08:31 pm - Powered by Pancakes
Last evening I went to Gold's Gym with Dani as his guest, just to check out the place, see if I liked it, and work out a bit of the day's negative energy. Little did I anticipate that Terrick would bat his eyes and con me into buying a membership.
He did give me quite a deal, though: discounted enrollment fee, two free tanning sessions, four sessions with the hot personal trainer Brandon (my coworker Anthony said, "Ooh! I've heard of him! He's hot."), and his cellular phone number. If ever I eat something bad I'm supposed to give him a call so I can plan out my meals for the next day and so he can guilt trip me. Ah, the joys of having a personal trainer and a personal fitness consultant.
Aside from the new trim me on the horizon, there's not much else to report. Well, there is, but I can't remember it all at the moment. I've been mentally composing LiveJournal entries for the past week, but now that I'm actually sitting down to write one, little to nothing is coming to mind.
Ooh, buses. I almost forgot. Not two weeks ago, Shane and I were saying that buses needed to announce stops as they are coming up. Then, a week and a half ago, riding the 217 into Hollywood from the Grove the bus belched out its destination. I've heard it thus far on lines 2, 4, 217, 302, 304, and 317. Bob, how it scares me in the morning to stand at Sunset and Fountain and have the bus yell at me, "Line 302 Limited Sunset Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway."
I'm spinning Saturday morning!
It's been a Cocteau kind of day. Really, I've been listening to Liz since 08:00 this morning and I'll likely continue for the next half hour that I'm here. People just don't understand how she has the Voice of God.
Oh, I can't wait to see Cocteau Twins and New Order the weekend of 30 April. I can't say there's anyone else I want to see, but that's always been the case with me and Coachella. Out of fifty artists, I only ever have an interest in five or less. Such is life, though.
Two potential birthday presents for Mr. Redsar in mind. Both kind of on the expensive side, though. I'm sure he'd not complain, but my wallet surely would.
"'Cumming, dear.'
"What was once a term of polite precaution has become the season's latest olfactory craze, thanks to a collaboration between perfume extraordinaire Christopher Brosius and innovative movie maverick Alan Cumming."
—Metro
Bob, I hope it doesn't smell like what I think it smells like.
My coworker Susan and I have both been following all the Titan stuff as of late and both want to visit badly. Listening to the sounds of the Huygens probe descending into Titan's atmosphere a few weeks ago was a pleasurable experience for the both of us. We both regret that there doesn't exist for adults a program akin to Space Camp (or maybe there does and we just don't know it). I remember being a youngster and wanting nothing more than to go to Alabama to enroll in Space Camp, especially after seeing the feature film of the same name.
Hence, Susan and I are spearheading the 'Mos in Space initiative, whereby NASA shoots fags into space. We even have a logo already: a pink space shuttle with a rainbow shooting out of the rocket engines set against a background of stars. Who wouldn't want to shoot us into space after seeing that?
Lame portmanteaux of street names in the Hollywood area frustrate me: Sun-Fax at Sunset and Fairfax, Sanfair at Santa Monica and Fairfax, Hollymont at Hollywood and Vermont, Hollyvine at Hollywood and Vine, Wiltern at Wilshire and Western. Such is life, though, and such is Hollywood.
Speaking of, I'll be moving shortly because my roommate has a psychotic tinge. I'm looking for something in the Los Feliz area again, but who knows where I'll be able to find anything. I'm incredibly attached to my neighbourhood and the people in it (Ahem—Shane, Sayaka, Ariel, and whoever else lives here that I'm neglecting). If need be, Mr. Redsar has offered me a spot on his bedroom floor for a short while. The one condition is that I proffer the use of my wardrobe as rent. Easy enough, I suppose. I'll just hope it doesn't come to that, though. He treats his things worse than I treat mine. Oh, yeah. And I don't want to have to live in someone else's home for a while until I find my own.
Nine loads of laundry this past weekend. I didn't know I had that many clothes. Much of everything is going to end up going to Good Will at some point in the near future.
