Friday, October 31, 2003
I went home for a funeral and all of SoCal -- yikes! -- was on fire. Very hellish. The cutest thing, though: my cat came in from
a nap on the lawn, covered in ash. Aw.
Clamato has staged a coup in liquor stores throughout the Mission, where it overthrew the delicious, hangover-taming Campbell's
Tomato Juice. (And V-8 is okay, but it doesn't have the sodium kick that Campbell's does; it won't make the salty side of your tongue lusciously bleed saliva.) I guess the stores were thinking, like, "What will make our tomato juice fly off the shelves? How about the ass-y taste of clam.
Monday, October 20, 2003
In a shocking turn of events my twin sister called me this week to tell me that she developed a gargantuan,
high-grade cocaine habit. And she supplements her new lifestyle by prostituting her so Cal body
to lonely men and -- ha ha. Just kidding. She doesn't do that. See, I just discovered that my
parents are reading this site -- which is fine -- and thought I'd give her some grief in case I
was getting any. Why? I have no idea. [Note to ma and pa: I've neither taken any said, delicious
drugs mentioned in BeanTails nor engaged in any hot sex whatsoever. All I ever do is sit at home
with a glass of Odwalla carrot juice in one hand, a shiny revolver for protection in the next.
Really, I'm abnormally healthy and safe.]
My sister, though, does have an impressive lifestyle compared to mine. Also, she's much more of a genius and entertainer
than I could ever aspire to reach. I keep trying to convince her to move up here to San Francisco, but I suspect her head would
implode if she ever ventured north of Malibu.
Had a great weekend in Berkeley, if you can imagine such a thing. Went to a fabulous party riddled with journalism students.
All of them possessed great and inviting
personalities, but knew things like who the President of Mexico was and shit like that. And I don't know that stuff; In fact, I can't even pretend to care.
In meetings at work we talk about a lot about politics, and I'm all, "I think I need a new alcohol-free conditioner."
Still, a loverly time was had by all.
But Berkeley has so many world-music and salsa music flyers strewn around their sparkly town, it's strange. No, it's just gross.
You would never see that kind of dangerous cultural fetishism in the Outer Mission, no sir. Here they (ok, we)
blare top 40 out the windows, drink Modelo, and mourn Selena. That's our kind of south of the border.
Keepin' it veridad, yo.
Buying better sheets will, I promise, change your life for the better. And make you feel more adult-like. I just
purchased one queen-sized 400-thread-count set of sheets. Amazing -- a worthwhile investment for
a better sleep and stylish living. My old tattered sheet was riddled with germs, body leaks, and
God knows what the fuck else, because I had them for so, so long. But the new sheets are chaste, its hymen unbroken; and
I won't have anyone sandwiched in them with me unless it's a husband. Or a fine piece of ass. Or hopefully both.
Another tip, you ask? Well, after handling garlic (which you should instead of using a stupid-ass
garlic press, ever. Seriously. No, seriously.) wash your hands with some minty mouthwash.
Might I recommend Fresh Burst Listerine? It erases
that strong, sticky oil posthaste.
Oh yeah -- it was the Bineys' one-year anniversary yesterday. So, for their "paper year," I bought them
a four-pack of toilet paper to clean
up the shit of the first year, if any. [We also watched the wedding DVD, where my toast was butchered
-- butchered! -- by the editor: A drug reference was cut.] I informed Justin that October 19th
is also the anniversary of Saint Matthew Shepard's death. And he said, "It's only fitting. Like Matthew,
I was on the fence for a while."
Monday, October 12, 2003
I found a creepy, crawly kinda large spider next to my bed today, which makes having to sleep alone that much more melancholic, more empty.
"Oh poor you!" Oh poor me, is right. Count your blessings, kids, that the entire world is not out to get you; that you, too, aren't the center of the universe. Indeed.
Also, happy belated birthday, my sexy Libras.
Saturday, October 10, 2003
I stood in a state of depression all week. But it was a real girly one: eating an entire box of Fruity
Pebbles; falling asleep at 6 p.m.; manipulating, self-pitying sighs; stuff like that. But now that my diet
has changed, everything's coming up sunshine and Santa Claus. Also, I'd like to thank Diazepam for doing its fair share.
We've got a team effort gong on, Val and me.
I think said depression stemmed from a crush I have -- because, really, I don't know what else to call it; like
I don't plan on lacing hickeys around his neck, or passing purple-penned love letters to him during home room -- on
this guy. Actually, it's several guys. Still, it's all very eye-roll inducing, so silly.
I got 86'ed from my first bar the other night. Jesus. My hymen broke when some staffer caught me trying to deface a political
poster in the bathroom. (And since when was it not okay to graffiti while taking an extra-long piss? You're kinda supposed to.)
