|
|
< 5/1 5/2 5/3 5/4 5/5 5/6 5/7 5/8 5/9 5/10 >
|
Thursday, 10 May 2001 (this sentence is true) 9:53am Why, yes, the 2:25pm entry from yesterday was there the whole time. What, you didn't notice it? 3:13pm The weird rash/blister things on my upper right arm persists, so I haven't been back to the gym. The craven part of me is glad—yay! more time off—but the fact is, I both want and need to start going again. I finally got a new digital scale this weekend, and last night (the inaugural step-up, since it took me that long to get it a 9-volt battery) it said I'm at 193. Not too bad for 6' after what I ate last week, but still at least ten over where I want to be. Then I picked up Oscar, and it shot to 207. So now I know: if I want to feel good about my body, I shouldn't hold hold Oscar while weighing myself. At least the dermatological oddity has given me an excuse to wear some of my uber-trendy black tank tops sans fishnet, even garnering a compliment from Pike. Something tells me that when I heal up I'm going to scurry back to the relative comfort of t-shirts. For a while, anyway. Don't get me wrong, I really like the way they look; but they almost seem too flashy at this point in time. I certainly hope it happens within the next week, since I just made an appointment to get zapped on Tuesday. Then again, maybe it'll distract me from what's happening on my face. Whatever works.
|
||
 | ||
Wendesday, 9 May 2001 (roots and wings) 10:24am It was bound to happen: my mom got a call from the organizer of my high school reunion, which is being planned for mid-August. My mom didn't tell them anything, of course. She just got the contact info for me if I'm interested. I don't think I am. Here's the thing: I didn't like those people. There are a few people with whom I wish I'd kept in touch, but the odds of them being there are somewhat slim. I'm guessing it'll be roughly the same crowd as went on the senior trip. My presence in that crowd is the second biggest mistake I made in '91. I allowed myself to get talked into it, to be persuaded (by the uber-popular types organizing it) that my high school experience wouldn't be complete if I didn't take part, this last fling with my buddies. I owed it to them, to my school, to go along. And they made me believe they really wanted me there. Problem was, nobody whom I considered a friend was on that trip. They were much smarter than I was, and The Ex was a Junior so she couldn't come along even if she'd wanted it to, and between being surrounded by unpleasant people and being away from her I was absolutely miserable. (We'd been together less than a year, so the flame was very bright.) I was the lone representative of the geeky "hangs out in the computer lab during lunch" crowd. If going at all was the second biggest mistake, the biggest mistake was forgetting the acid. We were mostly bouncing around Southern California, y'see—Newport Beach, Catalina Island, et cetera—with the alleged highlight of the trip being a dusk-til-dawn night at Disneyland, only the seniors from ours and (I'd guess) some other high schools. No children, comparatively reduced crowds, no sun, and perhaps best of all, not having to worry about the logistics of getting out there and back. A perfect opporunity. Except, inexplicably, I didn't bring it along. Forgot to make sure I had it before I left, I guess. Hey, I was seventeen going on eighteen, I goofed up. I more or less enjoyed myself anyway, riding Star Tours and Space Mountain a couple times each and spending a lot of time in the mostly deserted arcades. (Being Disney, the machines still required quarters. Dirty trick, that.) But still, I could have ridden Space Mountain on acid, for fuck's sake, an event of druggy serendipity not to repeated until I saw 2001 under similar circumstances four and a half years later. But I digress. The point is, I don't especially want to be reunited with any of those people. Yes, in addition to my actual friends at the time there are a few I'm curious about, like the guy who was my best friend in elementary school but who essentially abandoned me when he evolved socially and I did not. A Google search has revealed that as of October of last year he was managing a coffehouse in Berkeley. I suppose it could be someone else with the same name, but I kinda doubt it; I know that some of his (real) friends had went on to UC Berkeleys, so it's not hard to believe that he followed along. Maybe he even went as well, graduated, and is now a coffeehouse manager. Lord knows I got damn lucky to have the career I have, such as it is, and maybe he didn't get so lucky. I don't know. Next time I'm in that part of the east-Bay, time permitting, I'll be swinging by the coffeehouse in question. Purely out of curiosity, natch. Then there's the most obvious issue, that I don't want to become the classic stereotype, The Guy Who Came Back As A Girl (Or A Very Rough Fascimile Thereof). I don't intend to become a conversation piece for them. I do that enough for other people; I refuse to for them. Although I suppose they may find out anyway. Coincidentally, one of my classmates happens to be the niece of my father's girlfriend. (Which might mean we're related in one of those third-cousin twice-removed kinda ways. I've never looked into it.) I don't know how much the word has spread, but after over a year of my father knowing it's possible she's found out by now. Or not. Maybe I'm giving my novelty value too much credit, but then again, information travels in mysterious ways, and often farther than you suspect.