Last evening I spoiled myself and bought the new Low CD, The Great Destroyer. Listening to it last night, I picked out only two songs I truly enjoyed. This morning there were at least five. It's growing on me, I suppose. I also picked up The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou soundtrack because as disappointing as the movie was, the soundtrack was amazing. I want Mark Mothersbaugh's Ping Island/Lightning Strike Rescue Op to play in the background of all my mundane daily activities.
Main Entry: de·bauch·ery
Pronunciation: di-'bo-ch&-rE, -chrE, -'bä-
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -er·ies
1 a : extreme indulgence in sensuality b plural : ORGIES
2 archaic : seduction from virtue or duty
Aaron and I rang in 2005 at Daddy's with liquor, beer, champagne, daddies, cops, and a scary calendar. Needless to say, drunkenness and altered states of consciousness made the weekend.
Oooh, photo shoot last night. After spending an inordinate amount of time helping each other find hot clothes to wear out, we gayed it up for a photo shoot. Aaron needed new pictures for MySpace or something. I'm looking forward to getting back to L.A. early (Early, early, early. Bob, why so early?) tomorrow morning and pulling everything off the Nikon. There were lots of great shots of Aaron, but I'm not too sure about the ones of me. We'll see, I guess.
Back to The Twilight Zone marathon until Mr. Mills gets home from Starbucks.
Highlight of the weekend: seeing Colin Farrell Thursday afternoon a block from my apartment. I had never been attracted to him before, but seeing him in person changed all that. Mm mm good.
Then there was the rest of the weekend: drinking, partying with strippers, walking on the beach, putting together furniture, Crimmus mimosas, and train rides. All in all, it was a fairly decent holiday.
No idea what I'm doing for the New Year yet. A coworker has invited me to carpool up to San Francisco for the holiday. I'm currently anxiously awaiting a phone call back from Aaron, letting me know if I can crash on his floor and crash his holiday plans. With any luck, I'll be greeting 2005 in my favourite city.
By MARIANNE GARVEY and MARSHA KRANES
Link
December 26, 2004—Martha Stewart—the princess of perfection and guru of gracious living—suffered a major Christmas setback at Camp Cupcake.
She and her jail "cottage" mates failed to win the annual Alderson Prison contest for the best decorated cottage door, sources at the West Virginia pen told The Post.
Inmates "use wrapping paper, all sorts of creative things" to decorate their doors, explained one source. "They go all-out."
But Stewart—who could turn dust bunnies into a snowman—apparently didn't use her magic on the door of Orientation Cottage, where she has a bottom bunk.
She lost to Fire House, whose residents staff the prison fire department, the sources said.
Stewart should have been a shoo-in.
On her past TV Christmas specials, she effortlessly constructed a golden wreath from scratch, made tree ornaments, baked handmade pies with hand-churned butter, and built a huge gingerbread house with a Necco-wafer roof.
This year the highlight of her holiday was a visit from her daughter, Alexis.
But her only offspring did not arrive at the prison laden with beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts. Visitors are prohibited from giving inmates presents.
Despite all that she's missing this year, Stewart's "mood is good," a source said. "But then, she's getting out in three months. There's light at the end of the tunnel."
'Tis the season. Fa la la la la.
Hmm. Looking at my checking account statement on WaMu's website, it looks as though all my Visa checkcard transactions are showing up as direct debits. I don't recall them displaying as such before. I guess Washington Mutual just now finally caught up with the Visa/MasterCard 1 October deal with signature-based debit in addition to pin-based debit. Oh, the joys of working in the financial sector and knowing these little things. Really, how useless is that knowledge?
"Nuzzling love terrorist" is my new codename for myself.
This has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but one thing I really hate is girls thinking I'm going to rape them. Just because I happen to walk fifteen feet behind you on the sidewalk at night, doesn't mean I'm aching to shove my dick in you without your consent. There's absolutely no reason for you to step off to the side, whisper into your cell phone, and wait for me to pass. I mean, get the hell over yourself.
