Walking in Hayes Valley yesterday afternoon, I spotted a tiny, striped cat at the mouth
of the freeway entrance on Fell Street. I was livid; she had on a collar. Sauntering over
to her with the utmost care, I picked her/him up. The ID tag told me she lived at 471 Oak,
a few blocks away. Whew. The cat was scared but allowed me to hold her. Her fear of the urban outdoors overrode her fear of me, which made me happy. I carried her for several blocks until I found said apartment. After ringing the owner's buzzer, with no answer, I became even more concerned. I was either going to, one, take the cat home, forever; or, two, find a way to sneak the cat back in its home. I chose the latter. And I chose it after noticing a the first floor window was wide open. (PS, if you have a cat, never leave your windows wide open. Never. No, never.) Then, after climbing a small grate thingy, I gently pushed the poor just-barely-no-longer-a kitten through the window, and closed it shut from outside. And she seemed familiar with the place, with the smell, so I felt somewhat relieved. But still, I remained upset and self-righteous like a good San Franciscan.
I then walk down the block to a corner café and demand a pencil and scrap of paper to write Mr. or
Mrs. 471 a note. I also ordered a large english breakfast tea, to go. The cashier wouldn't or
couldn't give me a piece of paper, so I wrote on a plush napkin:
Found your cat walking on freeway entrance. Put him/her through front widow, which was wide
open. Please be more careful. (S)he was very scared.
PS, (S)he's adorable!
I hate bad pet owners. I mean, those who (claim) to hate cats or dogs, and then choose not to own
them? Fine. But those who get animals, thinking of them as just pets, as their little
toys, and not as part of their families? Loathe them. These are the type of people who -- when
their dog or cat gets real sick and the vet bill is too much, or (surprise!) scratches up their
furniture -- get rid of them. And no foresight costs the animal its sense of comfort, security,
and family. Great. Also, don't get a cat if you think the cat will make your life better.
You're there to make the cat's life better. Period.
Not that this person in this particular case is a bad pet owner, but I was ready to get all Dr.
Laura Schlessinger on them.
Also, I went to one holiday party after the next this weekend. It was the most.
Also, at one celebration, in North Beach of all places, Molly Shannon was supposed
to be the main feature. Her boyfriend went to UCSC with Alissa and Jason, and I wanted
to meet her. I mean, it's one thing when just any celebrity is at a party. That's fine.
That's exciting enough. But when it's a celeb you kinda sorta want to meet? One you fancy
who could, say, pluck you from obscurity and shoot you into the higher stratospheres or
stardom? Then that's nerve-wrecking. I got all apprehensive when we arrived at the apartment,
as if I were a faggot freshman and everyone there were senior football players. Like, what
if I failed to impress her? What if she demanded my removal? What if she didn't think I
was cute? It was all too much. But as it turned out, though, she left early. Too bad.
But celebrity-rich or not, it was an amazing fete, and I remain in the lower atmosphere
of obscurity, anonymity, relaxation.
OK, here it is -- the mugging:
Several theories have surfaced since alleged mugging. One involves me being abducted by
extraterrestrial aliens. I like that one, but am hesitant to subscribe to it as all aliens are both cute and cuddly like E.T.. And who could semiconsciously plot revenge against E.T.? I know I couldn't.
Another hypothesis claims harassment by the Cala Foods staff. Turns out I found a (stolen?) tube
of vitamin-C anti-aging cream in my pocket upon consciousness. The fuck? Usually, after a night of heavy loving with the bottle, I stroll over to Cala for some salty, frozen treats. And that seems very plausible, and sad, that I would go over there in such a state to shoplift. But I've talked to the staff there and no one knows what the hell I'm talking about. "Mr. Brochtrup, we'll call you if we find your wallet or hear of anything else. Please stop calling us."
Now, the final theory, and most probable, is that the entire world is out to get me. Can you
believe it? It's so true. Well, naysayers, I'd like to think that this theory is, in fact,
reality. I mean, I've been saying it for years. And not only does this rationale expectorate
sympathy from others, but it also implies that the world itself revolves around yours truly.
I must be the answer. Why, this aggravated theft alone is just one piece in the
world-against-bk puzzle I've been trying to piece together since I was embryonic.
Someone last night kept referring to "bars" as "pubs." He was neither British nor Australian. Sorry for the entry delay. Sounds dirty, yes? Heh. See, I've been having bolding and italicizing issues as of late. It itches and burns, and I just
can't seem to
get rid of it. And if I can't cite properly in Bean Tails, then I would just rather cross
arms, grunt, and not write at all. But that mindset, I realized, was foolish. (I know, I know, the italics work now. But it's much more complicated. Oh, much more.)
