Ultramundane.com -- It's Just Not Natural.

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United States, California, San Francisco, The Mission, English, Spanish, Casey, Male, 31-35.

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Friday, September 20, 2002

I Gave At The Office.

Pardon me if this is a little gross.

I knew when I woke up this morning that I wasn't going to make it to the phlebotomist's office. I slept late and wasn't going to make it there without my usual dose of sugary coffee (breaking their 'fasting draw' requirements.) Then I noticed that I'd already given in my sleep, a tiny dry trickle on the white pillowcase. No signs this morning where on my head it was from, but I'd suspect it's related to this sinus infection I've had. (Glad I'm seeing my doctor next week.) On the other hand, maybe I had (or was) a little late-night snack and just don't remember.

Either way, that'll teach me to sleep with the window open.

12:34 AM PST (link)

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

Born to Blog.

Someone commented on my t-shirt in the breakroom today. Basically, I told them:

"It's Tina the Troubled Teen from Brunching.com. A great humor site; I love their ratings. Remember the adopt-a-virtual-pet fad that swept personal Web sites a few years ago? No? Well, this was a sarcastic version of that."

Only I think it actually came out exactly like that, with clickable hyperlinks and everything. And I was nowhere near a computer at the time. The other person wasn't certain whether to thank me or back away slowly, so they promptly did both.

So depending on your perspective, I'm either getting better or getting worse.

Bonus link: This is pretty much what our apartment sounds like most nights. (Note: I am not the cat.)

08:51 PM PST (link)

Casting Couch...I Mean, Call.

My friends who do ThrushTV and a number of assorted strange performance events are trying to cast their new show: Night Of The Living Drag Queens. Amateurs are welcome. They're fun people to work with. And it's certainly got to be interesting: It's a theater show about Drag Queens, so anything (and everything) is bound to happen.

Oh, and if you know of anyone—of any gender—who can play (not necessarily impersonate) Brittney Spears really well, please have them call immediately. I think they'll have found their people.

02:54 PM PST (link)

One Of Us, One Of Us, One Of Us.

We are freaks: We follow the code of freaks.
We are freaks: Stand back and that's that.
We are freak: We fuck who we please and do what we choose.
We look bad: We're not diseased or confused.
Freaks, Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Girls Against Boys rage in my headphones, and I get on the K Ingleside at Van Ness to get my haircut. Maybe I'm singing along, probably, I don't remember. But I'm sure my hair is a windblown mess, my black cloth sports coat's ripped lining is hanging down below the bottom of the coat, Doc Martin shoes, and I'm standing in the doorway waiting to get to Castro street. A sweaty-looking woman in a tacky-tourist print shirt, corduroy shorts and Birkenstock-style sandals looks at me over her Old Navy shopping bags, just as Steven Trask (and I) sang "I know this guy who can suck his own dick/and my mother has a friend with three tits."

The dirty look she gives me at that moment is incredibly well-timed and utterly priceless. I smile. That's right, I say to myself, that is the way god planned it.

I'm reminded of this because this week my employer has apparently found faster, more efficient ways of sucking the very soul out of me. The song is still playing in my head, but I'm feeling not just tired but tiresome. Frankly, I'm beginning to fear the worst: When there's nothing left of me but an ashy (but well-branded) shell in khakis from Dockers, I beg you—speak kindly of the freak that I once was.

(Isn't it Friday yet?)

01:13 PM PST (link)

Monday, September 16, 2002

But I'm Not Finished Being Inconvenienced!

Now, let's say—hypothetically—that you have jury duty one afternoon. You leave work at a reasonable hour, go through the metal detectors, show up as expected, take your seat in the climate-controlled Assembly Room. An hour passes, and you try to read your book but mostly you think about various ways to get out of serving on a jury without making a great big ruckus. After they call the first set of names, you contemplate whether it's better to blend in and not be noticed or to stick out and be obviously ill-suited in either this room or the jury chamber upstairs.

Suddenly, your name is called. You're on the "Excused for One Year" list. You're free to go. Your $1.50 stipend (Woo!) will be mailed to you, you presume. (You also wonder briefly if the court submits a list of names to the IRS so they can ensure its declaration next April.) You check the time: it's 2:15. You made about a dollar an hour. Now you have plenty of time to go back to work.

Do you go back? Do you stay home and play Theme Park World, or go shopping for new pants? Or do you go home and blog about it first while you decide?

03:21 PM PST (link)