It's Wednesday, Pinkday. It's a fun trend at work carrying on the traditions of Mean Girls. It's also a nice excuse to buy more pink clothes. Pink is, afterall, one of the most incredible colours ever. I always think of The Great Gatsby (ugh), though: "Take off that goddamn pink shirt."
Work Crimmus party Friday night, followed by the Crimmus party my roommate and I threw the following night. In not so many words, it was a weekend of being fuddup. Those are usually the best weekends, though.
The one glaring bad thing about all of last weekend was that I didn't get any ass. And it sure as hell wasn't for lack of trying. I macked on every hot guy in my line of sight and nothing. But that's the way it goes. You can't get with them all, I guess, and sometimes you can't get with any of them. I tried, though, which counts for something. And now I know I come on too strong sometimes.
San Diego this weekend. I'm heading out of the office a bit early tomorrow afternoon to catch the 18:30 train to Oceanside.
Oh, Crimmus. I've shopped at least ten times as much for myself as I have for everyone else, and I don't feel the least bit guilty. I've snatched up decent presents for everyone on my (short) shopping list, but I've essentially spent the season spoiling myself. I'm entitled, I think, to a lot of new clothes and media. After all, this was a hard year for me. Ok, maybe not, but I'm content with that reasoning.
This is such a lame, superficial entry.
And now for the semi-monthly LiveJournal update. I do need to endeavour to make it more frequent than semi-monthly, but the lack if Internet access at home and the overall busy state of things at work make that a bit harder than one would think.
First off: Cheetah's. The Friday after Thanksgiving, Redsar, Baz and I met for coffee late in the evening, then decided to have a few drinks at a bar a few blocks from my house. The Drawing Room (read: Drawring Room) was surprisingly boring, so we made a quick getaway to Akbar after one drink. A few drinks into the evening, we met the fat guy who makes a cameo on Jay Leno every once in a while, then left to stumble down Hollywood Boulevard home.
We passed Cheetah's on the way and Redsar and I coerced Baz to go in with us after promising to buy him a lap dance. A lap dance, a lesbian, and a few cocktails later, a woman approached Redsar and asked if he wanted to dance. Little did we know she meant "lap" dance. Redsar and the stripper returned moments later.
"Wow, you weren't into that at all."
"What did you expect? He's gay."
At this point, she decided I was the ring leader and Mr. Moneybags of the group: "If you don't pay me, you're not gonna leave this place alive and the bouncer's gonna fuck you up." Needless to say, I paid. I'm in the process of charging it back, though.
Last week is all a blur. There are several things I meant to remember to document, but all of them slip from my mind at present. So on to this past Friday: the Los Feliz Block Party.
I counted today, and that night I easily had 15 glasses of wine. Redsar and I essentially wandered from shop to shop, up and down Vermont, drinking along the way and making friends with whomever. I talked to lots of girls that night, which doesn't do me much good in the long (or short) run, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.
And then there was today: wandering around Downtown in the rain. And now there is The Simpsons.
There's a first time for everything, right? Right. Recently was the first time I've had to remove someone from my cell phone's address book so I would stop calling him in a drunken stupor, requesting that he have sex with me. Ah, alcohol. You serve me so well. Not nearly as well as this mug, mind you, which hasn't even garnered a yea or nay from the object of my alcohol-induced affections.
But on to more important things.
It's been nigh three weeks—three alcohol-filled weeks, which isn't exactly helping the situation presented in the first paragraph—since I moved from the Westside to Los Feliz. I couldn't ask that my living situation be better than it is: the roommate is nice and fun, the apartment is beautiful, and the location is to die for. I mean, who wouldn't love living a block away from a public library built atop Leonardo DiCaprio's childhood home? I dare say everyone I know could reap the benefits of that.
Now, when I say my apartment is beautiful, I really mean my apartment is beautiful. This place has more character than a paranoid schizophrenic. I'll snap photographs one evening in the future (it's most striking at night), but for now the following description will have to suffice.
The gate into my complex is accented by an arch of red flowers and multicoloured—although mostly blue—Crimmus lights. Upon entering the courtyard, the guest is visually assaulted by trees, shrubbery of every kind, and roses lining the path to doorways.
