Category: After Dark

Christmas Break

I think today is the day that everyone who’s going home for the holidays finally leaves San Francisco. Which means tonight might be an interesting Thursday night out, with only the heartiest of the hardcores left in town.

Or something to that effect…

No, I’m not going home for Christmas. This will be my second year in a row of not doing so. There are a lot of reasons, but the main one is this: if I can only manage to go home and see my family one time a year, Christmas is definitely not the time I want to do it.

Aside from the insanity of trying to fly anywhere during the last week in December, it’s pretty crazy once you arrive where you’re going, too. Every minute is accounted for, with assorted gatherings and visits, etc. It’s not a relaxing way to spend a week or so. When I go home, one of the things I want is a little normalcy. There’s more of this to be had in January, which is when I’m planning my trip.

It could be a fun trip too. I may stay for three weeks or so, and I’m thinking of side trips. Charlotte, Richmond, Atlanta, Norfolk, and maybe even Baltimore and New York are under consideration, but everything’s subject to change. But if I went home for Christmas, very little would be subject to change.

Of course, there are a few other things I need to do while I’m in North Carolina too, many of which would be best done after the holidays. But I’m not talking about those things tonight.

Anyway, for those of you who are still near your computers: the divorce of Planet SOMA and The Other Stream is moving forward with a semi-finalized Other Stream design. I hope to have everything nicely separate by the first of the year.

Tonight’s sucky movie I’m glad I didn’t pay money to see: The Last Days of Disco.

Queer As Folk

I didn’t much care about the American version of Queer as Folk before it aired. I saw a little of it Sunday night at the corner bar, and I now realize that I seriously underestimated just how MUCH I didn’t care.

What a pile of crap.

I’ll say it again: stories which are about nothing other than “being gay” are boring. Period. To be interesting, a story must have good characters, which means they should do something other than look pretty and “be gay”. Just as in real life, a sexual orientation is not a substitute for a personality.

And frankness is no substitute for substance either. While it might be great that they said “buttplug” on the air, it might have been nice if they’d said something else too. ANYTHING else, as long as it might have made me care whether these people lived or died. The sermons and the dialogue were worthy of an ABC Afterschool Special, at best.

QAF makes Sex in the City look positively entertaining by comparison, which is no small accomplishment. I found that a half hour of this tripe was quite enough, thanks. There are enough personality-deficient professional homosexuals on the streets of San Francisco; I don’t need more of them on TV.

Give me Tales of the City any day…

Saturday Night

Another minor miracle: an entertaining Saturday night out on Folsom Street.

It was not entertaining in the sense of “I met the boy of my dreams and we fucked like whores all night”, although that would indeed have been pleasant. It was just nice that I ran into several friends I hadn’t seen in a very long time, including Barry (whose name you’re not expected to know) and Bringdown (who will remain nameless, faceless, and always enticingly bitter).

And I didn’t get drunk. That was a bonus too, albeit an expected one, and one you may not believe from my bad sentence structure this morning.

The downside was my visit to Hole in the Wall, the bar which used to be my favorite on the entire planet. It has all of a sudden turned into absolutely the creepiest place on earth. It’s like watching the voyage of the damned. There were, I’d estimate, about fifteen people there at 1:00 tonight. I’m guessing that five of them will have OD’ed and arrived at the emergency room by the time I type this. The rest, are no doubt, still sitting there staring into space. The place was just plain scary and it’s been that way every time I’ve stopped in lately. It’s a shame.

On brighter fronts, someone loves me. He’s in Richmond, Virginia. Why does no one in my own time zone ever love me?

I’m going to bed.

Clean House

David’s first rule of casual copulation: in the rare event that one’s house is completely clean one evening, no potential sex partner will see it, no matter how promising things may look early in the evening. Period.

The laundry is done, the dishes are washed, and the floors are vacuumed, and I’m sitting here watching “Badfinger: Behind the Music“, all by my lonesome. That’s OK; I did have nice cheap sex earlier with a boy in very convincing bike messenger drag, among others. But I rather wanted to bring someone home. And I thought I was going to at one point. Oh well…

Things I love tonight:

  • Badfinger.
  • My stunningly clean house and “Downy fresh” laundry.
  • Half-price Hallowe’en candy at Long’s.
  • $1.69 Stouffers at Ralphs.
  • Alternaboys with surprisingly large penises.

Things I hate tonight:

  • Cute boys (named Steve) who are sober enough to cruise me very agressively (to the point of snuggling, even) but are too drunk to have the attention span required to get past that point.
  • Forgetting to set the VCR and thus missing The Simpsons while engaging in the aforementioned snuggling.
  • The asshole who stole the brand new jack from my trunk just hours after I bought it last night.
  • Laundromats.

