11/02
Tuesday, November 26, 2002


Two real-life conversations about bk:


ACT I
[scene: lower 24th Street]


Him: Hey, how come you never bothered to called Ian back?

Me: Huh?

Him: You guys went out and then you never called him back. Real nice.

Me: Oh. Yeah. He kept calling me "Bruce."

Him: So?

Me: That's not my name.



ACT II
[scene: upper 24th Street]


Homeless: Spare some change?

Me: Sorry.

Homeless: I'm gonna pull a Jeffrey Dahmer on you, red!


So, I ran into a gaggle of teenagers the other day, and one of them knew me. It was scary at first: when my name is shouted out from a hoard of nomadic teens, I assume "faggot" or a fist through the teeth isn't too far behind. Not this time. It was the younger brother of friend who knew me, and all of them surrounded me and introduced themselves. For a moment I was, like, down with it and shit. Also, they smelled like pot, dirt, and cheap alcohol; yet since they were young, they all looked beautiful and beautifully hopeful. And they were on skateboards. Me, I was carrying a bag of groceries and a DVD. Dude, what'chya up to tonight, one asked. Oh, making some tomato bisque and a movie, I said. God.

Alas, that's probably what I was doing when I, too, was seventeen.

Very worried about Jol. Turns out he's solo on Thanksgiving, which can be depressing. And not the good kind of Cries and Whispers melancholia, but the isolating Girl, Interrupted kind, if you will. If he were here, he could journey with me to the three or four Thanksgiving dinners I plan on crashing. Jol's played host a couple of times, and the thought of him sitting alone, starching on a gluey Hungry-Man frozen dinner, makes me want to ralph. So, someone, please, invite him to a lavish feast, or at lease give him a call to make sure he hasn't sliced open an artery.

You know when you're part of an ongoing, populated e-mail discussion? Of course you do. But you know when someone on that e-mail -- someone you don't know, usually -- writes something general and rebel-rousing in a getting-to-know-you kind of way? Do you? Well, that just happened. And I'm annoyed. In its initial stages the chain started all pleasant-like, but then someone had to thrown in an unrelated, out-of-nowhere slam on gay republicans. The hell? Which, by the way, is a trite target. And I found that interesting since all previous discussion had scant to do with neither the republican party nor the gays. Anyway, I cannot stand for that type of San Francisco bonding: assuming one's political slant just, well, because. Generalizations like that bother me, lots. And it's no surprise, really -- the guy hails from the Midwest, and we know how they are...

But not that there's anything with rebel-rousing.

Also, happy birthday to KS.

Also plus, just finished reading this month's Vanity Fair article about LA rich kids. I'd love to discuss it in more detail if it weren't for this blinding cloud of range consuming me at present.

carquinez and dumbarton over troubled waters,
bk





Monday, November 25, 2002


Boy, I feel like a 17-year-old gay, instead of the worldly 28-year-old one I am. Judah and I were racing all over the city last night, going from one bar to the next, losing claim numbers, hitting the pipe in cabs, demanding one more vodka rocks well after last call, asking the doorman at the Power Exchange whatever happened to the free mouthwash. Cut to four high-grade pharmaceutical sleeping pills later, and we awake in bed gasping for water sometime around late noon. Lots of fun. Lots.

As youths, we used strut our slickly overproduced selves in West Hollywood on the weeknights, waiting to be discovered, waiting to find husbands. But now there's much less cologne and a whole fucking lot less cash involved, which I find obnoxious -- the latter point, that is.

-----

Judah's in town. Very drunk. Very hungover. Been bad. Will have more later.

sigh,
bk

Note to diaper king: I sorry.





Sunday, November 24, 2002


If I can offer you just a few words of advice to you, my fans, it is the following:

• Never put olive oil in your pasta water, ever. No, never.
  
  
• Always salt your pasta water. And use lots of it.
  
  
• Unless you're in college, never call a dinner party a "dinner party" when serving spaghetti and garlic bread.
  
