I’m home. I’m not committing murder. You’re all relieved, no doubt.
Funny. Thanks to Ron for that one.
A friend and I were discussing sperm yesterday via email (it made sense at the time) and he asked “is it weird that I often view semen as some sort of awful venom?” It started me thinking that there’s a whole generation of Sodomites just slightly younger than me who, given recent world history, may very well have grown up thinking this.
I guess I’m part of the last generation which started out its sex life thinking it was just fine and dandy to spooge in the mouth, up the butt, or wherever else was handy. Of course, things changed pretty quickly for most of us about 1983 or 1984. And people just a year or two younger than me came out into a world of condoms, “on me not in me”, and all the rest. It was the default condition for them, and significantly less behavioral modification was involved. I think.
It’s a shame in some ways, that so many people have been conditioned to view semen as toxic. But you could argue that it’s a necessary shame, I guess.
Just testing a new interim front page with Planet SOMA to the left and The Other Stream up above. The idea is to make it the entrypoint for both sites until I’m ready to divorce them completely in a month or two. This idea may suck. I haven’t decided yet…
Besides, it’s Thanksgiving week, which has always proven to be a low-traffic time which is great for experiments.
At any rate, my uncertainity pales in comparison to what they must be going through at the Chronicle and the Examiner right now. It’s a strange thing; the Examiner’s “final issue” today was sort of final, but not really. After all, the paper will still exist tomorrow, albeit as a morning paper owned by a different company and written by a different staff. And the old Examiner staff will still be around tomorrow too, working at the Chronicle. Confused? A lot of people are…
My biggest concern, of course, is where Zippy the Pinhead will end up.
My other biggest concern, alas, is about my increasingly miserable on-site part-time job. No 20-hour a week gig should be tormenting me as much as this one is starting to. I don’t see it lasting past the end of the year. So if you have any great-paying semi-regular part-time work which will balance out the cashflow in my freelance jungle, please let me know…
Thanksgiving Day. Appropriately, it’s cold, gray, and autimnal in San Francisco. All in all, I’d say I’m being treated to roughly the same weather I’d be experiencing if I were at home with Mom and Dad. The only difference is the lack of fallen leaves all over the streets and the grass. Of course, there’s not really any grass here to be covered anyway.
Perhaps the greatest thing about Thanksgiving Day in the city is the fact that I managed to park right at my front door last night. A minor miracle. And, were I to give up this prime space, I might actually get it again later today.
I’m not really going to sit here all day. Dan, Jamie, and I are going out in search of a charming Denny’s in another area code later this afternoon. Could be Sacramento or Santa Cruz or just Pacifica, depending on the traffic. And then we might go to K-mart.
Thanksgiving has never been a holiday I celebrate very festively. My one concession was baking a pan of brownies last night, which did impress several of my friends, oddly enough. I usually save most of my domesticity for Christmas. I’m not sure why, given my lack of any particularly active Christianity.
I’m actually going into my miserable part-time job for a hour or two tomorrow, having negotiated an hourly rate for this favor which rivals that of some doctors or lawyers, but still doesn’t quite compare with most auto mechanics.
But for now, I’m watching Bewitched. I’m thankful to be watching Bewitched.
So sometimes when I’m feeling even more lethargic than usual (which is a pretty frightening thing), I pop in some random video from my collection and realized that I’ve taped some strange shit over the years.
Tonight’s choice was MTV’s “Buzz Weekend” from sometime in 1992. It featured significant chunks of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Live. There were moments from when Steve Isaacs was still adorable and still a VJ, and (maybe strangest of all) an entire episode of “MTV Sports” with Dan Cortese (remember him?) and Marky Mark, not to mention special skateboarding guests The Beastie Boys.
I sure enjoyed those “grunge years”. It was one of the only times in my life when scruffy long-haired boys were in the mainstream rather than (pardon the expression) the other stream. And of course, you all know that scruffy long-haired boys are my favorite flavor.
The music was pretty good too, if a bit uneven. It’s a pity the final result was the complete corporatization and homogenization of “alternative” which followed shortly after, about the time Singles was released. Even so, I liked it too, just because it’s the only movie I’ve ever seen which had a city planner as its main character.
