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Saturday, 10 March 2001 (electric mainline) 8:31am Shaved this morning for the first in at least two and a half weeks, and about two weeks after having gotten zapped. The dark regrowth isn't so bad, really. It's interesting to think that I'm finally in the home stretch with all this. And, yet, when I do get there, when I no longer require electro, I suspect I'll find I'm still not as far along as I'd hoped...
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Friday, 9 March 2000 (things'll never be the same) 11:27am and if my thought-dreams could be seen
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Thursday, 8 March 2001 (thrasher) 1:13pm According to my typically reliable friend who works at Paramount (the one who passed on my message to Nicole DeBoer), the current rumors about the new Star Trek series are legit. I could get worked up about it, particularly because it looks very tricky to pull off correctly (and remember, this is coming from someone who loves Voyager), but I'm not going to. It'll be what it'll be.
The special edition of Star Trek: The
Motion Picture, on the other hand...oh, lemme tell ya, I'm counting
the days. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for that movie. Again, I don't think
Voyager sucks, so what do I know?
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Wednesday, 7 March 2001 (transparent radiation (flashback)) 8:35am Aside from a little stiffness in my neck, the chiro couldn't find anything particularly wrong with me, which was pretty much what I'd expected. He advised I still try to take it easy for the next week, don't work out, just try to relax. He also offered to write a note excusing me from work for the next couple days, but I declined. It felt enough like I was playing hooky just leaving work early for this appointment, let along taking time off entirely when there was nothing overtly wrong with me. I guess it's times like this that my oxen-like build comes in handy. Maddy accepted the offer, however, and with good reason. She took a much worse hit than I did, and in addition to back and chest pain (including where the seatbelt pressed against her) her neck has been spasming. So he wrote her a note and made an appointment for her to return the following day. As we were driving home she called her boss Trevor to let him know that she'd be out for at least a day, possibly more. Unfortunately, I could hear him quite clearly through Maddy's celphone; typical for him, instead of showing the slightest hint of concern he instead immediately asked if she'd gotten a note. Ever since she got sick a few months back during the height of the cold and flu season, he's invoked a little known, seldom used clause wherein managers can demand their employees get doctor's notes for sick days. Put frankly, he doesn't trust her. He asked if she'd filed an auto insurance claim. She told him we hadn't, and as is his wont he put his elbow into her neck and slipped into "I'm a Man and I Know What's Best" mode, grilling her as to why the hell not. (I should point out that when she'd originally told him that we'd been in an accident, the extent of his advice or display of concern was to "take an Advil.") She tried to explain to him that A) there was no damage to our car or the other ones, B) no police report had been filed so the insurance company probably wouldn't accept it, and C) it hadn't been her decision to make, since it was my car. He was having none of it, all but demanding that we file an insurance claim so that the person who hit us would have to pay our medical bills. (Mmmm, what's that smell? Blood? MORE MORE MORE MOREMOREMOREMOREMORE!!!) Of course, the person who actually hit us was no more responsible for the actual accident than was I was, and if the person behind us would have to pay for our medical bills, then it kinda followed that I would have to pay for the person ahead of us. And so on. Since none of us were obviously injured and our cars were undamaged and we were in the middle of the fucking freeway with impatient commuters yelling and honking at us, we all went on about our business. Not to mention Trevor has put the fear of gawd into Maddy for being late; when she mentioned that one of our motivations for not exchanging insurance info was so she wouldn't be late for work, he replied that she should have just been late. Yeah, and then his response would have been "Take an Advil, and be at work on time tomorrow." Based on past experience, you understand.
By the time she managed to get off the phone, we were both more than a little
flustered. Part of me is hoping he'll contact me today and start in on why
I should have filed an insurance claim. That way, I'll be able to explain
to him that even if he was my boss he'd have no right to be talking
to me that way and to kindly keep things on a professional level—and
on a professional level, he has not a damn thing to say to me, not a one.
Probably won't happen, though, and that's surely for the best.
My protracted hem-haw period over the subject has ended: I'm coloring my hair all black again. I've had the red since shortly before Dana's wedding in October, and it's just not doing it for me anymore. Part of it is the upkeep, I suppose, for which I just don't have the discipline. And as I've always known, black is much kinder when fading than red. Extending the retro vibe, I'm going to have Miguel do the deed. It's not that Anodyne would mind, and in fact I like (even prefer) having her do my hair, but financially it just makes more sense; the slightly divey South San Francisco salon in which he works charges about half that of the hoity-toity San Francisco Shopping Centre (it's the center of San Francisco, don't'cha know) salon which employees her. So there you go.
Maddy tells me that my freak factor will be pretty much the same in Kansas whether there's
red in my hair or not. Judging from my last trip there, I'm sure she's right. But it'll
make me more comfortable, and that's what matters.
Right around the same time I resubbed to a list primarily populated by barefoot's friends. I probably won't post there, either—the last few times I did I made jokes barefoot badly misinterpreted—but at least it's usually an interesting read.
