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Saturday, 30 September 2000 (the rule) 7:45am Feeling a little better than yesterday. Still congested, but my head is a little clearer.
Meanwhile, sfgate's scary weather page (which I think I only look at to torment myself)
is offering one word: "Summerlike." Ugh. Numerically speaking, though, the temperature
should be ten degrees lower on Monday than today, which is a good thing. Yes, I'm babbling
about the weather.
We watched Scorsese's remake of Cape Fear last night, and Madeline pointed out that Imani bears a striking resemblence
to Illeana Douglas. She's quite right.
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Friday, 29 September 2000 (der himmel über berlin) 7:01am This is the law of the plague:
The first day is always the worst. I felt it coming on yesterday evening while at Borders
(not my favorite place in the world, but I had an hour to kill and at least I could sit down
and read), and just knew the next couple days were effectively shot. I'm still going to work
today—the wrong people would be left in the lurch if I didn't—but I don't think I'll
be emerging from my hole very much. Not that I do anyway, but I may just spend most of today
curled under my desk.
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Thursday, 28 September 2000 (take good care of it) 9:03am Saw Jesus' Son at The Red Vic last night. I do love a good junkie movie. It wasn't until years after the fact that I was told my brother used to hit me bacause he was working out his anger and frustration over our parents' divorce. My mother told me this, probably feeling guilty as hell. I had been unaware of it at the time; I hadn't thought to look for an underlying cause. All I knew was it was happening, I didn't like it, and I was powerless to make it stop. I've forgiven him for it. It took a long time, and it's still on my mind, like the divorce or the operation to fix my legs. But it would be useless to be angry about any of those things (especially having been born with deformed legs; rather, I'm grateful to my parents for having paid to have them fixed). There's no point in holding a grudge now.
My mother seemed convinced a few years back I was doing just that, though. In '95 or '96, shortly after
The Ex and I announced our engagement, my mother asked who my best man was going to be. I told her,
quite honestly, that I wasn't sure. She suggested my brother. I said no. She
demanded to know why, and I don't recall if I'd implied that I was still bitter about the way he
used to treat me, or if it was her deduction. Either way, she was very angry, saying that I should
go see a shrink if I can't get over what happened such a lot time ago. (I did in fact see a shrink a
few years later, but I don't think she was happy with the results.) I wonder if during the thick of
it all, she used to console herself with the thought that we'd grow up and be each other's best men.
Poor thing. None of us turned out remotely how she'd hoped.
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Wednesday, 27 September 2000 (everything in its right place) 9:03am Mathematically speaking, it's a very simple. The net caloric intake must be less than what is exerted. If more calories are burnt than are put into the body, then the body uses the calories it already has, and weight it loss. Dead fookin' simple. Too simple for me to grasp, apparently. Which is why I'm strongly considering going back on the diet I tried back in February. Which worked, for the time, although as is often the case the weight came back. So my brilliant plan this time around is to do what I should have done in the first place—going to the gym while I'm on the diet. At the very least, go on the four "normally but sensibly" days. If (if, if, ifififififififif) I can get on this soon, then I may be a little less bulky by the time of Dana's wedding. Since I haven't been disciplined enough to do this the right way, I have to try the crash approach. (To get himself down to the junkie physique for Permanent Midnight, Ben Stiller worked with a nutritionist, who put him on a liquid diet. I'd love to meet this person and find out how much they charge. More than I could possibly afford, of course, but it's a lovely fantasy.) It means I'll have to start eating beets again. Fine. Okay. I don't like getting zapped, either, but I do that on a regular basis. Which reminds me...gotta call and find out if he's available next Monday. I'd originally made an appointment for the following Monday, October 9, because according to the calendar on his wall, October 2 was Labor Day. Can't ask him to work on a national holiday, so I selected the following week. In my dazed state it didn't register on me that it couldn't have been referring to the American version of Labor Day, which had been a few weeks back. So, hopefully, he has next Monday open. The growth isn't bad, not too bad at all. If it was, I wouldn't have dared put anything on my lips last night, as I haven't shaved in a few days. I could probably just let it go as it is, cancel my standing appointment for week after next, and not worry about it until after the wedding...but I know I'll worry about it, and wish I'd squeezed in one last zap. At least on this matter I have something resembling discipline. Then again, maybe the reason I'm able to keep myself motivated to get zapped on a regular basis is that it's an excuse to dope myself up. (There's the long-term benefits, sure, but don't exercise and diet also have long-term benefits, ones with which I'm intimately familiar 'cuz they've worked on me before?) On the other hand, I'm having greater and greater difficulty waking myself up in the morning. Sometimes I just don't hear the alarm clock—or worse, given my body's inability to tell the difference between being asleep and being awake, I reset or turn it off entirely without realizing I've done so. Seems very likely, since I've found evidence of me being up in the middle of the night without having any memory of doing so. Reminds me of the time in the late eighties when I inexplicably awoke on the couch in the living room. I have no idea how I got there, and my mother (as mothers in the eighties were wont to do, and may still be to this day) asked me if I was taking drugs. Probably because she was helplessly witnessing Tom's slide into the hard stuff, and why else would I move from my bed to the living room couch in the middle of the night? Drugs! Naturally, when I did start doing drugs, she had no idea. Much like barefoot, I'm a believer of the 11th Commandment: Don't Get Caught.