My apartment itself is kind of on the small side, but I've been told I exaggerate the minuteness of my home. The living room and bedrooms all have accent walls: the living room's is orange, my bedroom's is blue, and Joe's bedroom's is yellow. The wall-to-wall window in the pantry is covered by a ginormous sheer green curtain, which gives the wall the illusion of being green. It's really all about the colours, I guess. And again, I'll have to take photographs at some point.
Oh, and my boss, Anush, feng shuied my bedroom. Interestingly enough, I sleep much more soundly with my head pointing north towards Griffith Park.
Everything outside of home is well, too. Living just blocks from Redsar, I've been able to see him much more than I did living on the Westside, which is peachy keen and fun. I've also been able to steal an incredible pair of pants of his that I hope to never return, but we'll see.
Work is coming up roses (how many plant analogies can I make?). I've taken over all the Signature underwriting on top of the Pacific Payments stuff, which excites me to no end. I'm really, really loving my job these days and I feel it shows in the work I do. Also, a few evenings ago Anush laid out her master plan for me in this department. I like what I hear, but more on that later.
Tomorrow is my six month anniversary at Signature, so to celebrate that. . . . Ok, not to celebrate that. We did it just for the hell of it and my anniversary was completely unrelated. Anyway, we closed up the office early Tuesday and a bunch of us headed to Hollywood and Highland to bowl and drink the night away at Lucky Strikes. If anyone has never been to this place, go. Now. It's literally this awesome bar that happens to have a few bowling lanes attached to it. I can't comment on the price of the drinks because I got trashed (Trashed) on the company's dollar, but I'll say they were well worth whatever the Powers That Be paid for them. And that's that.
My straight-date Monday night didn't happen, which is kind of disappointing. Debbie and I were going to dine out at Electric Lotus but it didn't happen. Maybe next payday. Speaking of Debbie, several people thought we were fucking. No offense to her, but ew.
It's weird not having the Internet at home. I miss talking to my friends online, reading LiveJournal (Haven't read it in three weeks! I hope no one's dead), looking at porn, and seeing what's going on in the world on my own time, but it's really not a huge loss. Ah, well. The situation will be rectified as soon as I can find out how in the hell the Covad guy's gonna get access to my phone box.
Ooh, I just realised Thanksgiving is next week AND it's a three day week. I should figure out exactly what I'm doing. Not having any family or anything, it'll probably be the same as every other year (nothing), but I can at least make plans to sleep in or cook myself a nice little meal and eat it by light of candle.
How sad that I'm excited at that. I can seduce myself, just no one else (see paragraph one).
It's almost 09:00 on a Sunday morning. Why isn't the liquor store open?
Also, glancing at this song reminds me of finding a paper bag full of condoms yesterday. I was given them earlier this year when I got my STD test and the Asian phlebotomist (think Margaret Cho's mom) flat-out asked, "Are you gay?"
And it just occurred to me that after I move I can start working on Wikipedia's entry on Los Feliz, much like I snazzed up the decrepit entry on Palms.
I really need to stop writing in my journal and finish up things here. I'm just so damned excited.
Blasting New Order and packing/cleaning/dancing around, I remembered a scene from Splendor:
Veronica opens the apartment door after a long day to find Abel and Zed blasting music while working out with their ab rollers.
Veronica: What is this, the West Hollywood Sports Club?
Ahahahahahaha. All the dust has made me delirious.
Awake since 05:00. Up since 05:30. Returning to Standard Time in the Autumn always messes with me just a little more than making the switch to Daylight Time in the Spring.
It's a chilly morning this morning, which is interesting considering I don't recall the night being too unbearable. Granted, I was so exhausted last night that I doubt I'd have noticed a sudden Ice Age.
Unable to do more packing or cleaning last night, I passed out around 23:00. Most of my stuff is in the garbage or has been boxed up, sold to craigslisters, or given away to Hippie neighbour chick. I'm afraid the sofa and one of the chest of drawers are going to end up on the side of the road all ghetto-style for some random passerby to claim, as no one on this here Innerweb was interested in either. Ah, well.