Friday, December 20, 2002
So, I want to outline the Mulholland-Drive-ish events of last Saturday night, but will do so this weekend, perhaps -- something to leave to with for the holidays. And by "holidays" I mean Christmas. Just kidding. Sort of.
ding dong, ding dong,
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
"Sexy Boyish seeks Hung MEN 4 Fucking ( you fuck me)"
"vers/ass in the mission wants top"
"Hot Boyish Jock Takes Big Cocks & Loads"
"Cumdump, in my mouth"
"Want to rim a choice butt tonight"
"filthy fuckin talk"
"Killer Head for Asian Cock"
"HAVE FAVORS/ LOOKING TO HOST"
Monday, December 16, 2002
After a two-day stupor, peaking out from under my tattered bedspread, I find comfort in all of your many concerns regarding my well-being. Thanks. It means a lot. Really.
I even went to the gym today, and noticed that I must have pulled a shoulder, or a shoulder joint, or something shoulder-y during the Incident, because I could not lift the 35-pound -- ok, fine, 25-pound -- weight during my usual workout routine.
But the body heals. I've wiped the wounds with bubbling hydrogen peroxide; evil-eyed every youngish male in the Mission I cross; and canceled my many, many platinum credit cards you should be so lucky to touch. I even have to trek to the DMV tomorrow morning to receive a new driver's license. (The book I'm carrying along for the long-line wait?: The Magician's Nephew) Also plus, those greasy bastards at 24 Hour Fitness want to charge me a $10 lost card fee. The hell? I told them they could cram it. Cram it hard. In fact, what I said was, "I had a knife to my face (which I didn't,) was punched twice (once, actually,) and you have the gall to demand a $10 fee from me? This totally wasn't my fault, and I won't pay!" I felt like Jodie Foster, raped all over again by the justice system. Someone! Bring me the head of Cindy Crawford on a platter!
Anyway, getting mugged is, ugh, a rite of passage. I guess. It's sad, though, because you really want someone there for you. Someone to help swab your wounds, make naive promises to fight your battles, give you selfless head, and comfort you by taking you to a movie and/or ice cream. Sadly, none of the aforementioned happened. So, instead, I'm having a well-earned sleeve of low-salt Pringles. Delicious.
I also told my mom(my) about what happened and she said she's now buying me a gun for X-mas. Funny thing is, I don't think she's kidding around, so watch out. We don't Bowl For Columbine in the OC, yo.
She also asked if I was on vicodin at the time of said mugging. The. Nerve.
And, if you read the tabloids, some suggest that I was abducted by extra-terrestrial life forms. And if so, does that now make me trash? Hmm. It could happen; the staff at the Ecuadorian pupseria shop on 24th and Harrison always seemed alien to me, and I don't mean of the illegal variety. And you know what? I don't remember a damn thing. The last point I remember -- after leaving Tyler's -- was waking up the next night (afternoon?) in my clothes with bruises and cuts. Why would aliens do this, anyway? I thought they probed. I thought they had microfibres. I thought they had wallets of their own. Anyway, stupid aliens. I'm too old for this.
And I don't even know what that second tube of age-revitalizing replenishing cream signifies. I mean, I must have been holy wasted if I swiped something formulated from the, uh, Ponds Institute. My God.
visibly firm and lifted,
Sunday, December 15, 2002
Was, at last, mugged near my apartment building late last night -- federal assistance gone out the window from which it came. Very unhappy as I can't remember what exactly happened. I just arose 24 hours later with bruises and cuts on my body. Feel very alone, scared about it. Perhaps it was the xanyx-chlonoprine [sp?] cocktail that aided in my not remembering. Oddly enough, it's the dramadey tradey I've been expecting. Which I regret. Alas. I give myself two more months in this city before leaving it, for good. So sad.
And I'd do it all over again if someone could please give me one damn cigarette.
Thrusday, December 12, 2002
What a day this has been. What a rare mood I'm in. Why, it's almost like being in love.