  

And while on this side of what is right, I went to the Clay Theater to see Far From Heaven, and Pacific Heights has gone to shit. It has been taken over by Bagels and Jamba Juice. Disgusting. Now, it's not that I mind these stores, or fear the chain store monopoly takeover of all that is Victorian and bleeding heart. (In fact, I love these stores; I prefer my nourishment demographically tasted and approved.) But when I go to Pacific Heights, I want wealth. I want opulence. I want Jamba de Juice or Noah's Brioche. What's the point of living in an exclusive, affluent area if you're only going to find the same crap retail you can find if living in the Mission? Or Orinda? Anyway, I was very disappointed. Rich people should be ashamed of themselves. They deserve far better.

So, I've been lax in the blogging for the last few days. New fonts were installed the computer, making Word defunct, making it impossible to write to you, my fans. OK? OK.

Also plus, everyone I know is dating someone, someone cute, making me more single than ever before. Not that I'm jealous -- I envy my enemies, not my friends -- but the neurosis will be piled high this coming winter. And I plan on throwing more fits, more self-induced drama, more passive aggressive temper tantrums than ever before. Why, I'm a bulbous Jiffy Pop of emotional searing hot emotional kernels just waiting to blow. Someone cut me open with a butter knife. Go on, cut me. Oh yeah.

looking for those goddamn pills you fucking hid again, didn't you?,
bk





Wednesday, November 20, 2002


As a struggling trust fund recipient with little to no money, I find house-sitting a great alternative to taking a real vacation. Sort of. I mean, it's a change of pace with a slight vacation-y feel, like staying in a hotel room. This Friday a friend is leaving for two weeks, so I get to care for her cat in a Noe Valley studio apartment -- an apartment on the other side of 24th Street. Nothing but Whole Foods and Aveda for the next two weeks. And it's high time I started re-stalking that guy at Streetlight Records.

But can't you see it:

Strolling on 24th with my venti chai tea latte, I catch a reflection of my neglected self in a passing store window. My delicate fingers trace my face. A makeover is needed. Needed bad. It's time to get rid of the old 24, and welcome in the new. Reluctant, I decide to go forward with it.

Cut to a montage of me turning around in a three-way mirror, again and again, with gorgeous, slimming outfits at each turn. I'm stunning. Next, I'm catwalking down the street, full brand-name bags and boxes stemming from my hands; a new hat is perched atop my head, and my stride just can't be stopped. Soon, I realize, a haircut and color is in order. And what an order it is. All of the gray is washed out, and a fresher, youthful look is added, slicing 10 years off of my face. I'm pretty, again, and well-conditioned.

What fun!

So, everyone is pulling their hair out because Michel Jackson dangled his kid from a hotel balcony to the delight fans beneath -- threatening an Eric Clapton repeat of years ago. OK. Look. My father enjoyed using me as a human basketball, baseball, ottoman, chimney sweep, surfboard -- all before the age of two. And I loved it. Why, I can't even count for you the times he fly balled me into the deep end of a swimming pool, well before I learned how to swim. It builds character, damnit! Boy, quit your crying and get back out there before I give you something to cry about!

Something tawdry happened today. And it happened in the parking lot of my 24 Hour Fitness. Chortle. And for the sake of decency and family, I won't put what happened on here. But for those of you perversions who happen to want a bullet point outline of what did happen, e-mail me with the request.

dangling above to my rabid fans below,
bk





Tuesday, November 19, 2002


Mrphm. Too much Ketel One to write to you, my people, within the relms of tricky and oh so subjective comprehension. But let us just say that I'm going down the stoney end, and I never wanted to go. . .

yarfing and soft as an easy chair,
bk





Monday, November 18, 2002


What an irritating weekend -- a tip of a stay right under the tit. I finally hauled my atrophying body back to the gym after a 1.5 week sabbatical, and the streamroom is now co-ed. Ew. And by co-ed, I mean it's chockfull of make-up'd old biddies who wear too much perfume. Wall-to-wall, they are. And leave it to me to subscribe to the only gym in San Francisco with a mentally disabeled shower monitor and a co-ed steamroom; akin to my talent for hitting on the sole straight guy in a gay bar. Me, poor me. Someone please buy me something.

