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Sunday Nights

I hate Sunday nights.

Since I have to be up on at a reasonable hour on Monday mornings, I have to go to sleep at a reasonable hour on Sunday nights. And, of course, the minute I turn off the lights and try to go to sleep, I find myself wide awake and worrying. Worrying about everything I should have been dealing with during the day. Worrying about everything in my life which bothers me.

And there’s a lot bothering me…

I’m worried that I’m merely coasting along in life, not accomplishing much of anything on a personal or a professional level. I’m worried that I live in a pretty expensive apartment (by the standards of most of the country) in an outrageously expensive city and that I’m just one step ahead of the bills. I’m worried that I don’t seem to be doing much about this situation.

I’m worried that my parents are getting older and that their only son lives three thousand miles away and only sees them once a year or so. I’m worried that my relationship with my mom or my dad could end unexpectedly with one phone call in the middle of the night.

I’m worried that my bad habits may catch up with me soon. I’m worried about becoming a big fat slob. I’m worried that I don’t go out or hang out with friends like I used to, and that lately I can’t even manage the simple task of anwering email messages from people who went to the effort to compliment my site or whatever.

I’m worried that I function just fine on a day-to-day basis, but that the weeks pile up and I realize I haven’t really DONE much of anything. I haven’t found a purpose or a vocation in life. I haven’t bought new furniture for the apartment. I haven’t started than book I’m going to write nor that new program I’m going to learn. I haven’t fixed the sideview mirror of my car nor made those two phone calls to old friends I need to make. Et cetera.

I’ll wake up on Monday morning (in about six hours to be specific) and I’ll feel fine, if a bit sleepy. And the whole cycle will start over. Before I know it, another week will have passed.

And I’ll still hate Sunday nights. Sorry if this was a bit of a downer.

9 April 1999

Hallelujah! McDonald’s has added sexual orientation to its non-dicrimination policy. Now queers have the right to cook really vile-tasting fast food for five bucks an hour. I’d imagine domestic partner benefits aren’t an issue. Does Master Ronald even OFFER benefits to his plantation workers? Maybe just to the overseers…

Maybe they need a visit from Michael Moore and crew. Yer humble host is most excited about his new show, The Awful Truth, which starts this weekend on Bravo. Michael Moore rules the universe as I currently see it. Among the planned excursions on the show: Michael drives a van full of sodomites through states which still have sodomy laws, videotaping the felonies they commit therein.

Beats hell out of another Friends re-run, huh?

In other breaking news, I’ve managed (thanks to Dan) to obtain something I’ve been wanting for a long time: an original Charles Chips cannister. For those of you who have no clue what a Charles Chip might be, this was a company which used to do weekly home delivery of potato chips. Yes, it sounds as strange to me as it does to you.

My aunt next door got Charles Chips delivered. Most of my other neighbors did too. I always felt a little inadequate as a child because we never had one of these cans in my house. Mom and Dad boughts Lay’s at Winn-Dixie instead.

But now I have one. My life is almost complete.

Planet SOMA: It’s incrediburgable!

I’ve spent my entire Saturday doing some long overdue maintenance on the site. I didn’t plan it that way, but I just got started and couldn’t stop. There’s a little more to be done, but you can check out the re-structured Streets of San Francisco, including an expanded Neighborhoods section and new individual pages on restaurants and non-upscale places to shop.

In addition, I’m redesigning Folsom Street in the 70’s and adding some new content I’ve picked up via email. There’s more to come. I’ve also updated About Yer Humble Host ever so slightly.

Otherwise, I’ve spent the weekend giving HTML lessons to friends, eating lots of Indian food at my former boss’s going away (to Paris) party, and wondering just how long it takes for one’s virginity to grow back after not having sex for a while.

My biggest regret is the frozen pizza I had for lunch. My biggest surpise is that I haven’t turned on the TV or radio all day. My biggest embarrassment is that the phone has not rung. Not once…

I think the situation calls for a shower and a beer. Not necessarily in that order.

