Mom’s asleep, worn out, no doubt, from three days of non-stop madness which have so far included a visit to the Delta, dinner with Dan, Jamie, and Sarah at the Dead Fish, quick walk-throughs at the Folsom Street Fair and the Pacifica Fog Fest and more. Pictures and other details later. Right now I’m actively unclogging my kitchen sink.
The only thing that saved my Thursday was Mom’s arrival. Other than that, it was a day I’d just as soon have skipped.
I saw a woman commit suicide in the Hyatt Regency yesterday afternoon. I was there for a quick work meeting for my part-time job in the lobby bar. Just as we were about to leave, this horrible loud noise happened. I thought it was a gun shot and I was about to duck. Instead, I looked over and saw, not twenty feet from where I was sitting, a woman lying on the floor.
It took everyone just a few seconds to realize she had jumped from a balcony about 8-10 stories up, and she was unquestionably quite dead.
Amazingly, there was very little panic. I think everyone was just a little stunned. No one would go over to her, I guess because no one wanted to discover the obvious. A woman behind us was sort of hysterically screaming, but it was almost as if no one else had noticed.
Finally a security guard went over and felt for her pulse and all and then just left her there for a minute. Eventually someone came and covered her up. Then they asked us to clear the area, which we were more than happy to do, but couldn’t seem to commence without the suggestion.
It was one of the creepiest things that’s ever happened to me and I was already a little edgy from not sleeping well the night before. The drive to SFO to pick up my mom worried me a little, but I was fine. And I was really glad when her plane landed. I wanted my mommy.
Rather makes the fact that some uninsured speed freak ran into my car later last night seem insignificant in comparison.
I’m enjoying Friday considerably more than Thursday, thanks…
Hot, sticky, sweaty, and nasty. Would that this described my weekend rather than the weather…
No news to report. I’m avoiding my computer and all email like the plague, but I feel a great rush of digital energy coming tonight if the breeze through my front window continues. Mom arrives Thursday evening and I’m relieved that I completed the bulk of my cleaning before the annual September week of miserable heat began.
And Bottles was featured on some cool site of the day mailing list this morning. That was pretty cool and has resulted in a major traffic boost. Reminds me a little of the old days (1996 or so) when Planet SOMA itself was a Yahoo site of the day. That was when this site really “took off”.
For those of you who care (I don’t), the Folsom Street Fair is this weekend. You’ve been informed. Now don’t email me about it. I might be less cranky if I’d slept last night. Probably not, though…
Becky is annoyed with the self-service scanners in her neighborhood grocery store. I can’t speak on that subject; they haven’t yet arrived in tech-savvy Northern California. But I have a pet supermarket peeve too: people who (a) pay by check and (b) wait until the last minute to even begin LOOKING for their checkbooks.
I used to write checks at the grocery store too. And I always had mine completely filled out, ready to write the amount as soon as it displayed. How hard is this? Chances are you know you’re going to be writing a check. Why not save the people in line behind you a little time? Are you so fucking self-obsessed that you don’t even notice them? Or just so fucking rude that you don’t care?
It baffles me how so many people seem to get through their entire lives completely oblivious to other people. Is it the same people over and over again who drive 45 in the fast lane on the freeway, let their devil-spawn scream through movies, and spend 20 minutes picking out just the right Happy Meal toy at the fast food place? Or is this becoming a really common national malady?
I’m not perfect and I’m also not the most patient person in the world, but at least I try to behave publicly in a way which will not seriously impede the motion of (or waste the time of) other people. I get off the bus by the rear door so people getting on don’t have to wait and hold up everything. I actually wait and turn at the next intersection rather than coming to a complete stop and blocking traffic when I realize I’m in the wrong lane. I always try to park in a way that lets another car fit on the curb too.
Why do so many otherwise intelligent and considerate people think it’s OK to fill out their deposit envelopes AT the ATM while there are five people waiting to use it? And why do people wear enormous backpacks in crowded bars at midnight? Or walk slowly down narrow sidewalks hand in hand so that no one can get around them in either direction? Or come barrelling out of stores without bothering to look and see who they’re about to run into?
I guess most of these things aren’t officially rudeness, but more a type of cluelessness, or maybe carelessness. But how is it possible to spend significant parts of your life without knowing or caring that there are other people spending theirs in the same universe as you?
OK, maybe it wasn’t completely ponderous or completely bullshit. And maybe that’s how you spell “ponderous”. Besides, I can’t think of anything better to write tonight. And I’m supposed to be on vacation anyway…
Resolution for September: to never again type pondrous bullshit at 2AM after four beers…
It’s 2AM. I’m in a very odd (and not altogether pleasant) mood. And I’m going to have to wake up from it without benefit of my Sunday morning In the Heat of the Night marathon on TNT, a staple for very many years. I am not happy.
Saturday night at the queer bar. I’m now at home alone. Which would usually be a good thing. And it’s probably a good thing tonight too. But (you knew there was one coming, right) I ran into two ex-tricks who could have been ex-affairs or even ex-boyfriends tonight. One of them was very recent, while one dated back five years or so.
I probably would not have been tremendously happy with either one as a long-term mate. All the same, sometimes I get really pissed at myself for not pushing these things a little harder. Is it an absolute necessity that I go through the rest of my life in relative solitude (even though I adore relative solitude above most other things) just because there’s something just a little bit lacking in everyone I meet?
Ex-trick number one was a long-distance affair from way back. We had lots of fun when he was visiting SF, but lost touch when he moved here. He was way too far down the chemical path for my tastes, even though I liked both him and the sex very much. Tonight, we didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence. I didn’t much care, but it did get me thinking about 1995.