In any event, I don't suppose they'll be finding out from me.
|
||
| ||
Tuesday, 8 May 2001 (my favorite game) 9:47am Well, it looks like we got back just in time for rolling blackouts. Wouldn't want to miss those. Yay. Warm weather. It looks like it was relatively cool in town while we were gone last week, but not anymore. But that's good, right? Remember, "sunny" = "beautiful," and "not sunny" = "icky and sad and depressing." Of course, the latter also means less energy consumption, but pick pick. And, really, an energy crisis is only a crisis if you look at it that way. The Evil Levi Plaza near my office obviously doesn't, since they're continuing to run their energy-suck of a fountain. During the first wave of blackouts a few months back they shut it down, with signs explaining that they were doing their part to conserve energy. Then, when the crisis stopped being front page news on a daily basis, they turned it back on, and it's been on ever since. I wouldn't be surprised at all if the people who camp around it to eat lunch complained about it being off; fuck energy conservation, we want to look at the water! It's pretty! We're not going to let any gloomy-gus energy crisis get us down! Of course, I have my purple xmas lights on as I write this. Hypocrisy? Yes, possibly. So I cleaned out the laptop last night, and will be returning it today. Fussless, mussless. It served its purpose well, even if I ended up not using it quite as much as I'd anticipated. Never started on the diary-edited project, and for that matter I didn't even crack open the second Eclipse book until we were on the last leg of the flight back home. Most of our free time was at night in the motel, with me updating my diary in a usually futile attempt to make sense of the day's events (I'm always going to feel guilty for having let Maddy's mother come near her with a sharp object), and Maddy reading Johnny The Homicidal Maniac, which I also read at...er...other times. It kept us grounded. Meanwhile, Manson has been "asked" not to perform in Denver with Ozzfest, seeing as how he was (possibly somewhat) responsible for the Columbine shootings and a church group doesn't want him spreading his "message." Personally, I find it amusing that Manson is second-billed on the tour to, not surprisingly, Black Sabbath, who were the scourge of decent society twenty-odd years back. I can just imagine the discussion at the "Citizens for Peace and Respect" HQ: "Marilyn Manson is coming! We have to stop him!" "But...um...well, Black Sabbath is actually headlining, and Ozzy Ozbourne is—" "Never head of 'em! Don't you watch the news? Manson is pure evil!"
There is no memory, only zeitgeist.
As much as I liked the idea of becoming technically illegitimate at 27—it seems terribly appropriate for my life—it's good news. I was rooting for her.
It really did take them long enough, though; I remember reading her letter
opposing my father's annulment request when I visited her in April '99. Heck,
it may have even been before that. And the
fact that they still use the word "Tribunal" is scary. Didn't that word go out of
vogue when the Catholics decided to stop torturing heretics?
So instead we had sushi after work tonight, at our favorite little hole in the wall place in Daly City. The bill was $28, which for that place is a lot, but we ate it all. I think we were hungry. Their unagi sashimi (that's eel, if you must know) is quite yummy, I can tell you that much. Obviously I haven't made my triumphant return to the gym. I'm still a little congested, but even if I wasn't, I have a new, more mysterious malady: a rash or blister on my upper right arm, just below the pit. Two clusters, in fact, with a satellite on my shoulder blade in back. I have no idea where they come from, if it's an allergic reaction, or a heat rash, or what. But I can definitely feel it every time I move my right arm (only on the right side, nothing on the left), so exercising would certainly result in unwanted and very uncomfortable friction. So none of that until whatever it is heals up and goes away. Until I have evidence otherwise, I'm blaming Kansas.
