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You’ve just got to love waking up on Friday morning to find All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard running back to back on AMC. Without this 8AM boost, I probably wouldn’t have gotten nearly so much done today.

The schizophrenic nature of freelance work: I spent my Friday alternating between work on a quite respectable (family-oriented, even) website and creating a series of porn stories for hire. I wish I could say that the switching back and forth made the website sexier and the stories more aesthetically-pleasing, but all it really did was give me a headache.

By 4:00, I found myself typing <A href=”shoot that load” TARGET=”_mouth”> over and over again. It was just plain scary.

But tonight, I think Jamie and I may have found my new favorite San Francisco restaurant: Cajun Pacific, in the depths of the fog belt at 47th and Irving. It’s tiny, the food’s good, the music’s good and the staff makes the place feel like a joint that three or four cool friends decided one night (while drunk) to open and operate together.

I had fried green tomatoes for the very first time tonight, and I now realize this is a dish which deserved to have a movie named after it. Sorry, recent sextoys, but this was the best thing I’ve put in my mouth in a long time. The jambalaya was too dry, like it is in about half of all Cajun restaurants. I can forgive that. The cook was drinking a beer while he worked. I liked that. And there wasn’t a slumming yuppie to be seen. I loved that.

I sure did like this place. I will be eating there many times in the future. I should probably be shot for mentioning the place publicly, but it’s pretty safe from the yuppie invasion because (a) it’s too far out in the avenues, (b) the food is appropriately priced, (c) it’s BYOB, and (d) there’s just not enough room to see or be seen, much less to “network”.

I’m gonna sleep now, strangely satisfied with the fact that I’ve eaten crawdads twice in six days, and not aplogizing that a majority of tonight’s links were from the Internet Movie Database.

Realizations upon hitting age 36:

• Any email message which states “this is not spam” invariably is.
• Most people will never realize that the same logic which states “Windows is the most popular operating system, therefore it’s the best” would also suggest that McDonald’s is the most fabulous restaurant in the world.
• I will probably never do anything which will get me in the history books and I’m probably glad.
• I will probably never have a live-in boyfriend and I’m definitely glad.
• There are approximately five other people on the planet who share my fascination with old supermarkets and I’ve probably spoken with at least four of them already.
• San Francisco will never again seem as exciting to me as it did in 1992 or even 1996.
• Los Angeles is not really such a bad place.
• Neither is Richmond, Virginia.
• I still like Chicago and Detroit better.
• There will always be yuppies, no matter what the currently fashionable term. They will always be annoying. And they will always be an easy target.
• I will probably not wake up this morning to find a 21-inch monitor has mysteriously appeared on my doorstep and just as mysteriously has managed not to be stolen.
• I do not get tired of The Simpsons no matter how many times I’ve seen each and every episode. And I’ve seen them all very many times.
• I cannot say the same thing about “Third Rock from the Sun”.
• I will always feel just a little insecure and just a tad melancholy right around my birthday.
• Not to mention just a touch self-indulgent.

Birthday bash tonight at Tad’s Steaks on Powell Street. We get in the $8.59 steak line at 8PM.

It’s no wonder so many people get so frustrated trying to find information online. They just can’t spell, which is a big problem in a text-based environment.

I’m not talking about typos (for which I’m famous) here; typos aren’t generally searched over and over in a short period of time. It’s particularly true of those people looking for smut. Searches for “masterbation”, “anyl sex”, and “nippel” are particularly noteworthy this month, just because I get such a clear picture of some salivating idiot sitting there typing them with one hand, getting more and more excited looking at that misspelled dirty word. He’s no doubt masterbating or fingering his anys with the other hand.

The lost souls who think everything online must be spelled as one word (just like email domain names) are fun too. I bet there’s not a single page on this site which contains the words “gaysexgalleries” or “southofmarketsexclubs” or even “pussylickinglesbianpix”.