The only furniture I'll be taking with me is as follows: Big Treasure Chest Thing that's been a TV table, coffee table, and will now be a desk; Huge Frickin' Bookcase that I'm dreading moving because it's heavy like whoa; Tiny Bed that's more comfortable than your mom with a dick inside her. But it's all good.
Oh, yeah. Muggers and Hobos: I have $1100 in cash in my wallet. No, I am not a pimp. Yes, I feel like one. Please do not mug me. Okayiloveyoubyebye.
After having little luck with craigslist, I decided to throw off a few pieces of furniture on my weird Hare Krishna neighbour. And whaddya know? It matches the décor (or lack thereof) in her tiny, tiny apartment perfectly.
Bob, are you watching and listening? Count this as my good deed for the Hippies. I think this one sets me for life.
Aaaand Callie's gone.
Hooray for the theme song from The Jeffersons
In a matter of a few days, I'll be living in lovely, scenic, Bohemian, pedestrian-friendly Los Feliz. My new place is at Franklin and Hillhurst, more or less right in the heart of the village. Colour all of my coworkers and friends jealous. Time and time again we've chatted, saying things like, "If I could live anywhere in LA it'd be Venice, Los Feliz, or Silverlake." And here I am, about to live in one of the three.
I'll be rooming with a near stranger, but I have high hopes for the living situation. And if it ever does get bad for a day or something, I'm sure I could convince Shane to take pity on me and take me in for a short while, what with him living six blocks away from my future home.
Yesterday I started trying to make a mental list of places within a five minute walk of the apartment and my mind just gave out. This is literally going to be heaven. Oh, and there's a Metro Rail station right down the street. Now, if only the trains went anywhere worthwhile.
Homo floresiensis. Another species of human living on the planet 13,000 years ago. How utterly amazing.
The first thing I thought of when I read this was orang-pendek and orang-letjo. I wonder if it's occurred to anyone else yet.
I think I'm going to start using my .Mac screenname, pajamacore@mac.com, more. I pay for the Apple name; it's about damn time I started getting some use out of it.
Today is the day calculated by Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland James Ussher in 1650 CE to be the anniversary of God's creation of the world. In Annales veleris testamenti, a prima mundi origine deducti he posited that the world was created on 23 October 4004 BCE. And what better way to celebrate the world's birthday than doing four loads of laundry!
How weird that the world is a Scorpio.
Rainy days like yesterday always remind me of walking to and from class in torrential downpours at UNCW. It's funny, really. I'm the biggest anti-rain person you'll find anywhere, but one of my Favourite Things is walking in the rain. I never understood the people who ran from place to place in the rain. Studies have shown that you get equally wet running and walking. To each his or her own, though, I suppose.
Me: I'll get soaked ambling at a comfortable pace, thankyouverymuch. And I'll like it, too.
Now to the complete opposite end of the spectrum. That new U2 song really irks me, especially the beginning where Bono screams out, "Uno, dos, tres, catorce!" Can Bono not count? Where is the logic in saying, "One, two, three, fourteen!"? In his defense, though, it's probably a bit much to ask that an Irishman know anything about the Spanish language, or vice versa for that matter.
I just had a legitimate reason to leave a message for the big kahuna at BMEZINE. So cool.
I've never voted at the polls and I don't see myself ever doing it; I enjoy absentee voting in my underwear just a little too much to share the voting experience in its purest form with my fellow Americans.
It might be the rain and cold weather short circuiting the judgment centres of my brain, but I thought for a good three minutes in the shower today that I should let my moustache grow in fully, just to see what it looked like. Then I came to my senses and took the razor to my upper lip.
More on the topic of appearances: my weight has been hovering at 167 lbs for over a week. I haven't really done much in the way of dieting or exercising so I'm not exactly sure how I got here, but there are no complaints. I wouldn't be averse to dropping a few more pounds, but if I do then I'll have to go on a clothes shopping spree even worse than I do now. Blah. Need money for clothes.