I’m off to brave Folsom Street on a Saturday night. If I’m not back in two days, it means I’m in jail for killing some idiot from the Marina or Walnut Creek who got in my way.

April Fool

Hee hee hee…

Fifty email messages and counting (which is by far a new Planet SOMA record) about yesterday’s April Fool gag (where I remade Planet SOMA in truly “gay” rainbow-laden style). It was fun. Y’know, it takes a lot of effort to design really ugly web pages. I’ve developed a new respect for those who can do it with a straight face.

I may, however, regret it as I spend Friday ANSWERING those fifty messages. Alas, everyone seemed to “get it” (a testament to the collective IQ of Planet SOMA fans), so there’s no hate mail to publish. But there’s still a few hours to go as I type this.

Recieved the above in the mail today (the REAL mail, with an envelope and a stamp and everything) from Jay. Alas, it was a day late for April Fool’s, but deserves a look anyhow. I guess I’m a real card-carrying homosexual now…

So I guess it’s back now to writing about whatever the hell Planet SOMA is REALLY about. Anybody with any clue what that might be is welcome to contact me. I’m not too sure anymore.

Maybe I’m just feeling blinded by all those animated rainbows…

Sick?

Sick day at home. You might think I would have accomplished something. All I accomplished was sleep. Which was a good thing since I didn’t accomplish much of it the night before…

All the same, look for a brand new and radically different Planet SOMA tomorrow. Don’t miss the premiere!

Acceptable Week

All in all, I’d have to say it’s been a pretty acceptable week.

I was a little disturbed by life last week (you’ll thank me for sparing you the details and the whining), but things look a little brighter now. The financial traumas associated with setting up housekeeping alone have eased a bit. The construction across the street has become a little less annoying.

And I found a great new dive with an irresistable name: Big Joe’s Broiler #2. Look for a review soon.

My new part-time boss even scored points today. We were talking about Sunday’s demolition at SF State and about Detroit when he recommended a book I should read. Turns out it’s one of my all-time favorites, The New American Ghetto by Vergara (note the shameless marketing link…twice even…) When someone recommends one of my favorite books, I’m pre-disposed to like him, because (a) my favorite books are very specific types, and (b) my favorite books are really obscure.

I’ve even paid this month’s bills already. Some of them were even on time!

And I’m only four shows short of my complete set of “Streets of San Francisco” episodes on tape. I’ll have them all by Friday. There’s a database involved. Even my hobbies are becoming geeky…

On the other hand, I’m still behind on the email. Really behind. Up to a month in some cases. I seem to have developed this really bad mental block when it comes to email.

Yeah, I’m babbling and writing about nothing, I know. Maybe it’s best that I’m not answering email…

At the Track

Sure, the news today had stories about the fact that we now seem to be at war. There was also mention of the fact the Fred Phelps made his semi-annual visit to San Francisco on Friday (he’s done wonders for queers ever since we put him on the payroll as official spokesidiot for bigotry).

But today’s completely unnewsworthy story on horse racing at Golden Gate Fields was the one which caught my eye. You see, I grew up going to the horse races and I know what a wondrous thing it is.

About twice a year, my mom and dad and I (sometimes with my grandmother) would pack up the car bound for a little town called Charles Town, West Virginia and go to the races.

The trip was pretty similar each time. The first day, we’d drive up, check into our motel, hit that night’s races, and have a late snack at the diner downtown. On the second day, we’d drive to wherever there were races in the suburbs of Washington or Baltimore. My dad would watch the horses and my mom and I often hit a mall or whatever. Back to Charles Town that night for a repeat. On the third and final day, we’d either go to Washington (for culture) or one of the big theme parks in Virginia (for fun) and then home.

