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Thursday, 20 January 2000 (in doubt) 11:43am My greatest fear is to make a boring movie. 6:27pm Lo, I am the modern urban warrior. Watch as I keep my sunglasses on in spite of the encroaching dusk, ensuring that none may make eye contact. You can't see my eyes, I can't see you, neither of us exist. There are two forms of what (for want of a better word) I'll call street theater that I find profoundly disturbing, and at least one of them I saw in Union Square this evening as I was trekking to the water department: the statue guys, and the guy with the bush. The guy with the bush is more often at Fisherman's Wharf, perhaps because the slightly more common denominator of tourist finds it more amusing than those in Union Square. Or maybe the area lends itself better physically. Anyway, it's a guy, hiding [sic] behind a small bush he's holding in his hand, and when unsuspecting people walk by he shakes it and makes a "Boo!"-esque sound. How anyone can be unsuspecting is a total mystery, since there's always a crowd around, laughing their collective asses off. I've actually seen people videotaping this. The mind reels at what the human brain can be entertained by.
The statue guys are somehow more disturbing. The basically paint themselves
either gold or silver, head to toe, and pretend to be statues. (Can this
possibly be safe? Did we learn nothing from Goldfinger?) Sometimes
people just stand and watch as the guy stands perfectly still, or sometimes
there's music playing and the guy is sorta kinda dancing in a statue-like
manner. Don't know what the fuck that would actually be since inanimate objects
by definition aren't inanimate ergo there's no way they can dance, but hey,
we're talking humans here. Don't underestimate the amount of imagination
we'll waste on tremendously stupid things, or the degree to which tremendously
stupid people can be amused with little effort.
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Wednesday, 19 January 2000 (of these, hope - reprise) 9:05am Running late. Although I got to sleep quite past my bedtime, it was still one of those mornings where I had a very difficult time dragging myself out of bed and away from Madeline. Nothing the outside world had to offer seemed to be a worthy trade in comparison to the simple pleasure of lying with her. But, of course, that's not the way things are. Must get to work regardless. At my official performance review last year, I was asked if I got into work so early because I wanted to, or felt that I needed to for the job. I don't anticipate that question again, though I still have enough good credits from my odd work hours last year (both coming in early and leaving late, neither of which I've done much of this year) to get me by for a little while.
Now, the eternal decision: drive, or take muni. It's late, it might be
raining later...I've been spending way too much money later, but I
get paid tomorrow...
The big guy has returned from his funereal travels, and TFQ appears to
be all squishy over his new Mac G4. Business as usual. I think
Nevermind and its eardrum-decimation potential was created for
situations just like this one...
Alive? I'm not expecting a response, but what the hell.
Now I need to write my mom.
nobody is forever
As close to a sanctuary as I can hope for. I'm here, the bad people are out there, and they aren't coming in. In a little while Maddy will be joining me, and we'll hide together.
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Tuesday, 18 January 2000 (lazarus raised) 9:02am It occurs to me that the dumb little video store anecdote probably doesn't make a damn bit of sense if I don't point out that I had to sign up as Jeff, since that's still the name on my license and credit card.
So, you see.
Results towards pre-established expectations. Demonstrated strengths. Opportunities or needs for improvement. Opportunities for growth or development. Summary. Goals for the next 6-12 months.
The pain...
I'm outta here by no later than half past five, though. Tonight, at the Castro,
one showing only, the restored print of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Oh
my yes.
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Monday, 17 January 2000 (of these, hope) 12:08pm Noon.
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Sunday, 16 January 2000 (gethsemane) 11:54pm I opened an account (a new one, that is) at Le Video a few weeks back, but I only used it for the first time tonight. I'd put Maddy on the account as well. So I handed the clerk the card. He brings up the account, looks at me, and says "Madeline?" Haven't even shaved since yesterday. Cool.
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Saturday, 15 January 2000 (the feeling begins) 10:15am It's always the anniversary of something. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it goes unnoticed. Other times it's a solemn oberservation in hopes that it never happens again. Sometimes it's a joyous recreation of the event, a celebration.