Ex-trick number two only goes back a couple of months. I liked him a lot, but my inner voice said “don’t pursue too closely”. My inner voice says that a lot. We talked a lot tonight, but we were already past that moment. I had a nagging desire to bring him home, curl up next to him all night long, and make him grits for breakfast. But even if he’d been interested, not otherwise encumbered, etc., I probably still would have flaked on most contact following his Sunday morning departure, just like I did last time.
And I’m not sure why. I like the guy. I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life with him, but I like him all the same. I should have tried a little harder. Sometimes it might be nice to watch Sunday morning television WITH someone, even if it’s not necessarily with your lifetime soulmate.
But then I remember how I love spending Sunday mornings (and most of my other waking hours) alone and I wonder if that will ever really change. I guess I’d better make a little room before I think about letting anyone else in…
Thursday’s pondering was just a little exercise in literary masturbation, I guess. It’s really a true story, but I never seriously considered contacting the guy. I think that, all in all, I was more into him than he was into me, and I’m pretty comfortable with that.
It’s good to know, though, that there are so many Planet SOMA readers who are eager and anxious to step into the no doubt tasteful shoes of Miss Manners.
Another productive week, as it happens. Knocked out several web pages for hire, I finally got an appointment for PG&E to come fix my oven, and my porn stories for Boardboys were approved for later publication, which means both that I can to add “published author of literary erotica” to my list of credentials, and that I’ll be able to pay the rent for another month.
And no, writing porn is not quite as, ummm, stimulating as it sounds. It’s not horrible work either, but I wasn’t exactly moved to the point of having to stop and masturbate every five minutes.
I also reinstalled my computer at the evil part-time job, which was no small task and resulted in much profanity since it’s a Winblows machine rather than a much superior Mac or Unix box. I bought a few books. And I started the massive cleanup which signals a pending Mom visit.
I’m not a really bad housekeeper, believe it or not. But there are certain things I only do every two or three (or seven or eight) years, like dusting the chair rail and the dish shelf, and tackling the astonishing amount of grime which collects in my medicine cabinet. I don’t understand; the door is closed 23 hours and 58 minutes a day. How does it get so damned disgusting? Am I using the wrong toothpaste or shaving cream?
Yes, I know. The house will never be quite clean to the standards of the average mom, even though mine is definitely not a neat freak. But we have to try, after all.
And if any of you happen to be roaming about South of the Slot tonight, I’m even thinking of hitting the corner bars for a semi-miraculous second Saturday night out in a row. Come on down…
I feel a little dirty. I accidentally landed on Big Brother tonight while changing channels during a commercial. I saw about thirty seconds of it before I could get back to “King of the Hill”. Now I can no longer say (with a nice blend of smugness and haughtiness) that I missed all the stupid reality shows of the summer of 2000.
More stuff I could do without this week:
- The current SF weather. It’s not all that terribly hot during the day (although it’s hotter than I like), but it’s also not cooling down at night like it should. I am not amused. I am also not sleeping.
- The “Facts of Life” marathon on Nick-at-Nite.
- Bad news about a friend I haven’t talked to in very many years.
Better news: my mom’s coming for a visit in a few weeks. I actually have room for her to stay here now, so I get a full-week visit. I probably won’t take her to the corner sex bar, but it should be fun anyway.
And now for an ethical question (gosh, aren’t we jumping around today?):
Supposing you used to have regular trysts with someone in a tearoom when you were in college. Supposing you had an awful lot of fun together on many occasions, even shared many of the same fetishes, and even made a little video together with your Fisher-Price camcorder. Even though you visited each other’s houses a couple of times, you didn’t officially know each other’s names. It was a tearoom thing, after all.
But supposing you (that would be me) really did know the guy’s name and just happened to do a Google search and find that he’s currently working as a college professor and thus has a very available email address. You’re sure it’s him (there’s a picture).
Do you contact him, offering to send him a copy of the video you promised him ten years ago and telling him you wouldn’t mind making another one the next time you happen to be in the same state?
What would Miss Manners say?
Things I shouldn’t have had to deal with this weekend:
- Seeing Rick Schroeder wearing leather pants on a VH-1 special. Not only was he making the mistake of sporting such inappropriate trousers, but he was also wearing them with (blecchh…) a wool sweater. That’s so very, very wrong. My pronouncement du jour: from now on, anyone wearing leather pants in my line of sight MUST (a) be a rock star, (b) be performing on stage, and (c) be clad at MOST in a tank top or torn T-shirt. Anyone not meeting all of these simple criteria runs the very real risk of looking like a complete moron. And yes, patrons of queer bars included are included, thanks…
- Two mildly insomniac nights in a row (no doubt from thinking about people other than Jim Morrison wearing leather pants)…
- The cute boy with the mischievous sneer at My Place Saturday night who I would have fucked all night had he not, within five minutes of meeting me, gone into way too much detail about the 15-year-old he’d gotten high with and screwed recently at a rave. If he’d saved this revelation until, oh, an hour or two into the conversation, I might possibly have dealt with it, but jeez…
- The two or three complete strangers who bored me tremendously by babbling on about their assorted recent drug experiences. I don’t get high, I really don’t give a fuck, and I’m not going to give you a knowing, conspiratorial wink no matter how much of a chemical catastrophe you mistakenly believe me to be, OK?
- The asshole in the BMW (redundant, I know) on Highway 101 today who, as I was passing another car and doing 80MPH, ran directly up my ass, and then, as I signaled and began to move right so he could go around, proceeded to pass me on the right, keeping me from getting out of his way and almost causing a 5-car pileup. And he seemed genuinely shocked when I gave him the finger…
- The thousands of Silicon Valley wankers who think their ability to afford an overpriced car somehow makes up for their complete inability to drive it correctly…