|
||
| ||
Monday, 7 May 2001 (200 bars) 7:35pm I should point that I was sleeping on the floor because I wanted to, or at least because I needed to crash during the afternoon and both the bed and couch were occupied by our in-progress apartment cleaning process. So I laid down, closed my eyes, and that was that. I'm apparently over my post-Kansas illness, though, since in addition to being able to breathe a bit more normally we went to the San Francisco Zoo today. It's about a three-minute drive (yes, we drove) from our place and we've always been interested but have always been scared off by the weekend crowds. We'd even tossed around the idea of going the day after Orky's party—the things that go through one's mind when coming down off of acid—but being a Saturday morning it just didn't seem worth the hassle. As it was, there were more kids than we would have cared for today, particularly boisterous ones who didn't mind shouting at the primates. Shouldn't blame them too much, though, since their parents weren't setting much of an example. Humans. Back to work tomorrow. We're experiencing a weird variaion of the standard end-of-vacation depression, tempered by the fact that this last week was not a vacation, and ultimately was more stressful than a regular week at work would have been. Rut, rut, rut.
|
||
| ||
Sunday, 6 May 2001 (angel sigh) 10:32pm Sleeping on the floor is not as uncomfortable as I'd expected.
|
||
| ||
Saturday, 5 May 2001 (...of love and colors) 5:27am The first nightmare-less night in a week. I'm sure it's because I'm back in my own bed with my own sheets, the glowing stars on the ceiling, climate control, et cetera, but it's still nice. The fact that I'm up before they usually kick in helps, too. I was planning on hitting the gym this morning, but I'm not so sure it's such a good idea. My throat is okay, but my nose is very unhappy with me. I suspect part of the problem is that I simply didn't drink enough water this week. Indeed, I abused my body on a number of nutritional/hydratory levels this week, and it needs a chance to recuperate. As they say, fluids and rest. So Miss France Elodie Gossuin is a genetic girl after all, and story was a hoax. No great surprise there, especially considering that the site which originally carried the story recycles material from The Onion. You don't have to be Marshall McLuhan to figure this one out. (Had I reached that exact conclusion? No, but I didn't automatically believe it to be true, either. So neener.) And yet, a Slate article which is actually in favor of trannies competing in the Miss Universe pageant has the title "There He Is...Miss Universe." Because, you know, it's just too good a joke to pass up. Get it? I mean, sure, it looks and sounds and is otherwise indistinguishable from a real woman unless you unravel the DNA for closer inspection, but it's a still a He! Don't mind me. We all have our own ways of dealing with the futility of one's lot in life. Some are born to be punchlines. If I'm not prepared for that, I shouldn't have chosen this alternative lifestyle. USA Today got its "everybody wants to see him fry" statistic from a poll of 1,015 adults out of 217 million. I guess that's scientific enough for these purposes—supporters who might feel a bit of uncertainty can console themselves with the thought that even those damn hippies think he should die. USA Today: Happy News For Happy People. I suppose shouldn't complain; after all, we're in a capitalist society, so whether you're for or against the execution, you can still get a t-shirt.
Is it me, or does Dib's father bear a striking resemblence to
Dr. Radium? Is Jhonen perhaps paying tribute
to a Slave Labor Graphics pioneer?
|
||
| ||
Friday, 4 May 2001 (egression) 1:34pm In the Omaha airport I saw the current issue of USA Today, and one of the headlines really pissed me off: "For death penalty foes, McVeigh is the exception." I forget the exact words, since I didn't want to pay .50 for it and I can't look it up on line seeing as how I'm up in the air and didn't pay enough for the tickets to get a phone line. But that was the gist. Now, I don't know if I qualify as a "foe," having never so much as signed a petition, but I'm opposed to the death penalty. That said, McVeigh is not an exception for me. I'm against it, period. (If you think he deserves to fry, fine. You're probably right.) I'm reminded of the media coverage during Desert Storm; as you may recall, all you ever saw on the news were the people supporting the war, waving their flags and banners and FUQ IRAQ signs. The protesters were seldom if ever mentioned, and when they were, they were written off as a very small fringe. Maybe we were in Fresno (and of course I was too much of a pussy to actually go out to Shaw and Blackstone and take part), but I know that there was a lot of people in the cities who were none too happy about it. But as far as the majority of the populace who watched the so-called "liberal media" knew, the whole country was behind our noble war, the same kind of pseudo-justifiable bloodlust which is being encouraged now. I'm a fan of neither Saddam Hussein nor Timothy McVeigh, but that's hardly the point. It's the rah-rah-rah kill-kill-kill spirit which their admittedly reprehensible actions engender in the American people which bugs me. Oh well. This is their