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Tuesday, 6 March 2001 (my secret reason) 9:18am And when tomorrow hit, it hit with a bang. So we were on 280 where it splits off to 80, specifically on the downtown SF onramp. The traffic had been stop and go, mostly stop, but that's to be expected. Some days are worse than others, and this was one of the worse days, although we were still making fairly good time. We were in the left lane, which was standing still; the right lane was still moving along nicely. No biggie, we'd start moving again soon enough. Then we heard a crash, and shattering glass. It wasn't ahead of us, nor was it in the right lane, so presumably it was behind us. Good thing we weren't— Then the shockwave hit. The car jerked forward violently, and us with it, although we were of course buckled up. Unfortunately, my foot slipped off the brake, resulting in us slamming into the car ahead of us. Or maybe we would have no matter what, I don't know. Probably. Then, of course, we had sex. No...wait...sorry, that didn't happen. (The Crash poster in my office must be getting to me.) After making sure Maddy was okay, I got out to survey the damage. Nothing apparent on my car, nor the ones ahead or behind. Our fenders weren't even bent, although it sure felt like they should have been. No insurance information was exchanged. As near as I could tell, we were at least three or four cars away from the primary accident. It could have very easily been us. And, of course, it could have happened on any road; the fact of it being the freeway was just coincidence. Not to the people in the right lane, though—to them, we were in their way, and they were pissed. I kid you not, people were honking and yelling, not to see if we were okay but to tell us to get a fucking move on. I guess since our cars weren't smoking and/or none of us were in a lying in pools of our own blood (in which case we would have been pure rubbernecking entertainment), we were in their way. Why the hell did they think we'd stopped on the freeway onramp, to share a latte? Oh, you were in an accident? Fuck you, I'm running late. So I got back in, and though I was trembling and almost dropped the keys, started the car and continued on to work. Didn't have much choice, really. The ironic part is, I have another chiro appointment for this afternoon which I'd been planning on cancelling since the nebula has faded and my sacrum is doing just fine, thank you very much. My face has even mostly healed up from getting zapped. I was actually bordering on being physically well again, and we'd brought along our gym equipment with the intention of working tonight. But I guess that won't be happening.
And I sincerely hope those people in the right lane made it to work on time.
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Monday, 5 March 2001 (when tomorrow hits) 10:18am Yesterday, we got it right. Didn't leave the house at all. On the other hand, we spent the entire day cleaning, rearranging, purging, redecorating, etc., so it wasn't exactly restful. But it was productive, and got a lot done which needed to be done. And we discovered that our newly purchased bong looks really neat under blacklight, so it was all worth it. 12:24pm Getting to be that time of the year again, what with more school shootings. No word yet on whether the shooter was into Manson or Doom, but it's only a matter of time. 4:09pm Ugh. I just got sucked into that most fearsom of gravity wells, the office birthday party. It was for Leigh, so I felt more obligated to be there than usual, and TFQ is out today so I didn't run the risk of having to be in his vicinity. Still, though, this is why I'm taking the week of my birthday off.
I politely declined the cake, and after a while returned to my office to continue devouring the box
of "Reduced Fat" Wheat Thins I'd picked up at lunch. I'm still trying to decide if that makes any sense
or not.
I do know that I don't like being around him at all. I wonder how much of that is left over from what happened before, a natural tendency to flinch, not dissimilar to the one which years of being the misguided focus of an older brother's rage left me with. More likely it's just being sick and tired of conflict—really, please, I've had enough of it. Part of me thought that breaking up with The Ex would put an end to the majority of conflict in my life, and to an extent I was right, since her and I haven't gotten along this well in years. (Okay, so we talk over email maybe once a month and see each other two or three times a year, but it's the principle, y'know? There's no telling what it would be like between us if we were still together.) (In any event, if we were still together you wouldn't be reading these words right now.) At the very least, for as much strife as there is out in the world, and I accept that it exists, I need to be able to get away from it at home. I wasn't able to do so for much of the last two years, but now... So I waited outside at a safe distance for what I thought was long enough, then went inside. So far so good. Then I made a grave error: I decided to check the mail. 'cuz there he was, in the garage, going through the mail. (A rare thing for him, surely occurring no more often than changes in the moon's phase.) I don't know if he noticed that I jumped when I saw him. I mumbled a hello, then mumbled that I'd wait for him to be through, which is at least practical because there's barely enough room near the mailslot for two people, let alone two people who aren't already sleeping together. He mumbled a thanks, and I ducked inside the apartment. This is pure speculation on my part, but I'd like to think that Maddy and I at least weird him out a little with our, well, weirdness. If that was the case, I'd feel a little better about it all. On the plus side, our first DVD porno arrived, a Kelly Michaels three-pack. So the evening isn't a complete waste.