Still, though, I have to admit, I kinda miss having her—or anyone—waking me up...it would
be so nice to have that pressure taken off...get me up at 4:30am, I promise I won't complain, I'll
be grateful...I'm just not strong enough to do it on my own anymore...
Earlier, across the street at the Evil Levi Plaza, I saw a giant inflated Jamba Juice cup. To make matters worse, they'd apparently set up a booth inside the Evil Levi Building...and there were a couple guys in banana suits.
This is my point: we're all doomed, because as a supposedly enlightened species, we still believe that A) invisible
creatures possess people and make them spit pea soup, and B) putting people in banana suits will help
you sell your product. No. NO. It does not work that way. It has never worked that way. It does, however,
bring up the rhetorical question of which is more destructive—institutionalized dogmatic religion, or
Marketing people who think that guys in _____ suits are a good idea. I rather hope we never learn the answer.
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Tuesday, 26 September 2000 (all the right friends) 7:27am 25, 26, who's counting? Burnout just came by to drop off the Emmylou ticket (singular—Maddy won't be joining me after all) and conduct some other transactions. It's the first time he's set foot in here in at least two years, and if memory serves, the first guest of any persuasion we've had since my mom visited back in April. And she may have been the first visitor we've had at all, not counting the landlords. Who don't really count, so I'm not counting them. But anyway.
Tiff left a message on the voicemail last night, wanting to make good on our brief talk on Sunday regarding the
three of us getting together. Her and I had made tentative, unfulfilled plans to go to the
Where the Wild Things Are (ride? exhibit? show?) at the Evil Sony Metreon over a year ago, and it looks
we might make good on that after all, not to mention visiting the planetarium at which she works.
(I originally phrased that as "the planetarium she works at," then realized I was ending the sentence
in a preposition and changed it accordingly. Guess I was paying attention in high school after all.)
When we mentioned it both Sunday and when we saw her at Sanctuary months ago, I don't think she ever
noticed that Maddy and I pronounced it "Planet Arium," and giggled to ourselves. I'm not proud
of this, but that's what South Park does to you.
So I'm a corner close to Maddy's office, which is coincidentally next to a retirement/disabled community. There's no stop signs or traffic lights; it's an honor system kinda thing. There's a blind woman (mit dog and cane) crossing in front of me as I wait to make a left turn. As I knew they would, the driver of the sports car behind me grows impatient and honks. The blind woman turns and looks at me, startled. How inconsiderate do you have to be to honk at a blind person? I'd like to think that with her heightened sense of hearing (as movies and teevee have taught us that blind people possess) she knew that it wasn't the car closest to her. Somehow, though, I doubt it. Karma-wise, I'm not sure where I stand on that one. If I didn't honk at the blind person but the blind person thinks it was me, am I still guilty? Either way, I hope the person who did in fact honk dies soon.
Because a day of walking around resulted in chafed thighs, latest pictures displaying a definite
facial pudginess, the scale this morning telling me I'm 210 and the aformentioned traffic
incident, I've resurrected the ages-old idea of walking to work. The gym is just too scary
now, especially the one on Ocean. And I do like walking. It would require leaving very early,
but I've done that before. It's difficult now, but that doesn't mean I can't do it again. One
way or another, something's gotta give. Especially since I just bought an eight-movie pass at
The Red Vic last night. (Hey, for how often we go that theater—finally saw Chicken Run last night—it's a bargain.) If I can make a commitment
to sitting so much, I can make an equal or greater commitment to movement. Or stop
bitching about it, at least.
