nervous just thinking about it. Maybe I'll go anyway and hide out in the back. OMG, Becky. I am such a coward! Whatever. But I have to see that movie in IMAX because part of it is in 3D. Big yay on that one.

In less than a week, I'll be on my way to New York. I have no expectations, and I will have a guide with me to show me what I need to know, and I'm glad that it's only three days. I think more than that would overwhelm me a little.

When did I become so fucking fragile?

The Friday Random Ten: The Truly-Random (and Truly-Late) Edition

Fire up the iPod, set it to shuffle, and write down the first ten songs that play. No cheating. No skipping forward.

1. "Getting Out of Hand," The Bangles, Doll Revolution
2. "You Want This," Janet Jackson, Janet
3. "I'm Shooting Cupid," Voice of the Beehive, Honey Lingers
4. "One Less Bell to Answer/A House Is Not a Home (with herself)," Barbra Streisand, Duets
5. "Follow Me [Sa Trinch Beach Mix]," Swen G, Chill Out Lover, Vol. 1
6. "Code of Silence," Billy Joel, The Bridge
7. "Love Will Freak U," Joy Division vs. Missy Elliot, random mash-up
8. "Ray of Sunshine," Wham!, Fantastic
9. "(The Fall) Kurt's Blues," Cher, Non.Com.mercial
10. "Talula," Tori Amos, Boys for Pele

Saw the movie last night. Fantastic. Harrison Ford is a gorgeous man.

I'm super busy today...go figure!! And I was hoping to leave early today. No chance.

So, there you go.

BFD tomorrow at Shoreline. I forgot how many groups will be there. Color me excited!!

Bon Voyage

BFD was awesome. Once again, being a new experience, I had no idea what to expect. I was pleasantly surprised to pay $50 for twelve hours of entertainment by a dozen different music groups. I was most happy to see Wolfmother (whose bass player is a babe) and Franz Ferdinand (who are all babes—and they're from Scotland, yay), but it was great to see Echo and the Bunnymen live. I could have done without the pseudo-goth Ally-Sheedy-lookin' HIM from Finland; although, I'll give the lead singer (the Ally Sheedy look-alike circa The Breakfast Club) props for wearing a Hedwig t-shirt.

And when I got home, I was even more pleasantly surprised when I found my parking permit in the mail!! Finally, I'm official! You'll forgive the pixelation of the pertinent information recorded on the parking permit; anonymity is key.

That was a joke.

This is it. I'm leaving this afternoon to drive down to Monterey. I'll spend Monday down there, and then we'll drive up to SJC on Tuesday morning for the flight to JFK. OMG. I can't stand it. Though I have no expectations, this is going to be a great trip.

Home Sweet Home

OK, let's get this over with. I've been avoiding writing this entry since we landed on Friday night. And don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic time, amazing and thrilling, but writing about it just loses all of that emotion. I'll do my best.

The first thing I noticed when we were leaving JFK for Manhattan was how much Brooklyn looks like Chicago, especially the neighborhood my grandmother lived in before she moved west. The buildings and houses, how they were arranged, the schoolyards, it brought me right back to visiting Grandma B in Chicago. Of course, these are the memories planted when I was like seven or eight years old, so who really knows.

SP and I arrived at our hotel, Hotel 17, on 2nd Avenue and E 17th Street and almost immediately left on foot to explore. He took me through Union Square to Chelsea, the Village, and down to SoHo where we stopped for a few drinks. We got back to the room around 2 a.m.

The next day, we were up and out early to Bumble and Bumble, where SP got his hair done, and where I spent an hour or so gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the Hudson River. After that, we took off again to wander around Lower Manhattan. We ended up having lunch at a terrific little Cuban place called Café Habana. From there, we went back to the hotel to get ready for the concert.

OK. There is no possible way I can describe how the concert went. I mean, it was an amazing concert, Rufus Wainwright is wonderful, the music was wonderful, Carnegie Hall was enchanting, his sister Martha, and his mom Kate McGarrigle were great, the surprise of Lorna Luft singing a duet with him was jaw-dropping (frankly), and I expected that much. But when the overture started playing, I started crying, which only ended during the intermission and then started up right when Act 2 began. I was so moved to hear these famous songs. Rufus loves Judy, there's no question about it. And he performed the music with reverence but didn't lose his fun, unique personality. He sang the playlist of the entire concert, and I was especially bawling my eyes out when he sang "San Francisco" and the medley that includes "The Trolley Song." His sister, Martha, sang "Stormy Weather," and she was amazing, all the way down to her rhinestone-studded heels. I was captivated, sitting on the edge of my seat the entire concert. And after the concert was over, and after we passed Gina Gershon on the street, we went around the corner to the stage door where we waited patiently for Rufus to come out. And when he did, the crowd went wild again. He looks so short in person.

So get this: It's a concert; concerts have t-shirts. Marc Jacobs designed one of the t-shirts to look just like his poster. The shirt is solid orange, and on the front is the concert poster, which looks just like the Judy poster only with Rufus' name and picture. Those sold out in minutes flat. We should have bought the shirts first. We tried at the end of the show, and they only had smalls and mediums left. Whatever. You people knew this was going to be a once-in-a-lifetime event, and you didn't plan to make an inordinate number of larges? Like what, you wouldn't be able to sell them? Sure thing. We were destroyed. There were two black shirts, each of a different design, but we didn't want those. We wanted orange. Wah wah wah. So, on the way home, we decided to try the hall on Thursday night, right when the doors opened to see if they had replenished their supply. Sure, they had to have more somewhere, right?