I also need money to move. Why does changing homes cost so much? Deposits, doubling up on rent, acquiring a moving van—it's all just too much for my measly wallet to handle. I should start a Move Shane to the 323 fund.
I was accused several times tonight of being unhappy. Again, I'm not unhappy. I've just forced myself into a state of contentedness. Needless to say, the evening came to an early close.
And another thing: don't try to read my mind. My silence is not an invitation to telepathy. If something's on my mind, wait until I figure it out for myself and if need be I will explain it to you. Assuming you know what I'm thinking only confuses matters for both of us.
And I'm not emotionally unavailable. Dammit. I'm not sexually frustrated either.
These past few weeks more homeless people have approached me than ever before. The weird thing is, though, that all their messages to me have a slightly religious tinge.
Nearly a month ago, two hobos on two completely different sides of town said the same phrase to me and nothing more: "I see the devil in you." Then a few days ago, another looked me directly in the eyes and said, "God doesn't want you". Now, the old wisdom holds that children and the mentally ill can see things that the rest of us can't. In light of that, maybe I'm in need an of aura cleansing or something along those lines.
I'm reminded of the elderly Indian woman I met at the crosswalk a year and a half ago. She pointed at a blimp in the distance and said, "What is that flying demon?"
Anyway, I should get to a conversation I initiated yesterday morning on the bus with a complete stranger. On the way to work yesterday morning, an attractive man in his early 20s sat beside me. After a few stops I mustered up the strength to talk to him and hit on him. I was shot down like never before. That's what I get, though, for thinking for half a second I was cute enough or well dressed enough to get with a guy carrying a Fabric Science book.
Buying tickets for I ♥ Huckabees just now, I realised that I never have to look at my credit cards for their card numbers. Maybe this is a sign that I pay for or buy too many things online.
That's it. I'm never using Infone again. Today makes twice in the past month and a half the operator has fed me misinformation.
Hello, Journal. I've more or less neglected you these past two months but I hope to make amends in coming weeks.
First off: work. I'll be damned if yesterday wasn't one of the most stressful days I've had. The receptionist was let go for excessive absences and then the data entry guy left because he's a tool. Cue Shane stressing out so much that he's on the verge of a panic attack. I was shaking slightly, developing a splitting headache, and fighting the urge to vomit. An hour and a half later, some time downstairs at Sweet Lady Jane* picking up cake for myself and two of my coworkers calmed my nerves. It's funny how sugar does that.
It also helped that my boss took me aside, gave me a big hug, and told me while fighting back tears how glad she was to have me as a part of her team. I'm glad to be a part of it, too. I love my office and the dynamic we all have, and lately I've really, really enjoyed the work I'm doing.
Later that day I was approached and informed that our external sales office had a staff meeting and the consensus was that the work done these past few weeks has been superb and they really like whatever change has been made in our office. And here I thought they hated me.
Aside from that not too terribly much is going on with me. Last week I received two Do-You-Hate-Me-And-Want-To-Drop-Me-From-Y
On a slightly different note, I had a long conversation with someone last evening and came to an easy understanding. The gist is that circumstances suck at present and as much as we'd like things to be different, it's not really feasible. Just like good ol' Jane used to say: "Suck is life". And no, that's no prostitute's mantra, although I suppose it could be.
Now to be cryptic! Looking forward to the 15th. I'd like a "yes", but I'm prepared for a "no". As much as I'd like the affirmative, though, I don't know exactly what I'd do if it happened. "Yes" means I'm going to be screwing myself for a really long time.
* I really need to work upstairs from a gym instead of the best bakery in the whole Los Angeles metro area.
Three decisions made today. Three pretty big decisions.
1) I want to move to the Eastside. Rent will be cheaper, I'll be closer to the rail, and I'll be closer to friends. I just need to figure out how I'm going to manage this.
2) I really want to start being serious about this school thing. Classes in the Spring definitely, and then some institution of higher learning so I can mayhap work in systematics one day.