On the plus side, one said biddy laced the steam vents with sage leaves. Refreshing!

And speaking of buying me something, after a fifth glass of Chardonnay, while at Trax, Joe McCarthy and I had a semi-serious discussion about fellatio. He said he doesn't like it, because it comes off as degrading for his boyfriend, Bruce, to perform. And I said if sex weren't degrading for at least one person involved, it's just not sex. But we concluded the off-colored topic by declaring that oral sex is just ho-hum foreplay, really. And we all know that foreplay is, by and large, retarded. [clink]

Also, that same night, while trying to seduce a dashing gay, and way drunk, I rambled on about my cat, Bean, for 20-plus minutes, then I asked him where he stood on Stevie Nicks. Yeah, I know. Jesus. Christ.

Jol and I were clucking away on the phone last night. He and I want to do a SF-NY switch: I go to New York in his place for a month or two; he comes to SF in mine. I've always wanted to be part Latino with an olive complexion, so look for it.

Oh, who am I kidding. I'd never give up my pristine, powerful ivory skin and ancestory.

And he gave me the requested blog url of an attractive Sagittarian I've been reading about via JNYM in the past week. Having the opportunity to finally read shattered glass, I wasn't dissappointed. He goes by Milo, I think, and you should read his site. Now. No, right now. It's a good read, and the FAQ section is lots of fun. A good way, too, to learn more about those who live east of the Rockies, or -- for some of us -- to learn more about those just east of the 101.

I like the sound of shattering glass, but you want to know what my favorite smell is? Gasoline.

white winged dove that's now ¼ moisturizing lotion,
bk





Friday, November 15, 2002


Ain't got no job no more. My temping assignment finished yesterday, so I could afford to sleep in and go to a matinee today. Where was I working, you ask? Can't tell. I had to (a) sign a four-page confidentiality agreement and (b) have a background check done on my last seven years of residences and employment. Spine-tingling, no? But I'll give you a tiny morsel: I was working at AOL-Time Warner Music (formerly Spinner, Inc.) doing a database management project.

As for the day off, it just couldn't have been more cozy. I hopped on BART a little after morning rush hour, headed downtown, cashed a fresh check, consumed three spring rolls and a large earl grey, and caught 8 Mile, which I loved. See it. Eminem shows off his f-i-n-e ass twice -- twice!

Jol seemed confused today about yesterday's digression to him. I meant it to convey that I was blushing; all of the kind things he wrote about the newly unveiled Bean Tails made me all aw-shucks and giddy. I meant it like, [bam] or [crash]. Maybe italics would have helped? See, I need Roderick's editorial assistance to give this page the glossy, crisp veneer it so needs.

And, no, you don't need any blush. You're already beautiful.

Also, oui on the I-love-you thing. I mean, unless it's your parents or your lover, I find it manipulative or needy if said too often. (Assuming that's what he's talking about. I'm just taking a bit of something and rolling with it.) Really, I'm hardly that lovable, and when someone's saying it ad nauseam, they be wanting something, I tell you. Wanting it bad.

So, violence has denigrated lower 24th Street within the past few weeks. I mean, it's always had a kind of grit to it -- a West Side Story-ish hue, harmless -- but now it's taken on a Taxi Driver feel. And here's a thin slice of what's been happening in the hood this week:

• Alissa, Jason and I are verbally assaulted en route to The Phonebooth. Taunts like "faggot," "niggers," and "I'll fuck your bitch while you watch" are hurled at us, carelessly.
  
  
• Brian is physically assaulted en route to BART; witnesses another assault, this time on a manish lesbian by same assailant; helps manbian up and escorts her to BART station. While walking to station, ears are boxed by assaliant's friend(s).
  
  
• Two car jackings, one ending in telephone pole-auto collision.
  
  
• Jake's cell phone is stolen from wearing-at-the-time backpack, while in line at El Faralito, while waiting for vegetarian flautas.
  
  
• Pioneer Video's miserable selection of videos from which to choose; forced to rent The Rose.
  