world, not mine. I do have to say that for the most part, my paranoia about people's reactions to me on this trip proved to be unfounded, especially in regards to B.D. Well, "unfounded" may not be the right word, exactly; the majority of it was based on his past behavior. All the same, I was wrong about him, and we got along extremely well. Indeed, nobody seemed particularly uncomfortable around me, and if they were, they kept it to themselves. Even the one person (her grandfather's great-nephew) whom Maddy was genuinely nervous about due to a long history of less than mutual antagonism kept his distance when we happened to be in the same house on Wednesday night. I did get to meet his rail-thin (if Costanza saw her he'd probably say "Get that woman a cheeseburger!"), shell-shocked wife while he was in another room, cup in hand for spittin' his chew. Yesterday, before meeting up with Ritt and B.D. at her mother's place, Maddy and I went on a stealth mission to see her dog Pandora. Maddy couldn't take her along when she left her husband (the trailer she moved into was barely sufficient for Oscar), and as a result hadn't seen Pandy in at least a year and a half. When she was in town last October she'd wanted to swing by while her ex was at work, but he'd moved and she didn't know to where. Having since found out his new address, we went at about 9am when we knew he'd be at work. This, of course, was the scary waving-flashlight part of our little X-Files episode. She could see him over the back fence and through some of the wider spaces between slats, and while Pandy barked at me, it was clear she remembered Maddy in a big way. I spent most of it in the car making sure nobody was approaching, and when Maddy finally returned to the car she was crying. Why not? If it had been my dog I'd have reacted the same, especially having to leave her behind again. That Pandy was just as sad to see Maddy leave again, whining and trying to go under the fence, didn't help. But at least she knows Pandy remembers her; it would be much sadder if she didn't. (Wouldn't it?) At least we were wise enough not to let her mother know ahead of time that we were going to do this, since as with everything else she would invited herself along. Whatever it was that we said we were going to do, she would invariably say, "I want to come along too." And that would be that. At least it made a little sense when we met Maddy's maternal grandmother on Wednesday. It occurs to me, though, that of all the questions and comments I got about living in San Francisco—usually questions about the weather, or stories about the last time they'd been California—she was the only person to ask if it was scary being around all those homeless people. Nobody expressed any particular desire to live out there, which is understandable, but nobody else suggested it was because it was so dangerous and/or icky. Of course, this is the same woman who watches Giants games on teevee in the hopes of seeing us.
As were saying our goodbyes before getting on the plane, Ritt said that she's really,
really glad that Maddy is with me.
Returned home after a very long Supershuttle trip (the driver took the most out-of-the-way route possible, but I was in no mood to argue) to find the neighbors doing some kind of cleaning/moving/rearranging activity which apparently required the use of our garbage can. Maybe they figured out that we were away and wouldn't mind. In other words, nothing has changed in this time zone. In our absence, Dana actually convinced Mina to come out of hiding. That woman can work miracles.
|
||
| ||
Thursday, 3 May 2001 (totality) 10:06pm Normally by this far into the month I'll have archived the last third of the previous month, put up a new picture, et cetera. Usually takes about a half hour or so, which is the price I pay for not going through a weblog service like the smarter people tend to. Anyway, I haven't yet had the time today. Prolly tomorrow on the plane. We're back in Omaha; I'm at 14.4 rather then 7.0 like last time. Whee. For the entire week, almost any discussion that took place away from either of Maddy's parents was a bitch session about her mother. Between that and the amount of time daily we were forced to be alone with her, I've reached an inescapable thought: if I never see her again, it'll be too soon. I suppose we will eventually, but not for a couple years. I have to remember to give my mother an extra long hug next time I see her as thanks for her comparative lack of neuroses. We fly back home tomorrow. I suspect we'll spend the next few days on the couch with the kitties.
|
||
| ||
Wednesday, 2 May 2001 (corona) 8:19am Now I remember why it's dangerous for me to leave San Francisco for more than a few days at a time; inevitably, I get sick. So I wasn't surprised to wake up this morning with a sore throat. Oh well. Just have to make it through today (and at least a few hours with Maddy's mother), and it's back to Omaha tomorrow and home on Friday, just in time for Invader Zim. There are fewer days here ahead of us than behind us.
Okay, this has bothered me for a long time, I'm going to ask.
What the fuck does
dreaming about a unicorn have to do with whether
or not Deckard is a replicant? Ridley Scott splices in an outtake from
Legend, and that's supposed to change the whole meaning of the
film?
