At the Laundromat

The uninspiring photos of consumer products continue…

I made my quarterly visit to the laundromat on Sunday. I’d never before hit the place so early (11:30) on a Sunday morning. What an odd cast of characters…

Most prominent was this vapid-looking fag who seemed to have just stepped out of the pages of Circuit Noise or some similar inanity. A classic 90’s clone he was, with his Adidas sweat pants and Kangol cap. I was fascinated by him in a disaster movie kind of way.

To begin with, I couldn’t quite understand how such a party boy could be functional at such an early hour on Sunday. Of course it finally dawned on me that he was probably still experiencing Saturday night at the time. His “designer scruffy” companion definitely looked a little disheveled, sort of like a street person who had nothing but skin care products in his shopping cart and did all his dumpster-diving outside The Gap.

But the thing that really fascinated me was his collection of laundry. How could one person own so damned many tiny little white knit tank tops? Each one he folded obsessively, as if they were later to be shrink-wrapped. It was mind-boggling.

Of course he may have been wondering about all those black T-shirts in my pile too…

There were others: the usual collection of street people, the disarmingly cute Russian guy, the evil bitch who dispenses change with a scowl (if at all), and a large number of Latinos, which is fairly unusual since the Tenderloin is primarily a Southeast Asian and skate rat neighborhood.

I like my laundromat. It’s huge. The machines are in good shape and there are dozens of dryers. And — this is a biggie when you only do laundry every three months — it has a parking lot. I was a little alarmed that I wasn’t very alarmed by very drugged woman who was sobbing loudly in said parking lot. At least she didn’t try to bum a cigarette…

Randomly Saturday

Random thoughts generated by a short attention span on a Saturday morning:

  • Eggo frozen waffles really ARE better than store brands.
  • Obsessively cleaning one’s apartment for the first time in over six years can result in the discovery of a surprising amount of money.
  • Supposing I wrote stories about what a hot college jock I am. Think I could make any money selling my dozen recently-unearthed pairs of old shoes at one of those foot fetish sites?
  • Some idiot just called me (on the phone) trying to “get the website for San Francisco city guides”. I have no idea what he was talking about. I have even less idea how he got my number.
  • Does anyone remember the mystical and magical show called “Night Flight” which used to run on the USA Network before said cable channel became flat out useless?
  • Speaking of the old videotape I’m watching from 1988: does anyone else find it a huge injustice that Dusty Springfield will never sing again but that the Pet Shop Boys probably will?
  • I am convinced that the lead singer of the New Radicals does not really sing. He’s merely an adorable boy who’s lip synching to previously unreleased World Party songs.
  • Will I ever have a boyfriend who has a washer and dryer in his home?
  • One more time: why does it cost 25-50 cents more to sell a gallon of gas in northern California than anywhere else in the country (or even the state)? And why is milk twice as expensive here in the largest dairy-producing state? And why is it impossible to buy a decent tomato here?

Three Years of Planet SOMA

Yer humble host in 1996…

Three years ago today was the official “grand opening” of Planet SOMA.

Needless to say, things have changed somewhat. All in all, it’s been an interesting three years. I’ve met interesting people, been interesting places, and actually forged a bit of a career out of this “web thing”.

Thanks to everyone who’s visited over the years, sent email of support (or dissent), hosted me on a road trip, consented to sleep with me, or just hung out with me in sleazy diners. And thanks to Trey for creating the first blatant infringement on Planet SOMA’s name and layout. My lawyers would be contacting him soon had I not foolishly offered blanket permission. Damned Southern charm…

For the past two years, I’ve unveiled some great new feature or design for “anniversary day”. No such luck this year, although I’ve been tweaking the design for a month or so (and am pretty much done for now) and I DID add that search engine last week.

So I’ll just say “thanks” again and hope you stop back by once or twice in the next three years.

(NOTE: The actual start date of Planet SOMA was 13 January 1996. 2 March was celebrated as the anniversary for the first few years because of some milestone I’ve since forgotten, maybe the addition of the hot counter.)

