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Friday, September 12, 2003

Tommy, Can You Hear Me?

Last night The Roommate came home from having cocktails with special guests and local talents and leaned slightly tipsy in my doorway, telling me about his evening. "This is good," he said, listening to my music. "Who is this?"

I looked at him a long time. He gave me a confused look back, wondering why I was looking at him like he should know this already. A haze cleared, I saw the realization dawn on him, and we both said, "Gary Numan."

Never assume that anyone reads your Weblog. Never assume that they don't, either.

12:04 AM PST (link)

The Day After Two Years After.

I only visit two "daily porn pictures" sites. Yesterday both of them had the same firefighters-raising-the-flag photo instead of porn. Yet I still got 100 "enlarge your penis" and "cheap Viagra" emails. I want a refund.

I mean, I know people who were in New York or DC when the terrorist attacks happened, and I was glad to read their posts from the heart two years later. But maybe we should start to close up the wound. Maybe it's time to start rebuilding.

With everything that's happened in the past two years, while we may choose not to observe, I think we still have no choice but to remember.

My thoughts yesterday were not ones of sorrow or anger, nor can I credit myself with the mindfulness of everything that's happened since. Two years ago it seemed like a lot of things had begun to crash down around me before planes hit anything. I spent the day yesterday wondering if I am still ducking after all this time. Maybe I should stop picking at the wound. Maybe it's time to finally start rebuilding.

11:41 AM PST (link)

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

A Friend Called Five.

Please don't turn me off
I don't know what I'm doing outside
Me and the telephone that never rings
If you were me, what would you do?
Me, I Disconnect From You.
–Gary Numan and Tubeway Army

Got home tonight and rifled through my MP3 collection for some music while surfing and eating dinner; I put on some XTC, one of those bands that I liked in the 80's but really never sat down and listened to anything more than their singles. It's more cheerful than anything I've listened to in the past week, which is probably a good sign. However I'm somewhat shocked by how human the music sounds.

I think I've been listening to too much Gary Numan.

Over the past couple of weeks I've felt a strong resonace with his album Replicas; an ex-boyfriend used to talk about this album at length, and how well it captured the feeling of being an android—the disconnection from emotion, the suspicion of one's own memory and perception, the feeling of "passing" for human. I certainly understood at the time, despite never actually having read any Philip K. Dick then; but I think there is something about the confluence of actually having those feelings while listening to the album that's kept me going back to it lately. I've always suspected that I'm an alien abandoned by the mothership; maybe I'm not even entirely organic.

But you know, maybe it just means I should vote for Susan Leal. You know, if she actually campaigns for the Replicant vote.

11:24 PM PST (link)

A Big Cup Of Bad Pun.

There was a dark, muscular, tattooed man in the kitchen at work who was installing a new coffee machine. My face went flush, my heart began to pound. (Though maybe it was just the caffeine.) I briefly toyed with the idea of inviting him home. (More sounds.) I decided against it when I saw that his tattoo read "Nescafe."

No, I wouldn't really have an affair with the coffee machine guy. Besides, I know perfectly well...it'd be over in an instant.

01:23 PM PST (link)

Monday, September 8, 2003

I'm So Glad You're Happy.

On n'est jamais si malheureux qu'on croit, ni si heureux qu'on espere.
We are never as unhappy as we believe, or as happy as we hope.
–Duc de la Rocherfoucauld

I could drop a load of anger and sadness here; I seem to have an inappropriately large share of it these past few days, carrying it in weights around my wrists and neck and tightly around my chest, infecting others with it wherever I go, or so it seems. But I've been holding back, trying not to vent my spleen in the Weblog. Instead I'll focus on some positives. How fucking Pollyanna is that?

Got a wonderful surprise when Jason called from the Bay Bridge. Welcome to your new home, friend.
I also got a phone message from Panchesco, thanking me for contributing to Team Linus (and mentioning that he's visiting soon: Yay!) You can help the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society too; click over there for sponsorship information.
Bet you didn't know that Sister Edith has a Posse. S'true, I seen'd it.
I always enjoy when William Ted posts, especially when his storyline includes a superhero in whiteface; but I'm also happy to pimp his new business site: Who's Your Psychic Daddy? It's funny, sexy, and cool—just like WT—and worth a visit even from the skeptics in the room.

But don't you worry. I'll save a slice of Spleen and Piss Pie for you. There's plenty to go around.

(NYT link via Jeff.)

08:17 PM PST (link)