I felt like a tool, a tool who -- while soon entering their 30s -- shouldn't pull stunts like that. In my defense, though,
it was fight for proper aesthetics; I would never harm another person or creature. Anyway, some guy hustled me out, posthaste.
So, without hesitation, I pulled out
the gay card when his fat balding head got in my pretty moist face. Then -- after exploiting my sexuality to him -- he was like
, "Dude, man, dude, look -- I'm sorry it's just that -- come one, dude, look, man..." Heh. I demanded him to get me my coat
and friends, too. A success. But now I feel like someone who needs to grow the fuck up, pay off massive Visa bills,
drink gloppy glasses of Metamucil, whatever. So sad.
Oh wait, I was also kicked out of a club in West Hollywood (thanks, Judah, for reminding me) at 17 for drinking a bottle of contraband peach Schnapps, and just being there, underage. But that's different. That's kinda cool.
Oh, this is the anniversary of a particularly fun night of sex. Now, I'm not one who usually goes for the younging; for
better or for worse, they usually find and try latching on to me. And I'm not really attracted to boys as much as I am to men. But last year
I met this German tourist who was 17. And we hit it off well. Very well. He told me his birthday was just around the
bend, and showed his passport to my suspecting eye. And I wasn't about to do anything with a fucking hot under-aged lad, because
I've been on the other side of that set-up, and it's always a strange dynamic. I don't know, maybe all of my sexual
dynamics seem strange. Who knows. Anyway, we fucked on his 18th birthday. I wouldn't have held out as
long as I did for some guy, but his defense as a big one. Ouch. Mmm.
Monday, October 6, 2003
Very good JNYM today, but it also totally creeped me out, and I mean that in a good way.
It made me recoil in sci-fi horror. And flies equal grime, so I'm going to priority Fed-Ex
Jol & Nico a large can of Raid tomorrow. See, I used to live on the shore in an old carriage
house in Santa Cruz, infested with insects, spiders and slugs; and each morning I would
see snail trails on the carpet, glistening in the sunlight. It was the worst year of my life, and Black Flag my morning tea.
Happy Yom Kippur, my Jew friends. Atone!
Speaking of which, I failed to wish anyone a happy new year last week.
But considering about 3/4 of my friends are so-Cal Jews, I'm sure they couldn't
give a squirt of piss about it themselves, much less remember the day. So, it's all good.
I'm preparing the entire Thanksgiving feast this year, again. It's a tradition: let the
faggot do the intricate meal, with all that endives and shit. But I'm excited to prep and prepare the meal as I get to dote around and drink
white wine all day in the kitchen, screaming at family memebers to get the fuck out of my kitchen, I'm real fucking busy. It's loads of holiday cheer.
Last year's was almost a total success; however, I had to ask my brother to please put on pants -- instead of his
usual shorts -- perfect for a polite dinner.
It got edgy as I hadn't fought with him since high school, but was prepared to
battle it out in the name of WASP aesthetics. Thankfully, he put them on.
Also, I'm going to be candy for Halloween this year. That means I'll staple my favorite candy bars to my clothes. It sounds
lame, but it proved very popular last year, thank yuou. It's not like I'm being a fucking angel or retrded devil. (An associate of mine wants
to be a DS patient, and I said go for it, because that would be fucking funny. When she asked if I would help her with it, I said, "no.")
This year, though, I'm going to put fun-sized Snickers and 100 Grands in my hair, too. Just how, you ask? Well, I'm going
to hot glue gun them to barrettes. And there you have it.
OK. I must leave SF soon, or I'll chew my thumbs off. A trip to Chicago is in the planing stages, but couldn't come soon enough.
In the interim I ask for Calgon to, please, take me away. Please.
Thursday, October 2, 2003
I'm writing this entry while on two crushed Ambiens, so this yacht could sink at any second.
Extreme Makeover, is the best show on TV, period. It's so inspiring: someone is
ugly; their life is in ruins, as are the lives of loved ones who've tried in vain to defend
their horrific-looking friend and/or family member; then said ugly person gets a chin implant and a tit job.
On the whole, though, a great show -- not only is the content of plastic surgery in and of itself
fascinating, but they show the patients just moments before going under anesthetic rapture, muttering
gibberish. Hee. However, the produces best not fuck it up by turning the surgeons and stylists into personalities;
that seemed like the downfall of Trading Spaces Anyway, I just love it and look forward to it
every week. I, too, yearn to have the fat sucked out of my cheeks and chin, and Extreme Makeover taught me that's okay.
But then, in the end, I feel sorry for the people who are made over, because they usually come home to a small
town full on low asbestos ceilings. Sad.
Uh oh -- it's kicking it. Gotta fly.