Menu Close

All posts

Bravo Evil

Bad, bad Bravo. The stupid Gay Riviera thing wasn’t bad enough. Now you’ve replaced my St. Elsewhere re-runs with Thirtysomething re-runs. You’ve dumped one of the greatest shows in TV history for some of the most annoying wankers ever portrayed onscreen. Evil. Bad. And no, it’s not one bit more endearing now that I’m almost 37 myself, thanks…

Speaking of age-related milestones, happy birthday, old friend. I’m celebrating for you by lying on the couch watching Rear Window and trying not to fall asleep again. At least for a couple of hours…

Damned drugs. Damned thyroid condition.

26 July 2001

I meant to mention this a while back. It was very refreshing to walk down Folsom Street and see an auto body shop moving INTO a building rather than moving out so it could be torn down for more overpriced, oversized yuppie condos. Who knows? Maybe it will actually be fun living South of Market again one of these days now that the carpetbaggers are dropping like flies. But I’m not holding my breath.

Also fun: the really old Simpsons episodes which have sequenced back in on the local carrier. Yes, the animation sucks and the voices all sound wrong, but those shows from the first season have a certain texture and depth of characterization and plot that even those from the second or third season lack, classics though they may be.

Not fun: the website which wouldn’t die.

I mentioned this hellish situation a while back and it hasn’t gotten any better, even though the damned thing goes live tomorrow. It’s database-driven, using some proprietary technology for which they refuse to provide decent documentation. I do not have FTP access, so I have to email test pages to the bitch (there’s no better word) and wait a day to see if they work. Which is always fun since I’ve had precious little instruction on how to put the damned things together in the first place.

Today, I sent three pieces of code, specifically asking if any of them would work. She reposnded by informing me that I’d sent her three pieces of code and wondering which one I intended to use. I kept myself from answering her and informing her that if she (a) had read my mail and (b) weren’t a fucking idiot, she’d know the answer to her question already.

I think my vaguely polite response mentioned something to the effect of “some guidance would be very much appreciated”. I’ve been complimented on my tact before.

My only joy here is knowing that her company will be out of buisness soon, given their inabilty to communicate and their complete lack of customer service (yes, there have been many other issues). I only hope that my client doesn’t suffer when this happens. I like my client; I just dislike their choice of database/e-commerce vendors.

The Man of My Dreams?

I rarely covet a live-in boyfriend. Frankly, the idea sort of horrifies me. But sometimes I think it might be nice.

Tonight is one of those times. I have this big, painful bump on my butt. I’m not sure if it’s an ingrown hair, or a Coumadin-enhanced bruise, or what. If I had a boyfriend, I’d make him look at it. As it stands, though, I’m really not comfortable asking even my closest friends to take a look at my left buttcheek and tell me what they think.

The whole hospital thing would have been a good time to have a hubby too. To start with, maybe he would have had cool domestic partner insurance. Barring that, he could at least have moved my car so I could have skipped the parking ticket I got the night I went in. He might even have brought me jammies and done other little things I didn’t feel like asking anyone else to do (even though I know they would have).

But none of this is really sufficient inspiration to go out searching for the man of my dreams, especially if it might mean having to live in the same house with him, engage in conversation when I’m not in the mood, wait to get into the shower and then realize there’s no more hot water, or (God forbid) have to consider traveling with a companion.

I guess I’ll stay single for a while longer…

Cookies and Charlotte

One of those mildly disorienting Sundays, where suddenly it’s 5:30 in the afternoon and I realize I’ve been up for about nine hours and have not once left the house. When I do, I’m puzzled by the presence of too many lukewarm leatherettes walking around the ‘hood. Then it hits me that it’s Dore Alley Fair day…

Instead of going for a walk, I decide to scurry off to the suburbs in search of cheap cookies and lactose-free milk, hoping they’ll all be gone when I get back. Or at least that it’ll be dark out…

 

I’ve been pondering Charlotte and Charlotte history all weekend. I’m not sure why. I’m never quite sure why I’m so drawn to the place. The three years I lived there were among the most darkest of my life, and it’s one of the most stuffy, Baptist, Republican places I’ve ever lived. But for some reason, I’ve just about always believed I’d live there again someday…

Maybe it’s the fried squash at Gus’ Sir Beef…

Farewell, BayTV

It’s making me a little less sad that BayTV is disappearing forever at midnight tonight. The final two shows were repeats of 90-minute specials featuring Molly Ivins and Fran Liebowitz. It’s about as close to heaven as you can get on a Tuesday night.