I love the rain. Love it. Growing up in the glamour and obscene wealth of southern California, I remember, as a child, gazing outside the Bently's car window, sighing, melancholic at the all too dry 405 passing below. And I remember being depressed that we'd receive a few, tiny inches of rain a year, on average. All the constant sun and sea breeze 70-degree weather gave me S.A.D. at a premature age. But here in San Francisco, we have storms. Big horizontal-rain storms with lightening and bedlam. At the moment, we're in the antediluvian stage -- seagulls circling above, low cloud cover blanketing the sky -- and I'm thrilled. Like the giddy, sober minutes after ingesting a drug, right before intoxication.
I have always... been a storm.
After reading today's shattered glass, I was struck by two points: Eve Sedgwick, and "upper middle class of cuteness...the nouveau riche of beauty." I mean, I thought, for some time, that I was nouveau riche beautiful, second-, third-tier cute. Why? Because I figured out how to put myself together late in life, post 10th grade. Also because I'm tacky. But as it turns out, I'm not on any tier of cuteness. Rather, I'm swinging on an outer branch of the tree of beauty: fetish. See, I'm a redhead, which is a fixation for many; hopefully, some of them finding it sexually appetizing. Red hair takes over whatever else is going on with me. If I show up for a date wearing only a fitted bedsheet and poo, chances are I'd be remembered mostly for my fiery locks. People are into redheads. We're either attractive or revolting, with little room in between for varying shades of gray. "Wow, I've never been with redhead before," "Dude, I dig red heads, if you know what I mean," "I'm breaking up with you because I find your hair sickening," "Period head!" Damn orientalists. See, my life is hard. Very hard. Like, I'm so the new Asian.
Where's my 60 acres? Where's my mule? Where's my federal funding?
The former point, Sedgwick, stuck in my head because a TA -- a TA I was humping at the time, no less -- once returned a paper of mine for improperly citing whatever paragraph from The Epistemology of the Closet. The gall.
And while on the subject of what is correct, I ran into someone I worked with for, like, three years, and couldn't remember her name. She so knew it, too, and the conversation ended on an abrupt and awkward note. Lord. This, by the way, happens to me all of the time. And I don't think it's a bad thing. For example: I majored in literature, but fuck if I could ever remember fictitious names or dates in any book. Now, just because I couldn't remember those tidbits of information, it didn't make me understand or love the book any less. The same goes for people. People have unrealistic expectations... of me. I grew up three inches away from a television screen, and I'm supposed to be detail-oriented at a moment's notice? Really now.
Unless, of course, someone forgets my name. That's just self-centered and hurtful.
I'm going to le cinema today, alone. When I go alone, which I usually do, I find myself annoyed with chatting couples, and shushing them. But when I'm with one or more persons, I never notice said couples (unless I'm with the Biney, who prattle nonstop when their butts hit the velvet red.) Does this ever happen to you? Do we gnash our teeth at couples or groups, in envy? Do we lash out at those who are happier than ourselves? Have I turned so cantankerous? Oh, I have. Good.
So, the new fad, as I found out, is gay men dating straight women. I didn't know about this trend until spotting a known gay shoving his tongue down some pixie girl's throat. The next day I was like, "?" And he explained, "Oh, it's just for show." See, I couldn't do that. Because I fear a woman would want to talk about it later, or expect genuineness from me, or make me touch her softly, or something. (In fact, I hate touching. I mean, I like kissing, I like feeling up, I like a roll in the sac with someone; but I don't like touching, in general. And I've decided to tell people, friends of mine who touch, that I'd appreciate them not touching me with their filthy, filthy paws. Some people are touchy feely, and they defend themselves by saying, "Oh, I'm just touchy feely. That's just the way I am." But that's like a smoker saying, "Oh, I'm a smoker, so I can't put it out. Sorry, that's the way I am." No means no, I say. See that line? Don't cross it.) And it's not so much as my having vagina dentata as it is my not needing to hear it, woman. Also, I'd like to remain gay pure for as long as possible.
But I love everyone. For reals. Even you.
[Later that night...]
Tales from 24th: Tonight, while shopping at Cala Foods -- in the process of gathering products to bake cookies -- I witnessed yet another physical fight between the Cala Foods staff versus the public. A few teenagers, three of them, stole lots of wine. They absconded with those large-ass rosé wine jugs that collect dust on the bottom shelves of the wine aisle. Two of teenw grabbed as many bottles and on-sale Baked Lay's as they could hold, while the third -- a raven-haired latina beauty -- swung around and around her head another large jug of wine, barricading themselves from the entire night-shift staff. It was amazing. No one would touch her or her partners, because she was twirling around this heavy, blunt object. So childish but effective. Everyone was nutting, and I was, literally, slack-jawed. I just had to forgive them, though; they were teenagers and didn't know how cheap and abominable those brands of wine actually are. It was just the cutest thing ever. Poor things.