Sometimes it's just very, very frightening.
no nothing makes sense 7:00pm Two things you should never do while under emotional duress:
I just tried to do both.
I shouldn't have.
Got to meet the legendary Zaleska at long last, though she returns to her home in Chicago next week. I don't doubt she'll be back in SF as much as possible in the coming months, and most definitely for Dana and Costanza's wedding on Halloween. For which Dana asked me tonight if I'd be a bridesmaid. I'm still officially in "mulling it over" mode, but there's about a 99.99% chance of me saying yes. That's simply not an honor I could possibly turn down. And since I have no desire to be a bride (I'd like to wear a wedding dress someday, but that's a tranny thing and doesn't mean I want to get married), well, then it really is something which I simply must do. I'd like to think I don't have ulterior motives in certain things so much as I simply admit that the occasional stone can ricochet off one bird and nail another. The wedding ceremony will be performed by a someone about whom Maggie has said this: "I take back any nits I might have picked with [his] writing. He is hands-down the best erotic writer going--maybe ever." And I'll be a bridesmaid in a wedding they're officiating. I'd be doing it anyway because Dana is a dear friend and I'm incredibly touched she asked—but damn, it's nice to know that it would make Maggie green with envy. The best revenge... At this moment (3:15am) exactly a year ago, The Ex and I were breaking up. Right now, Maddy is waiting for me to join her in bed. To call that an improvement would bring new meaning to the word "understatement." I don't know where The Ex is right now. I hope she's doing all right, and can look at her life right now and realize how much better off she is now than the last time the earth was in this part of its orbit. Regardless, I know I can.
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Friday, 14 January 2000 (the low spark) 6:47am Fine. I'm here. Happy? Can the world resume its regularly scheduled spinning? Good. 10:47am just because you're paranoid 11:30am A book Maddy ordered for me for xmas finally arrived. Probably it actually arrived in late December, but as near as I can tell it's been sitting in the mail room since then because they've already forgotten that things addressed to "Sherilyn Connelly" go to me. It took Maddy contacting Amazon and having them resend it entirely (since we'd assumed it got lost in the mail) for me to come into work this morning to find both packages waiting at my desk. I could complain, but really, what's the point?
Anyway, it's R.E.M.: The Rolling Stone Files, which I've mentioned on at
least one occasion as wanting but not having. Damn, I love her.
Brian informs me that the project I've been slated to work on right now, which in theory I should have been working on all this week, has been held up once more because of the standard infighting over the design. Which means that not only was my absence not responsible for a delay in work, there's not much point in me being here right now, and in fact even if they got their shit together right this very instant, it wouldn't transmogrify into actual work for me until at least Tuesday if not Wednesday (given the upcoming three-day weekend). So I reckon I'm heading out.
Well...not just yet. I still need to look around my willful disaster of a workspace, 'cuz
somewhere abouts may be my pillcase, which I haven't seen in a few days. The last time
I remember seeing it for sure was here, and...
He just smacked his lips in queeny frustration. ...die, die, die...
Okay, I'm outta here.