Housekeeping and Dream Whip

Dang. It sure is quiet in here…

OK, so everyone’s really sick of reading about my new adventures setting up housekeeping alone. No one cares that I now own my own vacuum cleaner for the first time since 1989. Everyone’s lost interest in my trendy new cookware and my new shower curtain and matching bath towels from Target. And everyone’s really pissed that I seem to have stopped answering email.

Too damned bad. That, and a disturbing amount of work, is about all that’s going on for me right now.

The highlight of my weekend was a shopping excursion with Sarah to the thrift stores and strange closeout warehouses of Redwood City. I bought Drano and forks and bowls. I deviated from the domestic theme by picking up this really great beat-up army jacket. I also found a cool mug which says “no smoking”. I fully intend to use it as an ashtray.

But the real find was the Arabic box of Dream Whip you see above. It’s comforting to know that if I ever find myself in the heat of the Middle East longing for instant non-dairy whipped topping, I’ll probably be able to find it.

Coming tomorrow: my hastily-composed Planet SOMA Third Anniversary Address. Coming the next day: more exciting stories of domestication, including a euphoric essay on my new chair.

Why yes, my life IS a bit tedious this week, thank you…

My New Old Home

Today’s revelation: moving sucks, even when you’re not the one moving.

Actually, Dan got out in near-record time, with a big boost this morning from his mom and dad who probably would rather have spent their vacation in San Francisco doing something else.

Now all that remains is the fallout. This is a great time to do things like completely vacuuming all the floors for the first time since 1992. I need to rewire some phones. I need to get an additional line installed. And I get to sort through all my collected crap as I decompress it to fill more space.

And a sofa and some chairs might be nice…

I’ve already reclaimed the kitchen, even though I have plenty of skillets and cake pans but not a single saucepan. Last night I mopped parts of the floor I’d never even seen before. I’ve cleaned up all the strange 60’s dishes I’ve been picking up in thrift stores and keeping in the basement until I had room for them. I’ve moved the crock pot out of the cabinet.

All in all, I think everything will work out OK, although the whole thing still feels a little weird.

Living Alone

Wow. As of Thursday, I’ll be living completely alone for the first time in almost ten years. This is a strangely creepy feeling, although I didn’t really expect it to be.

For those of you who just joined the saga, I’ve had the same roomie for pretty much the entire 6 1/2 years I’ve lived in San Francisco. He’s buying a house, and I’m too damned cranky to break in someone new at this point in my life. Prior to moving here, I’d “re-nested” with Mom and Dad in Greensboro for three years while I went back to school.

Which means, again, that this is my first time completely alone since I left Charlotte in 1989. I’ve always preferred living on my own. I’m just a little bit out of practice.

For the next few weeks I get to deal with all the minor irritants like getting the utilities switched over to my name, and passing around my new phone number. I have to buy pots and pans and some more dishes, which is a shame since I have a lot of them in storage back home. I have to get a sofa and a desk, and a few lamps. I’ll be losing one of my favorite ashtrays.

The big benefit, of course, will be all the extra space. I’ll be able to store things. I’ll have an actual office and a guest room (sort of). I’ll be able to walk around the house in my skivvies. I’ll be able to watch porn with the volume turned up without fear of embarrassment. Should I ever have sex again, it can be really noisy sex involving multiple rooms.