I got in line in front of the Fillmore at about 6pm. (Would have gotten there a little earlier, but after parking I decided to put on a little makeup—mainly just eyeliner on my lips. Seemed appropriate, somehow.) Burnout and his niece arrived at 6:30pm, and then went to get us thai food. They returned at 6:55, five minutes before the doors were supposed to open. The line started moving almost immediately, and I managed to chow down the remarkably delicious pad thai by the time we reached the door. While waiting for him to return, I was joined by the lucky winner of Burnout's other ticket. She was walking along the crowd, talking into a cellphone: "Okay...right...tall, black hair, boots? Okay, I've found him." Thus confirming my theory that I stood out in that particular crowd. Being close to the front of the line, we were able to get right up in front of the stage, and in fact I was leaning against the stage for the entire show. The bass monitor was in front of me, so being freakishly tall came in handy. Looking around I noticed a few cowboy hats (very few, all worn by women), and briefly wished I'd worn mine. I figured it was just as well, though. Should go easy on those unfortunate enough to stand behind me. Emmylou was sublime, as I knew she would be. I want to be her when I grow up, or at least have her hair. No "Goin' Back to Harlan," but that's just an observation, not a complaint. Speaking of observation, I'd chatted quite a bit with the woman standing next to me after the opening act (Buddy and Julie Miller), and after Emmylou's first song we compared notes on her outfit. The verdict: the blouse was nice, the skirt was horrendous and the boots were really nice. Julie joined Emmylou on Julie's own "All My Tears," and came back on stage with a lace shawl over what she'd been wearing before. By that point, the woman (whose name I never learned) took my pining for the shawl in stride. No t-shirts, though. One of those rare shows I go to in which I really want a t-shirt, and there was in fact no Emmylou merchandise whatsoever. What's up with that? I did buy one of Julie Miller's CDs, though, in order to retain that all-important indie cred.
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Monday, 25 September 2000 (highlands) 7:29am Ow. Ow ow ow. Big red chafe mark on my left inner thigh. Apparently the leg of my bicycle shorts wasn't quite low enough, and I exerted myself yesterday a lot more than usual. Still, I know there's a bunch of people who are going to be walking a lot funnier and having more difficulty sitting down than me. (No difficulty, in my case.) 12:06pm I should be above using Amazon.com and things like that, but I'm not. Or should I be? If my livelihood comes from the whole evil dot-com thing flourishing, then shouldn't I support it? I still shop at what are becoming known in this business as "brick and mortar" stores first. Then again, rather than going to the little produce store or the hippie store or even Trader Joe's on Saturday, I just went to Safeway instead 'cuz I can always find orange juice on sale, plus they have a Wells Fargo ATM so I could get rent money out. (Except the ATM wasn't there anymore, which is scary as hell; it's never a good sign when banks start pulling out of a neighborhood. If you don't believe me, drive through Richmond sometime. Count how many banks you see, and compare it to the check cashing places.) Should I have just done Webvan instead? No, because I'm sufficiently anal that I still need to pick my own food. This is 2000, and the closest we can get to growing our own food is selecting it ourselves, and I simply have to see all the heads of lettuce available before deciding on which one is worthy of the honor of sitting in the crisper for the next week or two. It's okay when Maddy does it, of course, but how I can trust a faceless entity like Webvan?
But, I tell myself, when there's something I'm looking for in the real world
which I simply cannot find, and it's available online, well, that's different, right?
The Den Mother was there,
and I couldn't help noticing that she managed to take credit for the project, in spite of
the fact that she'd told Brian not to pursue it on at least one occasion. In her clueless
way, she'd told him "not to do any more work on the wireless thing." Brian agreed, and
she left. At which point Brian commented to me
that what we working on was not wireless, but mobile. Indeed, we'd briefly toyed with
the idea of making it wireless, but it making it mobile made more sense to us. TDM is
incapable of understanding the difference between these things, so he used her ignorance
against her. She can't accuse us of going against her orders, since we aren't. I haven't
given any more thought to doing anything wireless. Anyway, she made sure the higher-up
understood that she'd been proactive about it. Yeah, whatever. I don't like office politics,
and for the most part I refuse to engage in it (mainly because I don't have to; I'm in a comparatively
protected position) but I must admit, sometimes it can be fun to watch.
sure, you don't care. suuuuuuuuuuuuuure.Going outside again. Been outside a lot lately, and doesn't appear to have killed me just yet. While I was out earlier I swung by Walgreen's and bought some more purple Halloween lights. They now go almost all the way around my office. It increases productivity and benefits the stockholders, you understand. I wish I'd been on acid the first time I heard "Carousel" by Siouxsie and the Banshees.