Also, the new photo is that of one Bean Weaver, the muse for this site and its conception. At the moment, she's very bad and in trouble.
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
Our local WB affiliate's syndicated line up has changed. Again. Midseason. And a midseason shift shifts only when a show lags in ratings, or a show is branded too filthy. At present waiting for an explanation from their programming director, I have nothing to do during the 7 - 8:00 PM block but read a book, do the day's crossword puzzle. So, why not take a look at what KRON 4 had to say about inappropriate programming overlapping with inappropriate hours:
From: bk [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Monday, April 01, 2002 2:37 PM
What happened? "ElimiDATE" is supposed to be on at 2:30pm, and it's not on today. What happened? Now Judge Joe Brown is on, and life disappoints me. Please explain. Is this a programming change, an accident?
Later that day. . .
From : 4 LISTENS <email@example.com>
To : BK
Subject : RE: elimiDATE
Date : Mon, 1 Apr 2002 17:28:28 -0800
Thanks for your note. The program was moved to late-night because of viewer complaints about the content. I asked that the producers "clean up" the show or said I would take it off the air. They obviously have no intention of changing the show. They seem more interested in "pushing the envelope". The program being produced was not the program I agreed to carry. I thought the program was going to be a fun, relationship show...what I got was "raunchy" and not suitable for airing in the afternoon. Thanks again for writing and sharing your thoughts.
Director of Programming
Now, the above correspondence was published before, but I feel the need to repost it because (a) it's so good, and (b) because the same thing has now happened to the love-it-or-hate-it show Will & Grace. Speaking of which, why do the gays hate it? Or don't they? Or am I narrow-mindedly stuck in the Mission, using the The Phonebooth crowd as my case study? And just what is a case study? It is when--oh dear, the Xenadrine has kicked in. Must go to the gym, or vacuum the window panes crevices, or something.
Monday, December 9, 2002
I just read that -- in great part due to AIDS activists activisting on drug companies -- the price of AIDS drugs has dropped, thus a sharp decline since 1997 in developing better anti-retrovirals. And why should they, now that it's no longer profitable to do so. Way to go with the foresight, gentlemen. It's a rapidly mutating virus, but feel free to Save Mumia, too, while you're at it, at the cost of someone's life.
Supposed cynicism aside, it exemplifies how hazardous and unrealistic Politics can be at times. To me, anyway.
Not that I would take anti-retrovirals if I was HIV-positive. I don't enjoy drugs without fun side-effects.
Can't Beat The Real Thing: So, I helped Jamie deck his halls for his annual holiday party. And I say "holiday" because there were both Christmas trees and a Menorah. The Menorah was set up by his chic Japanese roommate: nine Mexican candles laid on the mantle, the middle one raised. It was beatific. But when I helped set up for the party the night before, we smoked some of the medicinal; however, said pot was laced with the Real Thing, which I hate. Hate tremendously. But I had no idea until 48 hours later until P told me what's what. Oy. On the bright side, though, I put up all of the many Christmas lights in record time with little fuss or muss. And my hors d'ourves? Crab mouse on toasted crackers. A cracker for the crackers, if you will.
And while at the party, who should show up but the entire Elevations staff. Jaime's roommate works there, which was the same salon Nico ruled with a platinum fist while living in San Francisco. It was so nice to see most of them. Nico used to take me on wonderful, indulgent adventures with those boys to Napa Valley and the outer Sunset. It was touching, though, not to see Nico and Jol there, trailing behind. And I was all, "Don't you just miss those two?" And they were all, "Totally! Is there any beer in the fridge?"
[Heart]: Just when you think you've had it to here with that trash Mariah Carey, she goes off and names hew new album "Charmbracelet" -- "Charmbracelet!" It's so My Little Pony, and words fail me. But how can you hate someone who will always think of herself as a 13-year-old? See, you can't.
a not-so-cheap cheap hors,
Wednesday, December 4, 2002
A+ for content, B+ for presentation, A- overall.
Would have been A overall if not for "Cool-Ranch Doritos chips."
What? You haven't heard of new 3-D Doritos? I guess I wasn't being specific enough to your liking. I was being general with "chips"; referring to the original two-dimensional chip I've grown to love. But the 3-Ds come in the cool-ranch variety, you know. Two multi-dimensional kinds of snacks for one multi-dimensional kind of world. And in these difficult times, we could use two wonderful mediums for our cool-ranch. Really, what's more American than cool-ranch: our national flavor. And I resent the anti-American tone you're taking, too.