And just how does someone get to this site thinking I have pictures of lesbians engaged in cunnilingus anyway? Not that there’s anything wrong with said activity, but the sight thereof doesn’t generally get my ‘nads racing since I’m neither a dyke nor a straight guy.

On the other hand, those of you who searched for things like “grits” and “safeway” and “brain-dead yuppie scum” have my eternal respect. You get it. Your typos are forgiven.

Lastly, to the flaming morons who keep searching for “young boy nude” and “naked children” over and over again, I regret to inform you that the only young child in any sort of nude pose on this site is me, circa 1967. It’s a cute picture, but I covered my one-inch weenie with my hands, even though it was probably not even erect at the time. Not what you were looking for, huh?

Yes, I’ve covered today’s topic before, but I have a brand new search engine, and very little imagination this week. Maybe next time I’ll tackle the people who don’t realize that email is allowed to have multiple paragraphs with actual space between them and entire words instead of just abbreviations and shorthand.

Pictures of the birthday bash coming soon. I promise. We were all clothed and over 21. Sorry…

I love it when my babies go live…

What I don’t like today is department stores. I didn’t think it would be a major achievement to buy a box of plain white handerchiefs as part of my dad’s borthday present yesterday. I was wrong.

Macy’s had no hankies at all. Neither did Neiman-Marcus. Nordstom had nothing but a rack of oddly-colored things which looked more like ascots than something for expelling snot. If I’d had time, I would have gone to the Mission. If they’d been options, I might even have visited Target or Sears, which don’t really count as department stores, I guess, because they sell actual useful items.

From the mailbag:

I stumbled onto your “Jack London” page, and was taken aback by your “diss” of my employer, Spaghetti Warehouse.

Unlike numerous competitors, who use frozen, canned, and pre-cooked products, we cook all of our pastas and sauces fresh every day. Sure, we have recipes we follow, so there is an element of consistency, but we are not a paint-by-numbers establishment. There is a fair amount of creativity given to each restaurant, and we are always developing new menu items. To call us “generic” is a stretch, since we go to great expense to provide freshly-prepared food.

Please save the “generic” label for establishments who don’t even cook their own pasta and sauces (can you say “Olive Garden?”)

My apologies for “dissing” this poor, defenseless corporation. My apologies also that I still prefer Kelly’s Coffee Shop to an exciting and unique place like the Spaghetti Warehouse.

Sites worth looking at today:

• Making the Macintosh (thanks, Sarah…)
• Schoolhouse Rock (thanks, Adric…)

I feel a little dirty. I accidentally landed on Big Brother tonight while changing channels during a commercial. I saw about thirty seconds of it before I could get back to “King of the Hill”. Now I can no longer say (with a nice blend of smugness and haughtiness) that I missed all the stupid reality shows of the summer of 2000.

More stuff I could do without this week:

• The current SF weather. It’s not all that terribly hot during the day (although it’s hotter than I like), but it’s also not cooling down at night like it should. I am not amused. I am also not sleeping.
• The “Facts of Life” marathon on Nick-at-Nite.
• Bad news about a friend I haven’t talked to in very many years.

Better news: my mom’s coming for a visit in a few weeks. I actually have room for her to stay here now, so I get a full-week visit. I probably won’t take her to the corner sex bar, but it should be fun anyway.

And now for an ethical question (gosh, aren’t we jumping around today?):

Supposing you used to have regular trysts with someone in a tearoom when you were in college. Supposing you had an awful lot of fun together on many occasions, even shared many of the same fetishes, and even made a little video together with your Fisher-Price camcorder. Even though you visited each other’s houses a couple of times, you didn’t officially know each other’s names. It was a tearoom thing, after all.

But supposing you (that would be me) really did know the guy’s name and just happened to do a Google search and find that he’s currently working as a college professor and thus has a very available email address. You’re sure it’s him (there’s a picture).

Do you contact him, offering to send him a copy of the video you promised him ten years ago and telling him you wouldn’t mind making another one the next time you happen to be in the same state?

What would Miss Manners say?