These were great trips. They weren’t really about gambling (although I did learn how to pick a winner). For me, and I suspect somewhat for my mom and dad as well, they were largely about people-watching. Some of the strangest characters in the world lurk about eastern race tracks: big fat drunk guys in plaid sportcoats, scary kids who looked like modern adaptations of Dickensian orphans, bored and damaged-looking mothers…

The food was great too: no frills pizza and hot dogs and hamburgers. There was lots of beer, too, but my mom and dad didn’t drink. The whole atmosphere was so incredibly seedy. I loved it. It prepared me for the pockmarked urban landscapes I love to this day. It was all about the working class (or maybe not even as well-to-do as that…)

Somehow, I can’t imagine that any track in the increasingly trendy and sanitized Bay Area could match up to Charles Town or Laurel or Timonium. No doubt, the uptight soccer moms of Marin County would be horrified at the idea of a child visiting such a place. It’s just too real for our sophisticated palates. I envision lattes and biscotti and sandwiches on focaccia.

But maybe I’m wrong. Anybody wanna check it out with me? Casino gambling bores me. Dog racing horrifies me. But I could be in the mood to hang out with the horses this week.

Biff and Muffy

Ever wonder what I mean by “Financial District yuppie scumbag”? Here’s a classic, almost cliché example I witnessed today in the actual Financial District involving an actual yuppie scumbag:

Biff was sitting in his BMW, chatting away on his cell phone. He was double-parked in the path of a bus. The bus could not get around him. The bus driver blew his horn.

Biff was obviously unconcerned about anything but his conversation, and about making sure everyone knew he was more important than any of the lowly slobs on the bus. Biff would not move. Period. After a few minutes, Biff even got out of his BMW to yell at the bus driver rather than move his car ten feet.

Biff is an asshole. Biff deserved to have things thrown at him by the passengers on the bus. Biff is so self-obsessed that he believed himself to be the victim (“how dare he interrupt my important business call”) even though Biff himself was clearly the one in the wrong.

Biff reminds me of another Financial District yuppie scumbag (let’s call her “Muffy”) who once threatened to sue ME when I grabbed her hands and told her to stop poking me in the face and screaming at me.

Biff and Muffy are becoming way too common in San Francisco these days.

Biff and Muffy must be stopped.

Furniture and Beer

I’m re-furnishing my house courtesy of Sarah and Brad. So far I’ve added the coolest butterfly chair in the world as well as a drafting table. They’re great…sort of like a surrogate aunt and uncle. Except that they’re both younger than I am. And they have cooler stuff than my aunts and uncles.

Strangely sociable weekend. Went to Jack’s in the Mission Friday night to see Rae and Michael as they visited from Portland, along with Dawson, Paula, Shawn and two other very nice people whose names I now do not remember. There are more pictures. They’re not significantly better than the one above. Dark bars do not photograph well.

On Saturday, I had dinner with the ex-roomie and visited my former sofa. The sofa seems very happy in its new home. It has lots of light and a new blanket and a bigger TV. It also has an adjacent futon with which to pass time during the day. It’s a happy sofa indeed. Dan seems pretty happy too.

Randomly San Francisco

So just when I’m starting to get excited about living alone in the Planet SOMA factory, I find out that for the next three to six months I will be living in a construction zone.

Between the freeway retrofit, which should be noisy as hell and will eliminate an unbelievable amount of parking, and the ugly loftominium going up across the street, life should really suck for a while. Earning the rent should be pretty easy, though, considering I’ll never be able to sleep past 7AM, or to leave the house in my car (assuming I plan to park it when I get home).

The freeway is a necesary evil, I understand. The loft isn’t. Here’s a thought: if my new neighbors have a right to shut down (or curtail) bars and clubs because of the noise, don’t I have the right to stop construction of a new yuppie slum for the same reason?

Probably not…

Interesting story on SF gay nightlfe in today’s paper. Seems our “community” has “grown up” enough to be fascinated by sterile bars with more upscale patrons. Much of the Castro is jumping on this bandwagon. Shouldn’t be a very long jump…

Fortunately, the South of Market dives are still dark, dirty, and smoker-friendly (for now), and I’ve neer seen anyone reading the Wall Street Journal in My Place. Down here, it is still possible to engage in a semi-public dalliance (as I did last night) with a boy who looked like a cuter version of Beck and his dreadlocked friend. I’m not sure if they were a couple.

Speaking of dives, there’s a new diner on the site, should you care…