  
  

As you can see, things just aren't going well on the 24 these days. Maybe it's the feng shui, or the economy (But hey, I'm poor and you don't see me raping Jodie Foster on a pinball machine, do you?), or something. Just where is everyone's sense of personal responsibility? I'm going to start walking up and down the street in designer duds in protest, and everyone gets their names written on the chalkboard until it quiets the hell down.

Still, I'm happy, at home, with fresh-from-the-dryer socks on, ready to order some general's chicken and egg rolls. Chaos, control, chaos, control...

Speaking of violence, in college a professor of mine once said that America's Funniest Home Videos did nothing more than promote child abuse and endangerment. He was right, and I've been watching it ever since.

chaotically chaotic and wearing too much blush,
bk





Thursday, November 14, 2002


For a better understanding at where the pendulum of politics now swings, take a look at two of today's headlines, for example:


"Bush Approves Iraq War Plan; Large Force Seen"

"Al Gore Reprises Role on 'Futurama'"


Oh my.

Not that I even care that much at all, really. This is about as much Political insight as you'll be seeing here, so get it while it's piping hot and cooling on the windowsill, kids. I guess my Y chromosome refuses to swing that way -- into the tête-à-tête of Political commentary.

Also, I don't see why people whine about lackluster candidates, year after year, buying into the lesser-of-two-evils bullshit. I'm sorry, was Christ on last year's ballot? Did Santa make an unexpected run back in '92? Really now. But, like, I'd so vote for Santa. Or Oprah. Or anyone who'd be kind enough to bring me imperial rolls right now, or even a bag of Sun Chips. Please?

And speaking of food, while at lunch today, Jamie, a chic coworker of mine, bought a jar of La Praire intensive facial moisturizer for $125, and words fail me. The shit is both cellular and time-release, and I must have some. He let me smell it for kicks, and then gave me two free samples of it. So kind. I just love free samples, and I just love the fact that I have friends hovering in my sad tax bracket who make such wild purchases. Very inspirational. But I had never heard of La Praire before, so the overall experience left me a tad forlorn. Done don't like not knowing what's important, I don't.

I had such a surprise the other day: Brian rented Funny Girl. When he showed the box to me, I yelped and jumped back with shock and glee. It was just the thing I had wanted to see. And how many heterosexual men would rent Streisand's first film. Not many. And why not? It's a great movie; one of the last finer musicals, I hear. Apparently she was a complete bitch on the set, though. Hee.

Aside to Jol: [blush]

cellular and intensive,
bk





Wednesday, November 13, 2002


First, I have the worst cold and am on 3 800mgs ibuprofen, 2 Benadryl, and 1.5 aged valium, so I'm not sure where all of this is going. Oh yeah, I'm also sipping gallons of green tea, which, by the way, tastes like feet.

So...

In efforts to save both time and interest, Bean Tails is now a blog-ish site. Lovely! And just what, you might be asking yourself, invigorated the change? Two things:

One, Jol. And, really, when does he not inspire? See, he always leaves me the most beautiful late-night messages saying that although we don't talk often, he assumes I'm catching up with him via JNYM, which I am. And it's only fair to return the favor. Now he too can peer into my kaleidoscopic life, while saving us on long distance charges. That's cash in the pockets, folks.

Two, I'm lazy. Although I enjoy it, I'm not as firecrackered to write an essay (or whatever you choose to call it), then transfer it to html, then upload it, then get all OCD about it and make minute correction to it, over and over. I mean--OK, like, you know how your teachers (well, usually your professors in college) warned you not to be all fancy-like with your papers' presentations? How not to velobind them, give them cover pages, or increase its type size to a 15 pt Geneva font? Well, said professors were almost always looking in my direction when warning a classroom not to commit this sin of essay. I'm lazy and get by on my looks. Whatever. And although I adored writing Bean Tails -- and will continue to do so from time to time, if master likes -- I just got too caught up in the format and style of the site, too caught up in the glamour. So here, for both simplicity's and my sake, is a freshly scrubbed, smooth format. Enjoy.

PS, I was looking forward to hiring Roderick as my copyeditor, but ever since he moved to New York, his hourly rate skyrocketed. I'm just saying is all.