Funny. This started out as a journal entry about how Jim Morrison was the sexiest rock star ever. Look where it went. Well, he was, anyhow. Maybe I’ll write about that tomorrow…
Another minor miracle: an entertaining Saturday night out on Folsom Street.
It was not entertaining in the sense of “I met the boy of my dreams and we fucked like whores all night”, although that would indeed have been pleasant. It was just nice that I ran into several friends I hadn’t seen in a very long time, including Barry (whose name you’re not expected to know) and Bringdown (who will remain nameless, faceless, and always enticingly bitter).
And I didn’t get drunk. That was a bonus too, albeit an expected one, and one you may not believe from my bad sentence structure this morning.
The downside was my visit to Hole in the Wall, the bar which used to be my favorite on the entire planet. It has all of a sudden turned into absolutely the creepiest place on earth. It’s like watching the voyage of the damned. There were, I’d estimate, about fifteen people there at 1:00 tonight. I’m guessing that five of them will have OD’ed and arrived at the emergency room by the time I type this. The rest, are no doubt, still sitting there staring into space. The place was just plain scary and it’s been that way every time I’ve stopped in lately. It’s a shame.
On brighter fronts, someone loves me. He’s in Richmond, Virginia. Why does no one in my own time zone ever love me?
I’m going to bed.
A little good news: I’m getting an insurance refund dating back to when my old car was still registered in North Carolina, and it seems I may be able to shop at Safeway again soon.
I think I gave notice at my evil, soul-sucking part-time job today. I’m not really sure I meant to yet; it just sort of happened, almost by accident. It’s probably for the best, but it does add a certain urgency to my quest for a career. Mainly because I probably won’t quite be able to make ends meet until I find some sort of replacement.
The preferred replacement would be a larger chunk of freelance work. Need a website? Need porn stories? Need a bitter and sometimes sarcastic columnist? I’m open to other things, although I think my age and girth have pretty much ruled out prostitution or modeling.
Resume?
And no, I can’t offer insight on why I’m leaving my current job, because I’m not entirely sure if I’ve left it yet.
Plans for the weekend:
- Eradicate this cold I seem to have caught.
- Entertain Duncan and Rick (arriving Saturday) and maybe convince them that they need a very well-paid houseboy who can cook grits.
- Update Bottles.
- Have sex. Maybe even with another person. Volunteers solicited.
My faith in Thursday nights is now renewed, thanks to a boy named Steve and another boy named Alex. I haven’t picked up two boys at once and brought them home in a very long time. I’d forgotten how much fun it is.
It was, perhaps, the perfect three-way. There was no “odd man out”; we all seemed pretty equally into each other. We didn’t try to get too creative with the acrobatics. My only complaint was that it was over a little too fast. And that I have a very difficult time sleeping curled up with two other guys in the sack.
The whole thing only cost me two beers. I worry that I’ll expect it to be that easy again sometime this weekend. I fear that it probably won’t be.
Updates:
- I plan to start answering email again soon. Really.
- Duncan and Rick are still visting, but are in Yosemite right now. They get back tonight and return to North Carolina tomorrow.
- I don’t have a new job yet. I’m working on it.
- I’m going back to bed now.
Went on one of those long drives in Mark‘s new car today. It’s rare that I hit Sacramento and Stockton in one day, especially with a side trip to Isleton for crawdad melts. It was fun. I may show pictures sometime. But not tonight…
At the cheap cigarette store in Sacramento, I started chatting with the woman behind the counter about matches (long story). Eventually, the subject turned to the fact that she has eight children and one grandchild. I was shocked, since she looked about 30.
As it turns out, she’s actually 34. Two years younger than me, and she has eight kids and a grandchild. That’s horrifying. I left feeling very relieved not to be heterosexual. There’s nothing wrong, mind you, with being heterosexual, but, given my occasionally slutty nature, it’s almost certain that I’d have a huge collection of devil spawn running around some double-wide in North Carolina.
I’m going to bed now and have a nice wank fantasizing about pregnancy-free sex…