Just like we have herds of cattle and flocks of seagulls, I’ve decided that a pack of queers is a “quandary” and a pack of Lesbians is a “lick”. Yes, faggots run in packs. That’s no secret. And it’s also no small source of consternation for me, as a bit of a loner and a hermit.

What really bugs me, though, is the type of fag who goes out to bars with his entourage and cruises up a storm but never once leaves his impenetrable fortress of friends. And then he complains about how he never meets anyone when he goes to bars.

“People cruise me and smile at me, but no one ever talks to me,” the little wanker whines. What the hell does he expect? No one could get near him all night.

I’m sure there’s some sociological explanation for this “herding urge” among Sodomites. And I’m sure it’s related to the reason why some people are completely unable to eat at restaurants alone, go to movies alone, etc. A lot of people seem completely terrified of EVER being alone, particularly in a public place.

Maybe I’m the weirdo here. I almost always go to bars alone, because I almost always go to bars to meet people or to run into acquaintances I wouldn’t see anyplace else. If I want to socialize and converse with friends, a bar would be the last pace I’d do so. Who wants to have a conversation when you have to shout and strain to hear every word?

A case in point from a recent Saturday night: I supsect that the aforementioned whiny wanker (so named because that’s how he’ll end up spending the evening) also wanted to meet people, which is why he came to the bar in the first place. But he was so terrified of being alone (or of being SEEN alone) that he probably didn’t meet ANYONE.

Very few people, in my observation, are willing to walk up to a crowd of strangers and just jump right into the conversation. I’m not. On the other hand, many people will walk upto an individual standing alone (trust me). If the guy above had just once stopped staring a hole in my crotch from within his crowd and had actually walked away and done so away from them, we might be going at it like rabbits even now.

Instead, he chose the coy option I refer to as “cutesy cruising”; he alternated between talking to his pals and staringing pointedly in my direction for 20 minutes, never leaving his perch. I got bored with it and moved on, even though I would like to have met him, particularly given his obvious and intense interest. I found a substitute. I’m sure he went home and pouted because no one would approach him.

A couple of tips:

• First, try going to bars alone once in a while. Once there, try spending a few minutes not being in the center of a group of friends. Believe it or not, it is quite possible to enjoy being in a bar without spending every minute talking to someone. If nothing else, the people-watching can be fun.
• If you’re really hot for someone and he’s cruising back, excuse yourself from your circle of friends for a minute. Go to the bar or the bathroom and take your time coming back. Get by yourself for a few minutes.
• If you can’t do either of the above, then walk over and introduce yourself to the guy. He’s not going to invade your crowd, but you could invade his solitude. If he’s been cruising you too, that’s probably what he’s waiting for.

 

Well, shut my mouth!

For the first time in recent memory, I went out on a Saturday night and actually had good time. Regulars will know that Saturday night (a/k/a “amateur night”) is usually my least favorite night to go out in the neighborhood, or just about anyplace else. On Saturday nights, every bar in the world is populated by drunk idiots from the ‘burbs, circuit queens from hell, etc.

Tonight was different, though. The losers must have gone someplace else for the night. I ran into friends, got cruised quite heavily on mulitiple occasions, and even had not one but two enjoyable bits of oral copulation. There’s something quite mystical about having a cute 22-year-old on his knees looking up longingly at you.

All in all, it’s been a pretty good weekend, although I spent most of it at home working on a Mother’s Day video for my mom. Yes, I am aware that today is Mother’s Day, and yes, it is going to be delivered late. Mom is comfortable with this.

Had a great Friday night with Sarah, featuring dinner at Tad’s (which may or may not be closing, but look for a review in a few days) and dessert at David’s Delicatessen. Point of interest: Harold’s International Newsstand (Geary at Taylor) may be San Francisco’s best boy-watching bet of the week on Friday nights.

And we met the San Francisco Twins! They even agreed to appear in my Mother’s Day video. San Franciscans in the know will understand what a major coup this is. I’ll explain it to the rest of you later.

And one of my design babies (in this case a re-design) went live today too. Go visit, and tell your Cruisemaster how spiffy it looks. He spent a long night uploading last night.

I’m going to bed now, before I have a chance to lose this rare good mood.

So the piece of shit yuppie slum across the street just gets taller and taller and uglier and uglier, once again begging the question of just who pays $350,000 or more to live in a drafty condo constructed of plywood? And given the IQ level of these individuals, do I really want them as neighbors?

There’s a good article in the generally useless SF Weekly this week about the Planning Commission’s latest “live/work reforms”.

All the same, I know the neighborhood is not completely sanitized yet. I watched a guy break into a car the other night from my office window. It was a BMW and it had a loud car alarm, so it was hard to find much sympathy. Besides, what was I going to do? Call the police? By the time they arrived, the guy would have been long gone. I, on the other hand, would have been kept up way past my bedtime.

Note to assholes in BMWs: car alarms do absolutely NO good and often make people even LESS likely to help you out.

Also on this exciting Friday morning, I’ve been spammed by voice mail. I’m not talking about a telemarketer who left a message. Someone apparently got a list of voice mail boxes within Pacific Bell and spewed forth an ad within the system suggesting that recipients call his “information line”. Of course, Pac Bell’s response to my complaint did little to inspire confidence that it won’t happen again.

Still working on naming those plants and still thinking about that bathhouse issue. And look for some other really bitchin’ cool stuff tomorrow or Sunday…

Great. In March, I lose the roomie and get the place to myself. By April, I’ve already found that elsusive soulmate (hanging around at the Home Depot in Colma, as it happens) and moved her into my home. With her whole damned family…

This is Irma. She watches over me from the window of my office. You might say that Irma inspires all my work. Or then again, you might not…

 

These two live in the kitchen. They do not have names yet. Irma has offered to allow Planet SOMA’s faithful readers to name them. Irma, however, is a control freak and reserves the right to ignore all submissions she hates.

 

More kitchen kids. The two smaller ones also have no names. The older one hanging from the ceiling is Cecil. He likes hanging from the ceiling. I think it’s sex thing. I also think Cecil and Irma are seeing each other behind my back.