It’ll be strange, though. I’ll keep you posted…

At Age 34 1/2

Seven realizations upon hitting the ripe old age of 34 1/2:

  1. The minimal lighting in most bars has additional benefits beyond the obvious factor of making all patrons “look better”. The darkness also allows you to pretend you don’t see people you’re avoiding for one reason or another. In addition, it allows you to pretend not to recognize people whose names you may have forgotten. Design feature or happy coincidence? Who knows?
  2. There are no bargains in malls. Ever.
  3. It is much easier to keep the kitchen clean if you wash three or four dishes a day rather than letting them “soak” for three weeks until everything you own is completetly disgusting.
  4. IQ testing might be a great idea for San Francisco drivers.
  5. I will most likely never eat at any of the SF Chronicle’s “Top 100 Restaurants”, and I don’t really feel that I’m missing anything. I’m not inclined to believe that a $25 pork chop is really five times better than a $5 pork chop.
  6. Sunshine and warm weather are tremedously overrated.
  7. I am now resigned to the fact that I will never be featured on an episode of A&E’s Biography. Note to friends and relatives: those compromising photos, videos, and anecdotes will probably never be particularly valuable.

19 February 1999

Search Me

I often get a lot done when I’m feeling vaguely uncertain about life. For example, last night I pulled together my few Unix skills and finally got a search engine up and running on the site. It seemed slightly more rewarding than going out to the neighborhood bars and getting annoyed by everyone I’d see.

Now you can do a quick search of Planet SOMA’s 400-plus pages and find just what you’re looking for. Or at least as much so as this is possible given the way search engines work.

Enjoy it. I stayed up until 4AM working on it, after which I couldn’t get to sleep until almost 7AM. I’m still half asleep in service to my art.

Home Fires

Looks like the roomie will have the new title of “ex-roomie” soon, as he moves to Lower Haight and becomes a homeowner. The bonus will be an extra room in the microscopic Planet SOMA Factory. If I put my computer in it, it will even become a fully deductible home office.

Of course, the down side is the fact that I may have to give up my nagging habit of eating dinner every day.

Hatred

The one thing I hate most this week is the fact that Melty pointed me toward this site and that I’ve wasted so much time there.

18 February 1999

What is SOMA?

Since I’ve had several email messages about this recently, it’s time for the annual reminder, mostly directed toward non-San Franciscans and those who came in via search engines.

SOMA is the official acronym for South Of Market Area, which is my neighborhood in San Francisco. It has nothing to do with any prescription painkiller nor is any reference to Aldous Huxley implied. SOMA is nothing but a mildly annoying real estate term.

This is an amazing neighborhood and Planet SOMA was originally all about South of Market. A large part of the site still is, in one way or another.

Love and hate:

Things I hate today: HTML-formatted email; beets, green peas, and pickles; TCI Cable; sunny days in February…

Things I love today: Nikko’s Diner in Oakland; NewsRadio (still…); the rain’s coming back…

Change Gotta Come

A lot of things on my mind right now. Things that will most likely affect my life for some time to come. Most of them have to do with the basic question of where I should live. Of course, this basic question brings up lots of other, more complex ones, including the ever-present “what should I be when I grow up?” I hate that one…

On the home front, it’s highly likely that my roomie of over six years will be leaving soon. This is a pretty strange thing to contemplate. When you live with someone for six years, it’s almost like a marriage, but without the added drama of sex or snoring issues.

I’m not about to break in a new roomie a this stage in the game. Which means, of course, that if I stay here, I’ll be paying all the rent by myself. I haven’t yet determined if I can really afford this, or if I really want to make the sacrifices (extra work, fewer toys and road trips, etc.) it may require.

But if I move, where should I go? Despite my growing distaste for San Francisco, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to leave the Bay Area. Do I stay here? Do I move across the bay to Oakland or Alameda? More and more I find that I like the East Bay better than San Francisco in many ways. If I’m going to stay here long term, that’s where I want to be.

Or should I just use this as an excuse to get the hell out of here completely? I know I’m going to do so eventually. It seems a little redundant to pack up and move across the bay if I’m just going to move someplace else in another year or two anyway.

And, of course, if I do move someplace else, just exactly what the hell am I going to do when get there? There’s also the reality that once I move out of this rent-controlled place, I’ll never be able to move back into San Francisco.

At the same time I’m excited about having this whole apartment to myself, I’m also scared of the implications. I’m unnerved by the questions forced by the issue.