The phrase "to be" does not exist in Kansas or Nebraska; for example, it's not "Oscar wants to be petted" but rather "Oscar wants petted," or "the litterbox needs cleaned," et al. I'd never heard that particular regional grammatical quirk before Maddy moved in, and now I'm afraid that I'm going to start using it. It's so damned Midwestern, I'll probably next start wondering why I can't write a check at a fast food place. We spent a few hours alone with her mother, mostly packaging up the last of Maddy's stuff and taking it to the post office. The opportunities to say something which would surely upset her greatly and yet would be emotionally satisfying beyond words were flying fast and furious, but I managed to behave. When she left us alone for a few minutes I reassured Maddy that in spite of the things her mother says insisting otherwise, she is nothing like her mother. It's astonishing how she's practically hoping that her daughters will end up as miserable as she is. I've long suspected that one of the reasons she treats them with such candy-coated contempt is because she's jealous of their happiness, or at least their potential for it, a well which has long since run dry for her. She was also laying the "you're one of the family now" stuff on a little thick. This is the same woman who told Maddy that she only thinks she loves me. But it was for a good cause, as she was trying to shame and humiliate her 29 year-old daughter into not moving away. I met Maddy's maternal grandmother today. She's a lot like her daughter; more than any other time on the trip, I was reminded of Cartman's extended family on South Park. Tomorrow, we head out of town.
|
||
| ||
Tuesday, 1 May 2001 (penumbra) 9:44am Upon removing the bandage this morning, Madeline discovered why her finger still kinda hurt yesterday evening: her mother put the adhesive part over the cut. The only reason she was bothering with it at all was to shut me the fuck up, so why bother to do it right? Maddy's her daughter, and she has the right to abuse and bat her around however she wants. Miserable wretch. Y'know, I'm my mother's fourth child (and a failed experiment at that), and she's never been half as thoughtless towards me as that woman is towards Maddy, her firstborn.
Off to the shed. We'll be calling her on the way, and she'll be joining
us there, and we'll never ever ever ever get rid of her.
No blood was drawn today, at least. There were more than a few times when I was tempted as hell, though. Either to shut her up, or a few hits to my wrist to get it over with. Then again, Hell may be an eterntity with her. Remember that Night Gallery segment with John Astin as the hippie who dies and goes to hell, only to find himself surrounded by old country people, maids, and middle-class tourists wanting to share their slides? Kinda like that. I did have my first decent meal on this entire trip: Maddy's grandparents cooked steak. T-bones, I think, for as much of a difference as that makes. I'm not big on red meat, but I have to admit, it was damned good. The opportunities for eating healthy in this town are pretty much limited to a grilled chicken sandwich from Dairy Queen. In these circumstances, something as comparatively pure as barbecued cowflesh starts to sound pretty damn good. In the opposite direction is (of course) Maddy's mother, who told me today that she'll have the circus peanut thing done by tomorrow. I haven't yet had the heart to tell her that I've never eaten a circus peanut and never will. Maddy's father asked us tonight, in what appeared to be genuine curiosity, whether or not Maddy and I share clothes, given the difference in our sizes. We informed him that very frequently she wears my shirts, and he said that made sense because she's always preferred XL. It was the first time he's made any kind of acknowledgement of our relationship in my presence, and as questions about us go, it was fairly innocuous. I've finally realized that he physically reminds me of one of my English teachers in high school, an odd little bird who took great joy in the fact that he resembled Edgar Allen Poe. (Among other things, I once borrowed his LP of Keith Moon's Two Sides of the Moon; a number of my English teachers seemed to share my passion for The Who.) Her mother, on the other hand—well, if it was just her physical appearance or just her personality I would think I was being unfair, but the fact is that in both ways she bears a striking resemblence to Kathy Bates in Misery. It's no wonder that Ritt is so incredibly uncomfortable with the woman handling Ritt's child. B.D. today gave me a pink flamingo he'd bought in a store. The flamingo itself is one-sided, but it has a very neat pink pinwheel wings. If I hadn't been certain before whether or not he accepted me, that settled it. Of course, I'm sure a lot of it was as a thank-you for keeping Maddy's mother occupied, which has made showing their baby to the rest of the family much easier than it would have been otherwise. I've had to keep reminding myself that we're performing a noble deed, that our sacrifice is not in vain. It doesn't make it hurt any less, though. We've had our curtains drawn and "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door since we arrived, and today while we were online checking our work email Maddy's mother left two messages for us at the front desk. We have got to be seriously weirding out the staff. Speaking of such things, while driving through a few small towns in Nebraska (including Beatrice, my mother's middle name) I picked out the houses most likely to be the dwellings of serial killers. The first season of Millennium taught me a lot about that.
|
||
| ||