Pike's roommate, apparently one of my more devoted readers, saw me yesterday but didn't
say anything. Bummer.
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Sunday, 24 September 2000 (dry) 8:01am Emmylou Harris calls Cindy Bullens' Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth "one of the most riveting, anguished albums I've ever heard." High praise, indeed. As if I wasn't feeling guilty enough as it is about my lack of exercise, Rae referred to me as "a delightfully very effeminate boi who works out and has the sexiest arms on earth." Although I don't consider it accurate, I'm going to let the "effeminate boi" part pass—close enough for jazz, and she means well—but the next part makes me feel guilty. When we first met, yes, I was in fact working out. Been a while, though, and I think she's only seen me a couple times since then. The gothnic last year and the show back in June. Guess she didn't get a close enough look. We did a fair amount of walking yesterday, up hills even. And we'll be taking the train out to Folsom today, having learned our lesson the hard way about trying to drive into Soma during a weekend game at Pac Bell Park. I'd like to think that some of the people attending the game will experience a degree of moral distress at what will be taking place nearby while they enjoy the Great American Pastime. It will be, of course, the other Great American Pastime: sex, and lots of it. In truth there won't exactly be people copulating in the streets, but Giants fans probably don't realize that. I wonder where my sense of overall guilt came from. I don't think it was from my mother's attempts to raise me Catholic, because as she points out whever I try to discuss theology with her, I didn't pay enough attention in church. I suspect I learned more about Catholicism from Scorese movies. No, it was earlier than that. I remember realizing at a very young age that I only just happened to have been born where and when I was. I was a young white boy in Fresno, in America, and everyone around me was xtian. Except for the ones who weren't, but there weren't enough of them to be statistically significant. However, there were people different from me in different places: in India, their skin color was different and they didn't believe in gawd and jeezus and all that. If I'd been born there, I realized, I wouldn't necessarily be the same person. I would probably still be told that I was living in the greatest country in the world and that my religion was the one true faith—would it be wrong, then? Did I just happen to get it right? Was I born in the right place at the right time to the right parents, and the rest of the world's population was fucked? Not being a good American or good xtian, I concluded that, no, it was pure chance that I was born where and who I was. Oh, I was ultimately glad not to have been born in, say, Calcutta (like all good liberals I was still ethnocentric on a personal level), but I also knew that patriotism was destructive as hell. America wasn't the greatest country ever, and even if it was better than the rest, that didn't mean it was perfect and beyond criticism, either. Needless to say, this was an attitude which got me into trouble during that most recent burst of compulsory patriotism, the Gulf War.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. Not only did I realize that there was nothing unique about
me on a global level, I also realized that other people had similar feelings to me. If I could feel
pain, then other people could feel pain, too. If I could suffer, they could suffer. And if other people
could cause me to suffer...well, then, it followed that I could cause it in them, too. That was a powerful
revelation for me; it may or may not have struck me (no pun intended) when I was first seriously considering
hitting my brother back. If I hit him, it'll hurt him. I know what that feels like. Maybe it'll get
him to stop hurting me. But he'll still be hurt. I'll have hurt him. I will have made him feel that way.
And I'll have to live with the knowledge. I'm pretty sure I didn't get that from going to church.
That was the first comment about my appearance, anyway. I took it as a compliment. We had already walked the length of the fair and were working our way back the other direction when we encountered Tiff, Sara, Anodyne and others outside the Cat Club. Naturally. If goths are going to converge anywhere along Folsom Street Fair, it's going to be outside the club where Bondage A Go-Go and Assimilate 2000 take place. I received the proper scolding from Tiff and Sara for never showing up at the clubs anymore, and to drive the point home Tiff whipped Maddy. Actually, that's not true. That had nothing to do with why Tiff whipped Maddy. It was because it seemed like a good idea to both of them at the time. Maddy had just received her first whipping from a girl she didn't know (I was inside the club dancing with Anodyne at the time), and then wondered aloud if the cane Tiff was using felt different from a whip. As Tiff sagely observed, there's only one way to find out. Maddy agreed. In '98, The Ex and I were there with Maggie. I felt like a spectator, because that's what I was. At one point I noticed Pandora in a doorway. I went over and talked to her, since I hadn't seen her in months. It would have been the first time she'd seen my bangs, which had lost their definition due to the drizzle. (As usual, hers were absolutely perfect.) Soon, Maggie was standing over my shoulder, watching, no doubt wanting me to introduce her to Pandora. It felt very, very wrong, and we left. I didn't want Maggie anywhere around Pandora. It simply wasn't right. go away. you're corrupted. I didn't feel like a spectator this time; I felt I was right at home, with my people. (Specifically Anodyne and Tiff and all, though also in the crowd itself. I felt completely at ease amongst the hordes of gay, semi-naked men. I didn't feel I was one of them per se, but that they didn't object to my presence. I sincerely doubt it would have been the same amongst a crowd of lesbians.) And Maddy was right there with me. It was wonderful.