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Sunday, 4 March 2001 (perfect prescription) 8:24am I don't what it is with us and crowded places on Saturdays, but Maddy and I seem drawn to them. Yesterday it was a fit of domesticality (must get new vacuum cleaner and microwave oven as so to enhance our leisure time) which resulted in us venturing to one of those really big weekend sales held occasionally at the Cow Palace and other really big places. It was nightmarish, in the way the that unfettered capitalism can be, and that's not even counting the extravagant parking and admission costs. It was like plunging headfirst into the densest portion of the biomass; if you've ever read John Shirley's "Cram," you have a pretty good idea. In a moment-defining bit of surreality, a possibly inbred, definitely pregrnant woman threatened against Maddy for not moving fast enough in a crowd of people which wasn't moving at all. (The poor thing; she has a tendency to attract psychos.) Afterwards, the typical Saturday crowd at Target (to which we went to get that aforementioned vacuum and microwave) was a breeze. Oh, and I finally got new buetz on Thursday. Astonishingly, Fluevog had my kind and size, though since I'm a rebel I got Black Luckys rather than Burgundy Luckys this time. ('Cuz I live on the edge and all.) When I mentioned to the clerk that I wanted to get my old pair resoled, he pulled me aside and told me in hushed tones that he had an almost-new pair of Burgundays which were too big for him that I could buy for a price slightly higher than resoling but substantially less than a new pair. Since the soles aren't the only problem with my old pair, I told him I was interested, and he gave me his name, phone number and (thankfully) email address. As we were checking out he asked if I was on the mailing list. I said yes, and spelled my last name, hoping that would be enough. He commented that he'd had a gym teacher whose name was spelled the same way. Woohoo. Since he was lingering, I told him my first name. "Are you sure it isn't Bob?" he replied, making what he probably thought was a funny joke. I assured him that it was not (my old middle name was "Robert," but that was hardly relevant), and that I'm trying to move past that period of my life. In other words, do the fucking math, okay? Apparently he came up with the wrong answer, because for the rest of the transaction he insisted on calling me "sir." As if just to let me know that he's in on my little secret, and he's not going to play along. Granted, my face was healing from getting zapped and I wasn't wearing any makeup, but still...as we walked out of the store, I kept reminding myself that I can get a new pair of buetz for really cheap through him, so I should let it slide... Still haven't contacted him yet, though. Odd, that.
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Saturday, 3 March 2001 (2:35) 10:24am I'll probably always get called "sir" or referred to using male pronouns, even by people who mean well. Just one of those things, y'know?
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Friday, 2 March 2001 (thicker than blood) 7:23am I've actually been sleeping straight through most nights this week, as opposed to the usual series of short naps. Either as a result or in spite of that (I'm not sure which), I'm not remembering my dreams as vividly, which is surely for the best. All that remains is a sense of loss. 9:42am The chiropractor never did ask about my progress in getting the x-rays, and, of course, I didn't volunteer any information; instead, he went ahead as if I didn't actually have any broken bones. And since there was no real pain in anything he did except when he put direct pressure on the nebula, it's safe at this point to assume that I'm just bruised. Yay me. 6:22pm If I'd had any real time to kill today, I probably would have killed it here. What was I saying about resisting pop culture? Of course, it's old pop culture, so that makes it okay...
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Thursday, 1 March 2001 (idee fixe) 8:54am Okay, I'll admit it: I thought the whole "All Your Base" thing got really old really quick. (And I've even played the original video game, which as side-scrolling shooters go is not without its charms.) Then again, I never really understood the "Wassup" stuff last year, either. I remember people in my office getting all excited about "an Elian Wassup." I'm still not sure what an "Elian Wassup" is, and I don't think I want to know. 9:58am How weird. I just reinstalled Photoshop 3.0, which for my purposes is as advanced as I need. It's spread out over eight floppies, and—get this—when I was done, I didn't have to restart the computer. How retro is that? 12:28pm Okay, so I tend to wear my jacket and sunglasses when I'm walking around the office. I'll admit, that's a little weird. ("Distancing" is another possible adjective, but that's not important.) And I can't even entirely use the overhead lights as an excuse for the glasses, since when I work late I wear my regular glasses when walking around the office; whether it's light or dark outside, the overheads are just as strong. So I'm not denying my quirkiness. It has also been suggested that I dislike smokers. That's not true; while I don't smoke (tobacco) and don't care for cigarette smoke, but I don't think any less of friends who smoke. I went outside with Brian on more than one of his cigarette breaks, as well as with Lee or Tania at Shrine, sometimes pretending to smoke so I wouldn't get nicked by the smoking-area bouncers. Put simply, I don't hate smokers. Now that I've disclaimered the hell out of this entry, I have to say that nothing looks dumber to me than someone with a cigarette behind their ear. Not to cast aspersions, but really, come on. If you're that worried about not having a cig handy, why not just roll a pack up in your sleeve like Schneider?
And this nothing to do with the fact that it happens to be The Fidget Queen's latest fashion statment.
Nothing at all.
The trip to the Midwest, to be happening the last week of April (which means I need to request the time
off pronto), is my galvanizing event for this half of the year, much like the fashion show or the wedding
last year. Gotta time this all very carefully...
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