Read my Brezny today. He's asking me, in essence, to both publicly and privately rebel against the world, done with a smile on my face. And if by rebel he means my not paying this month's credit card bills, then rebel it is. I hope that's what he had in mind. And since it's etched in bloggers stone for the world to read, consider it a public revolt as well. Hey, I'm all caught up until next Wednesday. How responsible. Wow, I'm starting to feel celestially superior to myself than last week. See, sometimes it pays not to pay.
Had a tantrum. Wanna see what I wrote? Wanna see the outtakes of BeanTails where I throw things around my dressing room and fire the wait staff for not putting a thin, salted slice of tomato between my bagel and cream cheese? It was an HTML accident on my part, and patience failed me. Here it is:
Someone needs to help me fix this so the text doesn't flush right. It happened when I bolded wfb's letter above. Either it's fixed, it's going to stay like this, or I'm just going to stop.
taking a tone,
Tuesday, December 3, 2002
Winona Ryder was found to be carrying eight different types of pain killers on her at the time of her apparent shoplifting spree; and I'm indignant that she was busted for that in addition to the kleptomania accident. (Just the other night I walked out of Cala Foods with a box of Cinnamon Life in tow. It happens.) This goes to show you that once again pill poppers are being persecuted, while drunks like Russell Crowe roam shirtless and free. Injustice prevails.
I'll leave you with that since I can think of little else.
My font looks gargantuan. Does it look big to you? For reals. I won't get mad.
Monday, December 2, 2002
What a tangy, savory Thanksgiving that was. For my thanks I went from one friend's apartment to the next -- over-sized purse in hand, shoving as many starches into it as the seams would allow -- and drank. Friends uncorking wines, pouring gravy, passing bongs; it was all so descriptive and orangy-browny. The following day, though, was spent consuming vodka, vegetables, and organic fruits in order to have, um, a movement. Heh. Yeah, poop is funny.
But back to blogging! You must be excited, yes? This must be the most exciting thing that's ever happened to you since anything remotely happy happened to you, if anything happy ever happened to you at all, huh? Aw. Sure it is. Back to the those I left behind, to put the preface holiday of the winter season behind me.
Comeback... I hate that word. It's a return...
So, I concluded the holiday weekend by getting very drunk in the Castro. Very novel. Afterwards, I crawled out of slumber to dishes covering the bedroom floor; wet clothes draped in the bathroom; a pocket full of stolen Cool-Ranch Doritos chips, crushed; and the freezer door wide open. What happened? I have no idea. But leaving the freezer door open all night is oddly jarring; not as lethal as a gas leak, but more humbling than a spilled bong. Anyway, the dead baby shark and the peanut butter and chocolate ice cream had melted to near liquid states, and were subsequently saved.
My, this entry is littered with adverbs.
Also, no one hit on me, which made me sad and irrational, as I need constant validation of my physical appearance in order to feel worthy of just getting up in the morning. My house was not a home this weekend, and it rendered me very judgmental. In a good way. So, instead of dividing people into the usual two categories of blonde-hair-blue-eyed and trash, I discovered a new classification by which to judge all:
People can be neatly divided into two categories: sexy and sexual. Some are sexy, while others are sexual, with no overlap. Sexy people give off pheromone-charged whiffs of potential acts of brutish, Heathcliff-ish fucking; while the sexual are attuned to their bodies, themselves; speak and act directly about what they want to try, unafraid of looking childish in the process; touchy-feely. More importantly, though, sexy people should only date other sexy people -- like movie stars do. And sexual people should restrict themselves to other sexual people -- like those at Burning Man do.
The real question for me, however, is who's the cleanest? I think the sexy are. Why? Because when you're just that too comfortable with yourself and your body, you're liable to not wipe your ass, or not wipe on some Ban, because, hey, it's all good.
Sexy: cleaner but meaner.
Sexual: dirtier but jocular.
Which one are you? Don't know? Write to me and I'll tell you.
i'm at your feet,
Sorry for the entry delay. Sounds dirty, yes? Heh.
See, I've been having bolding and italicizing issues as of late. It itches and burns, and I just
can't seem to
get rid of it. And if I can't cite properly in Bean Tails, then I would just rather cross
arms, grunt, and not write at all.
But that mindset, I realized, was foolish.
(I know, I know, the italics work now. But it's much more complicated. Oh, much more.)