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Saturday, 23 September 2000 (missed) 5:17pm Sure, it's getting warm. But I'm a slave to whatever of my vanity I can salvage at any given moment, so I wore my new leather jacket today. I think it's what's technically referred to as a "duster." All things considered it's longer than I would have liked, since I was kinda hoping for something that wouldn't accentuate my height quite as much as my shorter jacket did. By all appearances that plan seems to have backfired; as we were walking down a street in Hayes Valley, a kid watched us go by and said, "Wow, he's tall!" I forgive him his pronoun useage, of course. I've been wanting a hat, and since I'm wearing boots and a duster, a cowboy hat seems only appropriate. Got one at Costumes on Haight for $20 (black, natch), partially justifying it to myself that it's mainly for the Folsom Street Fair. Lord knows there are a lot of people who'll be spending a lot more for tomorrow. And, I must admit, it looks pretty good on me. There's a part of me that worries that it doesn't exactly make me look any less masculine, but then again, there was a Anodyne-esque girl working at Wilson's when I bought the jacket who was wearing one, plus I saw at least one other shortly after I left the store. And, damnit, it looks pretty good on me. Did I say that already? Meanwhile, a new object of desire: McFarlane's Edward Scissorhands figure. Because I don't have enough toys as it is.
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Friday, 22 September 2000 ((version)) 9:22am This is the sort of thing which causes certain peoples' already unsteady opinions of me to fall further, but I don't care: October 24 is going to be a very good day for me musically, as new albums by both Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson are being released. I'm very excited about this; please, I insist, sue me. I also consider Emmylou Harris's new album Red Dirt Girl brilliant, and Maddy and I are going to see her at the Fillmore on Tuesday night. Does that make up for it? I'm especially looking forward to the NIN album, Things Falling Apart, since it's mostly remixes from The Fragile. I love that sort of thing; further down the spiral is way up there on the list of my favorite albums ever, if only because it helped me through a difficult period (late '97, Louise's abrupt egress), and that's the main qualification for inclusion... The much bigger event of the month will be a week later, of course: Dana's wedding. I'm far more excited, and considerably nervous, about it than any album release. (I can picture Dana snorting and saying, "Yeah. Right. She's nervous.") In the meantime, though, I've officially taken over the reins of the official-secret website for the wedding itself. I'm glad, because in addition to being a lot of fun—I do this sort of thing for a living, but thankfully I still enjoy doing it at all—it makes me feel useful, and that's something that's sorely lacking in my life lately.
i just realized that i lost you. it saddens me, but there are greater forces at work. i sincerely hope it helps you find
whatever it is you're seeking. if within compounding negatives you believe you can find a positive, more power to you.
From Hamlet, Act III Scene 2, by Bill "Boom Boom" Shakespeare. I steal, but I steal from the best.
By the way, if you liked OK Computer, which I did, you'll probably like Kid A.
And Maddy's right, you can eat the stuff right out of the carton without waiting for it to thaw. I don't want to think about what combination of chemicals that requires, though.
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Thursday, 21 September 2000 (halo ten, track ten) 6:57am When I left the office yesterday, the clouds had rolled in, there was a definite breeze and it was borderline chilly. I smiled. I couldn't help it. 9:07am My fortune for today? "You will be in a buttload of meetings. Congratulations, you're growing up." Ugh. 1:42pm My face is healing up much faster that time this usual. This is a good thing, and I suspect it's because Phil was much more focused than usual. In addition to having actually cleared my entire upper lip—it's difficult to tell for the first few days of healing—every time he finished an area, he immediately had me hold ice to it, then put on rubbing alcohol. (Or something. Whatever it was, it didn't hurt.) Usually he waits until he's done completely; this method seems to have worked a lot better. I should be able to shave safely by this weekend, which'll come in handy since we're planning on going to the Folsom Street Fair. Never can tell who you'll run into there...but if I do see Maggie or The Other, I want to be ready.
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