But at midnight, there’s no more BayTV. Only The Food Network, with its endless repeats of “1001 Uses for Polenta” or whatever. All the same, maybe replacing a news and information channel with one about trendy food is uniquely appropriate in the Bay Area, where style increasingly trumps substance.

Or maybe our antiquated cable system, with its limited channel capacity just sucks. If so, it demonstrates once again AT&T’s commitment to mediocrity across all its operations. Consistency is always comforting.

I’m coming precariously close to babbling now. It’s the medication. Trust me.

Birthday Non-plans

Since a few people have asked, yeah, my birthday is coming up in eight days. I’ve pretty much decided to ignore it this year.

I may have dinner with a few friends, if they’re agreeable, or I may even leave town for some unspecified destination, but I probably won’t be hosting the semi-public gathering this year unless there’s some tremendous outcry from people who have had their calendars marked for a year. I don’t really imagine that will be an issue.

I’m just not in the frame of mind to be a good host right now. Which is not to say that I’m not feeling better. I’ve actually felt considerably more human the past few days. All the same, it’s been a crappy couple of months and I haven’t really arrived back at “sociable” yet.

Yes, it could be argued that I never arrived at “sociable” to begin with.

Moody?

Depressed. Anxious. Indecisive. Dissatisfied. Unmotivated. Lacking confidence. And unable (or unwilling) to discuss any of it, even with my friends, much less with the world at large. So I haven’t been communicating much with anyone. My apologies. I’ll try to be more interesting next week when I’m older and presumably wiser…

At Age 37

Random reflections and realizations upon hitting age 37:

  • There is absolutely nothing exciting about being 37.
  • The day convenience stores started selling lottery tickets was the day they ceased to be anything resembling convenient.
  • When my mom told me as a child that I’d eventually regret it if I started smoking, she was right.
  • The more commercials annoy me, the more I watch PBS, which is probably a good thing.
  • At some point in the last year, a good parking space assumed a higher priority in my life than sex.
  • A little cubed steak can be a wonderful thing.
  • Most of my friends are considerably more tolerant and accommodating of me than I have any right to expect them to be. More attentive too.
  • I’m glad I don’t really drink anymore, because if I did, I might get really plastered tonight, and I’d surely regret it tomorrow.

Wimpy San Franciscans

One of the rudest tendencies here in the “tolerant” Bay Area is that so many people here feel the need to wander up to complete strangers in public places and tell them exactly how environmentally, socially, or metaphysically incorrect their current set of actions are.

It’s not just in Berkeley

I’ve had the occasional stranger wander upto me and inform me, for example, that smoking is unhealthy and dangerous. After being flabbergasted by the presumptuousness of the first two or three pompous asses, I started responding with something along the lines of “so is walking upto complete strangers on the street and offering unsolicited criticism when you don’t know how violently they might react.”

It’s amazing how well that usually works…

What’s with this assumption that gentle, intellectual prodding will somehow make the cretins of the world suddenly realize the error of their ways and rush to mend all adjacent fences? Why must the granola crowd be so fucking wimpy and schoolmarmish? They leave me embarrassed to be a leftist. Why not call an asshole an asshole?

Here’s a hint: gentle reminders about the environment and consideration for others are not going to matter much to that yuppie swine who used three spaces to park his urban assault vehicle. However, a note containing a forceful reminder about how accessible and fragile his windshield are just might.

And a reminder: telling the woman who scolds you for looking in the meat case at Safeway to “shut the fuck up and mind your own business” is going to get rid of her much faster than some long-winded explanation of how you need extra protein in your diet, blah blah blah…

We need fewer people quoting sociology dissertations and more people using terms like these:

  • Brain-dead frat boy (each should be capitalized if you’re discussing the President).
  • Self-righteous bitch (replace “bitch” with “prick” as needed).
  • Fucking idiot (wonderful all-purpose terminology).

Yes, I’m suggesting that rudeness be used to combat rudeness in some cases. Most people who are being assholes are quite aware that they’re doing so and won’t react to any other response. And those who don’t know they’re being assholes should be made aware of the fact, not made to feel that they’ve “won” because you were compelled to “defend” yourself.

Don’t get in a fight, of course, but also don’t assume that a response like “please stop damaging my self-esteem” or “perhaps you should be more sensitive to my needs” is going to gain you much ground outside the ever-flaky Bay Area.

Yes, I realize that I might well be much happier in New York, where people mind their own business. I’ve never reacted well to scolding…

Mmmm. Cryptic.

I did something last night that I haven’t done in almost three months. I’m not going to say what, but it sure was fun. And even better, it’s a doctor-recommended therapy…

And no, it wasn’t laundry, although I did that yesterday too. It’s only been two months on that one…