Thursday, July 8, 2003

I'm thinking that Bean Tails will be on a three-month, or so, hiatus. It's beyond my control.


Monday, July 7, 2003

Feeling a bit like Caroline in Poltergist these days -- holding onto my white wicker headboard for dear life. Then I stop to wonder what the fuck wicker is doing in my bedroom, and then let go.

Not that I'm now into vagina or anything.


Thursday, July 4, 2003

I haven't opened a bank statement in over five years. Is that bad? I ask that as a serious question.

And on a personal note: Don't drop the soap, Nico. That's how they'll get you. Unless of course you're into that.


Wednesday, July 2, 2003

Want to hear the cutest thing? It involves an infant, my nephew. I called my brother and his family the other day (a conversation that took almost a week to finish since my nieces and sister-in-law speak a handful of English syllables, and I a wee bit of Spanish) and my nephew, who's 1-1/2 years of age and an Aquarian, watches only TV commercials. Really. He rolls his round toddler go-kart thingy over to the TV when he hears a commercial start, watches it, then returns to drooling or whatever when regular programming returns. Just like I used to do! I did this, too, as a tyke and look at me now! Oh shit! is right. But knowing that another blood relative views life as a feast of bite-size appetizers instead of one drawn-out main course makes me happy. Or scared.

I also warned my brother that this might signify him as a future maricone. He laughed. Sort of.

PS, I wish I were in Prague.


Tuesday, July 1, 2003

I'm leaving Dr. Brock. It's not him; it's me. I thought we'd be a swimming match, what with us being namesakes and all. But what are you gonna do?. Psychiatrist are like hairstylists -- some work, some don't. He just wasn't an intensive hair-repair kinda drug dealer -- I mean, shrink. Alas.

Pride was an interactive affair this year. Jol and I text messaged one another with simultaneous coast-to-coast updates. Not surprisingly both Prides seemed very, very similar. One thing we found ghoulish on both the east and west coasts were the FTMs sporting cut-off breasts and visible scars. Ew. I almost passed out. And the Pride weekend also taught me that humor has now shifted to the Republicans, away from the Democrats. Drats. We're doomed.

Oh Jesus. Fucking. Christ's. Ass. UPN44 (Cable 12) just replaced Will & Grace with that diarrhea-casserole News Radio. Pardon me while I slice open an artery. Oh, and the Bay Area Reporter removed all of their escort ads from its Pride issue. Bah. San Francisco must think the gays are too full of themselves now that they can legally take it in the ass.

Speaking of which, I didn't have sex at all during Pride weekend. Boo hoo. And now you know.

Note: Someone is less than thrilled at the barrage of M80s exploding on our block. That someone is Bean. She's very tender and fragile, and doesn't need illegal fireworks going off regularly at all hours, for heaven's sake. It makes her scared. Florida Street during Independence Day, though, is quite the spectacle to behold. Basically, someone pours gasoline over the entire outer Mission, then little Drew Barrymore staggers around lighting everything ablaze. It looks really beautiful from our third floor balcony.

I was doing so well with not eating at all for the past few weeks -- except having water, an eyedroper of juice now and then, and the occasional soft-boiled egg -- but in the past two days I've inhaled two pints of Ben & Jerry's Brownie Batter, which should rename itself Ben & Jerry's Cocaine with Bits of Blowjob. It's just that good. But I need someone to help me with my protein intake and carb reduction. Maybe the good people over at Cytodyne Technologies will grow a heart and start putting their Xenadrine with Ephedra back on the shelves, God willing. I know of one place in the city that still (mercifully) sells it contraband, but I won't print its name here for fear of the DEA swiping them all for their greedy fat asses.