Changes Coming

Changes coming soon. I’ve registered a new domain name (no, I’m not saying what it is until the DNS records are confirmed nd showing up correctly) and I’ll be moving things around, remodeling, and just maybe even adding some new content. It won’t happen for a couple of weeks, though. You will be warned.

I don’t really have any exciting news or observations to present today. I finally got over the strange flu-ish thing I had. I’m still bummed about Troy, but I’m moving on. And I put together a site for a friend with a spare house he’s trying to sell, in case you have a spare million-plus bucks hanging around in your wallet. And my part-time job still sucks ass, in case you were wondering.

I feel a sex quest coming this weekend, if anyone feels inclined to assist. I felt one coming last weekend too, but there wasn’t really any interesting sex to be found. There rarely seems to be any interesting sex to be found South of Market anymore, unless I’m just missing something really obvious. I’m not sure what happened.

Actually, I’m quite sure what happened. I’m just surprised that it happened so fast.

Some of this month’s bizarre queries on the Planet SOMA search engine:

  • malegaycumshotporn
  • amatuer dick underwear
  • 0893915491
  • ass hair
  • barbra streisand wax museum
  • oh mr. grant
  • macaroni penguins
  • woman who likes bestiality
  • gaybuttsexorgy
  • gordin berish
  • fast food and chorestriol

Time for lunch…

I Miss the Road

Eight years ago tonight, I was spending my last night in Denver on my first cross-country road trip, moving from Greensboro to San Francisco. I shan’t wax nostalgic about that exciting period in my life (it’s been done). That’s not really what I’m thinking about tonight, although I imagine that I will be soon, because that’s just what I do this time of year. It’s autumn. I get reflective. Always have. So sue me.

Tonight, though, I’m just thinking that I want to be on the road. On the road back east. I’ve got a big craving not to be in California for a while. I want to be driving I-95 or U.S. 1. I want to see trees where the leaves change colors, and mountains that aren’t brown (oops, I mean “golden”). I want White Castles and Stuckey’s and bars where you can still smoke. I want to go through those toll booths where you just throw your coins into a hamper.

I’m craving Boston and New York and Philly, with maybe a little Baltimore and some Providence thrown in for fun. This was the route of my first major road trip, back in 1988. I had a different agenda back then. I was with my friend Jeff and the itinerary was largely about partying, record stores, and clothing stores. I might do it a little differently this time.

I can state with certainty that I’d do one thing differently, though. I’d never again visit Mahattan in August.

Anyway, this is all leading up to the fact that I’m considering doing just this roadtrip in January, somewhere in the midst of a long trip home after the holidays. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to work out the details (money being a large one), but does anyone want to hang out? By that, I men once I get wherever I’m headed, since I always travel alone. Trust me, it’s better that way…

And does anyone want to remind me how much snow I’ll have to drive through in January?

Alone at 2AM

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…

Productive Week

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…

The Weekend

Things I shouldn’t have had to deal with this weekend:

  1. 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…
  2. Two mildly insomniac nights in a row (no doubt from thinking about people other than Jim Morrison wearing leather pants)…
  3. 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…
  4. 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?
  5. 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…
  6. 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…

This Week in…

Until today, it had apparently happened to just about everyone in San Francisco but me. I was so excited that it was finally my turn to get hit in the head by a nice big gob of pigeon shit while walking down Seventh Street.

Other than that, though, it’s been a passable week. There was slutdom on Saturday night, followed by a different flavor of slutdom on Monday night, dinner and fireworks with Dan and Jamie on Tuesday night, and lots of sleep on Wednesday. I think I’ve recovered just in time for the upcoming weekend.

Sixteen years ago this week, I was dumping a boyfriend and actively seeking a replacement. Fourteen years ago this week, I was dealing with someone who sort of became a boyfriend but sort of didn’t. Thirteen years ago this week I was still dealing with him. Nine years ago this week, I had finally learned that having boyfriends was no fun and I was being a major slut on a two-month trip to Charlotte. Three years ago this week, I reconsidered briefly but I came to my senses pretty fast, and I’ve pretty much stayed sane ever sense.

While we’re in the archives (for this month’s “I can’t think of any original content” journal entry):

  • Twenty years ago this week, I stole my mom’s car. I was not yet 16. She suspected. It was not pretty.
  • Fifteen years ago this week, I quit being the rock and roll DJ at the local queer bar. I still stick by that decision and was proud of my stand to protect the downtrodden heterosexuals of the world.
  • Two years ago this week, I was taking on the idiots who wear giant backpacks in crowded bars at night. They continue to annoy me.
  • This week last year, I was having my annual midlife crisis. Let’s not speak of 1999 again. I didn’t enjoy most of it.