The point is, I don't like surfing analogies, but it's the best I can do. I surfed the lethal currents of San Francisco's parking regulations today, and only got smashed on the rocks a little. (Am I using the metaphor properly?) Started off parking in the Batcave, which went easily enough. Hadn't filled up too quickly by 6:05am. Then I made the rather silly move of driving five or six blocks and parking across from the Tower Records on Columbus, half an hour before the spot turned into a tow-away zone. Hey, there's a storewide sale going on, including DVDs. Naturally. Got in and out by the twenty-minute mark. Rather than just playing it safe and going straight home, the consumer bug bit a little deeper into me and I ventured into the Haight. Never know what's going to have arrived at Amoeba. Parked in the McDonald's lot, as usual. 40 minute limit, McDonald's customers only, yadda yadda yadda. At most I only ever go into Amoeba and/or New York Apparel and keep on eye on the clock, so it's never a problem. I noticed a guy going around writing down license plates. Fair enough. Cars had probably been parked there for hours. I went into Amoeba, browsed through the DVD racks for about ten or fifteen minutes, and left thoroughly un-tempted. Returned to the car to find an extremely ugly green envelope loudly marked UNAUTHORIZED PARKING FEE NOTICE underneath a wiper. Whafuck? The "Reason," according to the ticket: "UNAUTHORIZED PARKING 1 F WALKED OFF LOT ONTO HAIGHT." The guy was still in the parking lot, but I let him be. I didn't have as much inherent respect for him as I do the DPT people (and this was not the DPT, but the engimatic "Parking Control Service"), but he was still just doing his job. And no doubt once the ticket was written, that was that. Besides, he went with "F" rather than "M." Points for that, even if all it means is he didn't get a look at my face. So, I'm gonna appeal it. For $32, I'm sure as hell going to appeal it. Not even a freakin' city agency, and they have the nerve to charge more than the city? Not damn likely. Plus, for all that guy knows, I went into McDonald's right after I disappeared onto Haight. Nothing on the sign says you have to go into McDonald's first, or nowhere else. Granted, the smell of the place makes me nauseous at ten paces, but I won't include that in my letter. I'm still not sure if the surfing metaphor was quite right, though....
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Thursday, 13 January 2000 (two) 11:07am Feeling a little better this morning, I think. A little. Just well enough to not be able to sleep in this morning like I did yesterday. My strength has also returned, somewhat, though I'm still sweating more than I should be. I suspect I'll be able to return to work tomorrow. Oh, joy... 6:28pm The thing I miss the most about masturbation? It clears up the sinuses. Right now my nose is seriously clogged. Otherwise, I'm definitely feeling better—notwithstanding a relapse I should be back at work tomorrow—but I can't breathe through my nose to save my life.
During orgasm, though, the nasal passages open right up, and I would
often masturbate while my nose was stuffed (I would often masturbate
when my nose wasn't stuffed, too, but don't let's get hung up
on the little details) for that glorious few seconds when I could
actually breathe through my nose. I wonder if it's kin to how
a good sneeze is often better than an orgasm. Probably not, since
otherwise the nose would be considered an erogenous zone. Hell, it's the
only part of the face I can think of which has somehow escaped that
distinction, though I suppose the presence of a nosering can change
that for some people. But I digress...and clearly I require more NyQuil...
Ah, the first generation of infomercials. Amazing Discoveries really was the best of the bunch, 'cuz at first glance, it might NOT have been an infomercial. There was just enough care to make it simply seem a like an uber-cheesy talk show: the hyperactive host (Mike? was that his name?) in the loud sweater and thick glasses, the most appreciative audience, and the weird British guy "on location" who would rush into people's homes, smudge up their windows, use the miracle glass cleaner to make the window sparkly like it's brand-bloody-spankin'-new, then rush off to enlighten the next Colonial. And we loved every minute of it. Yeah, we were stoned, but that wasn't entirely it. It's just not the same these days. Most infomercials don't even bother with the studio audience anymore, and they even go so far as to have the product logo onscreen, not to mention the fookin' URL. No! No! No! Don't put the product URL on screen! It was so much better when we didn't even know what in tarnation a URL was! Progress? Not hardly.
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Wednesday, 12 January 2000 (deathwatch) 12:14pm Owwwww.
Yeah, I'm being dramatic. You would too.
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Tuesday, 11 January 2000 (father of night) 7:13am sick again. 8:27pm Maddy and I have spent most of the day wallowing together. It's somewhat reassuring to know we do "sick" well. Fluids. Lots of fluids. Why is it when you get sick, "things you drink" suddenly become "fluids?" My mom never had an answer for that one. I've always wanted to open a restaurant so I could say "fluids" instead of "beverages." I guess I probably have a fever. We don't have a thermometer, so it's hard to say. I don't know if I'm going to work tomorrow. Depends on how I feel when I wake up. It's a very good thing I didn't go today, though. I would have been quite useless. Much like I am now. Velvet and Pike were both kind enough to write and tell me that my code was buggy and not rendering properly on a Mac. Thanks, guys. (Seriously, I never would have noticed.)
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