Thursday was spent walking up the east side, through Central Park, running into Geraldo Rivera on the street (not exactly who I thought I'd meet on the streets), walking around the Jackie O Reservoir in Central Park, down Central Park West, and back to Carnegie Hall to check on the t-shirts. We got there right as they started selling the merchandise. And guess what? They still had no large orange t-shirts. "Still?" we said. "Oh, were you here last night?" said the t-shirt guy. "I almost got mauled because we didn't have large shirts last night." Yeah, by me, I thought. So, once again, with dreams dashed to the floor, but still needing a shirt, we settled on the black shirts and walked out.

SP wanted to see a show while we were there, too, so after Carnegie Hall, we walked down Broadway, got two half-off tickets to Threepenny Opera with Alan Cumming and Cyndi Lauper, and then headed off for a slice before the show that night. It was my first Broadway show, and I was happy to see it. It was very good, I had a very good time, but it only got better when the show ended and we camped out at the stage door...again. This time, we were blessed with meetings with Ana Gasteyer (who was awesome and super friendly), Alan Cumming (who was sporting a package that made even me blush, and who is also super cute with that Scottish brogue of his), and—I'm trembling just thinking about it—Cyndi Lauper all pretty and sparkly and friendly and oh my God I love her. When she came out, I started crying again (why the fuck am I so emotional with all this crap?), and my hands were shaking so bad, I had to give SP my camera otherwise the pictures would be blurry for sure. I couldn't think of anything to say, and in retrospect, I only have one question I would have asked her: So Cyndi, how hard is it to buy Goobers when you're out of your body? She was so sweet and personable, so approachable. She saved my life with her music, and while that may be a slight exaggeration, she definitely helped me be who I was and am now. OMG, I love her.

Friday, our last day, we decided to give the Marc Jacobs store a try, to see if they had any stock. Conveniently, they were located on Bleeker Street, right across the street from the Magnolia Bakery, famous for their cupcakes. And of course, we had to go for cupcakes! Turns out, Marc Jacobs didn't have the shirts—they sent them to their store in, of all places, San Francisco. How bloody convenient of you. Thanks. So I immediately got on the phone to the store in the Fillmore and asked them if they had any. The guy said they wouldn't get their shipment until sometime later in the week—it's Friday after all, duh me, whatever—and that I should try back later. Fine, have a cupcake, honey. You'll feel as right as rain. They were good, but, eh, whatever.

We almost missed our flight home. Who the hell booked a flight leaving JFK at the peak of rush hour in Manhattan? I did, that's who, and I swear I'll never do it again. Our driver got us there faster than a cab probably would have, but still, we only had 25 minutes before the scheduled departure time, and as luck wouldn't have it, SP's bag wasn't checked on to our flight. It arrived on Saturday. By this time, my feet were so sore with blisters, all I wanted to do was go home.

I walked into my empty apartment on Saturday afternoon, and while I was exhausted, I didn't sleep until Sunday morning. I was wide awake all through the night, watching movies and fooling around on the Internet. I don't get it. And tell me how happy I was to feel cold air blowing on me when I drove down my street? How happy was I to put a coat on in the middle of June? Love it.

Sunday, I met H out at the Clay Theater to see A Prairie Home Companion which was delicious, but really only if you're familiar with the radio show. Well, maybe not. It's a Robert Altman film, so it's good no matter what. But the best part is that I found the Marc Jacobs store in the Fillmore a block away from the theater. I went in and found the remaining half-dozen shirts from the concert—I guess they just boxed up the leftovers and sent them off—and was lucky enough to find two medium-sized shirts—so I can at least say that I have one. I'll probably never wear it. Crying.

This morning, I got my first injection of the study drug for the vaccine test. I was first drained of blood...not really, but you know me, one vial is one vial too many...and then given the injection with a primitive sort of hypospray—read: no needles—and then sent on my merry way. So far so good. So I've got one bandage on each arm from the blood draw and one on my shoulder from the injection to match the two bandages on my left foot and one big one on my right foot from blisters suffered during my trip. How ridiculous.

I tried to get the gist of the trip into this post. I know it's rambling and verbose and hard to follow, but hey, that's me! I think the most important part of the trip for me was learning how easy Manhattan is. Once you learn how the streets are laid out, once you get your bearings and figure out east from west—and it's not so easy when you don't have an ocean on one side of you—it's a piece of cake. I can't believe how comfortable the city felt. I mean, it's a lot of people and a lot of buildings crammed into a tiny space, and it's still comfortable. Even the subway felt safe and clean to me. When I was walking around San Francisco on Sunday, I thought parts of it were way dirtier than even in New York! Now that I'm a registered voter in the City and County of San Francisco, maybe I'll write dear Gavin a letter.

I'm going to buy me a Lonely Planet guide to New York City and start planning my next trip so I can see all the things that I missed this time. Suggestions are welcome.

Once Bitten

OK, I may have been a little too nice about my first injection yesterday. The drug is fine, that is, I'm not feeling any adverse events. But the blood draw left some unfortunate albeit temporary results. The picture below is of my right arm, taken last night after I removed the bandage. The color of my skin is not really yellow or green—that's the lighting of my room—and the little bruises are bigger in person and much more purple than I could show in the picture. Pretty gnarly, huh. And of course, today I'm wearing a short-sleeved shirt, so I hope no one notices. That makes me laugh.

Rose, one of the super cool study directors, had to take so much blood that in the course of the draw, my body's clotting response prevented her from taking it all from the same arm, so she had to poke my left arm to finish the draw. Fortunately, on my left arm, you can only see the pin prick where I was stabbed.

One other thing I remembered about our trip to NYC: I was really surprised at how many times I was approached on the street and asked if I were Jewish, especially on Friday. Cute young guys in their yarmulkes passing out Shabbats candles and what I thought were prayer cards all over the place. It's not something I see every day in San Francisco, that's for sure. And those Jewish men were really cute, too. The more I think about that trip, the more I love New York.

That's all.