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Last Diary Update: 05/09/02
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Friday, March 28, 2003
Uphill All Four Ways.
I spent far too much of today trying to do something, anything, and feeling thwarted in the process. I would get about 20 minutes into a project and someone would ask me about something else and I'd be away from it for an hour or two. You know those days? Yeah. I suppose it didn't help that my commute to work was precisely three songs long: "Slave to the Rhythm", "Happiness in Slavery," and a song by Front Line Assembly ("You can't say yes, you can't say no/You're living in a fascist world.") So maybe I didn't go in with quite the right attitude.
Coming home (late) I put on my Demon playlist and thought some more about what kind and color of wings I would have had. By the time I got home I had mad plans about putting on boots and wandering out to some South of Market rock club or another to drink beer and leer menacingly at the puny hu-mans.
You might get the sense that I'm easily influenced by the music I hear. You might be right. But I think perhaps I'll have a little sushi and think it over. I won't rule it out, if I can think of somewhere to go; but the Roommate's been playing the über-homosexual remix of "When The Money's Gone," so all bets are off at this point.
10:12 PM PST (link)
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Walking to the subway this morning feels like I am walking uphill at 65° angle, tilted to the left. It is only nine, but I am already tired and have not had enough coffee yet. I climb past the center where the developmentally disabled man found the bag of molotov cocktails, past the crowd of people waiting to get into the Goodwill As-Is store at opening, past a heap of soggy clothes on top of a garbage can, past the crazy old man in a dirty sportcoat shouting at the trees and sky behind me.
I get up to the corner to get cash out of the row of ATMs, but a couple of them have been smashed and there's "Police Area" tape around them. Later I learn that this is where a out-of-control taxi has smashed into two people. (Link via Jessie.)
I get out of the crowded subway several stops later, taking the escalator up and meeting a crush of paramedics on the stairs coming down, bringing a stretcher to a man sitting, supported by EMTs, at the bottom of the stairs. A woman in front of me on my walk to work has such a potent smell—a regular body odor, instead of the typical chemical fragrance that I'm assaulted by—that I pinch my nose. I think briefly of Agent Smith in my long black coat, and wonder how badly I smell to others. I get in and wash my hands and listen to the chorus of coughs and sneezes from whoever it is with the cold this week, the one that's floating around the office for the past few months.
And I wonder why I'm so enrapt in this glossy, clean, online world?
02:44 PM PST (link)
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Friend Has A New Domain: Make It About You!
...and the wise may notice that Michael has moved to a new Web address: Dogpoet.com. Eventually I'll get around to updating my links page but it probably won't be sometime around the launch of the redesign...the one that was supposed to happen last year...Ow, OK, let go of my arm!
08:45 AM PST (link)
I Can Only Blame The Wine So Many Times.
I had a good time Saturday night. But as I left, I was sworn not to reveal anything that had occurred that evening. "Or else we'll have you killed," said James, jokingly. "I'm not joking," he said, not-jokingly.
I'm picturing it: I hit "post" on the entry and Cheyenne breaks down the door and shouts, "There he is! Get him!" Jessica and Brendan slap me in handcuffs (ooh!), The Other James takes me through a maze of rooms downstairs in an undisclosed East Bay location. Robert/Marlénè checks me for exciting jewelry and, finding nothing, throws me to the floor.
Then would come the Random Beatings.
Ernie and his boyfriend playing Bad Cop/Good Cop with me (respectively, I think, but you can never be sure.) Gretchen threatens to feed me to the dogs, but Chad and Michael nix the suggestion, as too cruel to the animals. Finally Min Jung would be Judge and Jury, and William Ted would perform last rites.
But at the last minute with the makeshift firing squad drawing their weapons, I picture Vinnie sniffing my bound feet and wagging his tail and James calling for guns to be lowered. "Wait, the Bambino has granted a Stay! A Stay! Stay, Vinnie, stay!"
...perhaps this means it's time for bed.
02:49 AM PST (link)
Shout At The Devil, Or At Least Lou Dobbs.
I was reminded why I don't have cable at my house while listening to CNN from the other room at the Boyfriend's this weekend. I found myself screaming at the television. "You're a lying sack of shit. SHOW ME how Iraq was involved in 9/11 and THEN you can say that." I did my best to just shut up, and Boyfriend was gracious and didn't throw things at me when I couldn't.
There was one bit I had to comment on; a guest on the show was talking about one of the alliance units that was 'crucial for victory': these are semi-mobile fueling stations called Forward Arming and Refueling Points or FARPs. (Until moments ago when I found reference to it, I could have sworn he'd called it a Fark. My bad.) At any rate, the interviewee described them as "giant gas stations in the middle of the desert."
And here I thought he was explaining how the Administration was going to rebuild Iraq. Oops, my bad again.
01:39 AM PST (link)