3) I really want to move to San Francisco. I didn't even realise it until today when several of my coworkers pointed it out to me. I figure I'll give myself 18 to 24 months.
What a weekend. I didn't want it to end and it was so hard to get on the plane back to L.A. last evening. I did, though, which is quite the testament to my _____.
Drinking began more or less immediately upon my arrival in the B(G)ay Area. Aaron and I went to Pop's and guzzled PBR until the wee hours of the morning, then crashed at his place. It was just like camping, what with the lack of electricity the entire weekend. Fortunately for me, though, there was plenty of hot water so I could do That Shower Thing.
Saturday morning I wandered around Downtown, Chinatown, the Tenderloin, and a bunch of other random places while Aaron finished up with the final day at his old job. I called my sister at Mule Days from some park in the middle of the city and screamed into the phone, "Hello from San Francisco!" I haven't heard anything from her. After Aaron got off work we wandered around the Mission a bit before making our way up through the Castro and eventually up to the Marina for kabobs and the Palace of Fine Arts. I think we counted something like five Asian weddings going on at once. What's the allure?
Random San Francisco observation: lots of people had signs that read, "Jesus Christ Loves You." I never see that down here. I guess Bob has forsaken Los Angeles.
Bar-crawling in SoMa with Aaron and some of his friends that evening. Fun, fun in the sun briskness.
Sunday was FolsomStreetFairTwoThousandDie. Lots of hotties. Lots and lots of hotties. Jeez. The only person at the fair who showed any interest in me, though, was one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. She kept rubbing my chest and saying, "Oh, kitten."
I was so fucked up Sunday. So fucked up. In fact, I was fucked up enough to dance my ass off. Now that's fucked up. That wasn't the highlight of the day, though. Aaron was approached by some daddy to be spanked. Aaron shot him down each time he asked. The conversation went something like this:
Daddy: Don't you want to get spanked?
Aaron: No thanks.
Daddy: C'mon.
Aaron: No, it's cool
Daddy: It's for charity.
Aaron: Ok!
Aaron was paddled (pretty hard, I might add) eight times for a total of $8 donated to the Stop AIDS Foundation. And there are pictures! In there are also photos of me fucked up and dancing, Brian wandering around in his leather thing, playing with some implant, and Aaron as the Unabomber.
That night I randomly made out with a cute mohawk boy. Yep. I was bad.
We watched the two hour finale of the Peruvian telenovela Besame Tonto Monday before heading through Le Tube to Oakland for my flight home. What a sad flight home. But what a pleasant stay there.
After a year of laying dormant, my wisdom teeth are at it again. And this time it's with a vengeance. The upper left one is coming in more and I am completely incapable of opening my mouth more than an inch or so wide (there goes my social life) without my jaw grinding against my tooth and causing me immense pain.
That said, thank goodness my insurance went into effect at the beginning of this month. Tomorrow I think I'm going to call my dentist to see if I can arrange for an extraction in the very near future. Before the weekend would be ideal, but I won't hold my breath; it might really hurt my jaw to hold my breath.
Of course, days before I leave for a long weekend in San Francisco, things start lining up to fill the weekend in Los Angeles: David's birthday party on Friday night, CocteauFest Saturday night, Sondre Lerche and Stereolab Sunday night, and a whole weekend with Jason at some festival in the middle of the desert. That is just the way things go, though.
Speaking of the desert, the days have started to cool off considerably as of late. It's not Summer, but it's not not-Summer either. It's like off Summer, kind of like off white. In fact, last night was the first night I've had to sleep with the window closed. It's kind of nice, actually. Chilly nights make for the deepest sleep. I never understood why it worked that way for me. It seems heat makes most people drowsy, not cold.
Work-wise, things are going well with the new position. Everyone seems more or less pleased with my work, especially this one account from yesterday. Woo for things.
And now for my new favourite drink:
( Leninade: Get Hammered & Sickled )
I require Saddlelites. Any jeans named after satellites in our solar system (Galatea, Telesto, Setebos) are good by me.
Pleasant doesn't begin to describe my day yesterday. After over a year of letting a few miles come between us, I ventured out to Los Feliz to see Shane. We brunched at Home, did a little shopping at Y-Que and Steinberg & Sons, and I got lectured about how I need to move to the East Side. That's to be expected, though. No one from one part of the city understands why anyone wants to live anywhere else. We're all such neighbourhood snobs.
After putzing around for a few hours, I finally (finally!) got to meet the infamous Brian. It's funny the traits we tack on to people we don't know or barely know. Needless to say, he's a nice guy and I hope to see him again in the future.
Sky Captain & the World of Tomorrow in IMAX at Citywalk followed. Great movie, lots of fun, interesting commentary during and afterwards, and hot Jude Law. Did I say, "hot Jude Law"? Oh, yeah. It was the last item in that list. He's in so many upcoming movies. I wonder why he's become so popular as of late. Not like it really matters. I'm just happy to see him on the screen.
And then I didn't get to bed until around 00:30 this morning. And then I lost my cell phone. And then I found it. And now I'm really tired.
Al Qaeda Plans To Drop Gay Bombs: Men within 30 miles of the blast will instantly turn queer!
I can't wait! Now I have a chance of getting with all those hot straight guys!
Every sentence in the entry is going to end with an exclamation point!
Huge explosion at 07:22 followed by a lesser, although still quite loud, eruption seconds later. I lifted my head off the pillow and thought to myself, "Power's still on. No sirens. Everything's fine until later." Oh, how jaded I am. And two hours later I still don't know what happened earlier.
Just now I read that Southern California motorists spend an average of 93 hours per year stuck in traffic. Somehow, that number isn't all that impressive. The number does, though, remind me of one of my favourite Metro ads. The accompanying text says something along the lines of, "Let the other superheroes wrestle with traffic. Go Metro and spend your time on more heroic feats."
Still no idea what that explosion was earlier. I'm sure if it were that big of a deal or if someone "important" died, it'd have been in the news already, so it can't have been anything special.
Callie hates the weekends; she doesn't get fed at 07:00 like she does every other day of the week. Instead, she has to wait half an hour to ninety minutes for me to wake up get out of bed. And when I open my eyes on Saturdays and Sundays, the first thing I see is her face, just inches from mine, waiting for food to be stuffed into it. Ah, the life of a cat.
Two things to do today: 1) Go to the Apple Store with Jenny so she can decide if she wants a PowerBook or iBook and what size she'd prefer; 2) Try to find someone to go see Explosions in the Sky with me next month at the Knitting Factory.
http://www.7427466391.com/
5966290435
I could totally work for Google. I'm not smart, but I can Google like a motherfucker.
An employee of the month kind of deal has been instituted at work as of today. The partners decided I should be the first honoured. As Kirk said, "It was worth it just to see how red you turned."
Why is today's featured article on Wikipedia the Holy Prepuce?
How do you know the difference between someone looking at you because he's interested and someone looking at you because you keep looking at him? Bah.
I feel as if all I ever do is write about work. Today I won't do that.
Friday, at Susan's suggestion, a bunch of us headed to Marix for Happy Hour. I had wanted to try Marix for a long while because I heard the food and drinks were good. Food and drinks aside, the atmosphere sucked.
After downing my drink and someone else's (mm, vodka), I was fed up with the place and convinced everyone to walk two blocks west to Barney's. The walk over was kind of fun. Being so busy that day that I didn't have time to eat certainly made for an easily buzzed Shane.
Got to Barney's, ate, drank, bonded with a few people, and was generally merry. There was some random chick at a table near us who had a lightning-shaped scar between her eyes, so I insisted on referring to her as "Harry Potter" for the entirety of the night.
No idea how much the bill was, as I've lost the receipt and the payment hasn't shown up on the Innerweb yet. I hope I'm not too surprised when it finally goes through.
Uh, and then I was bad the rest of the night. Like, really bad. Really, really bad. I don't want to go into detail.
I just found Hum's EXTREMELY RARE 1991 release Fillet Show online for $55. I want it so badly. Maybe it'll still be available in a week.
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