Losing Weight

This is starting to creep me out just a little. A LOT of people (including my mom) lately have commented that I seemed to have lost a lot of weight. I figured they were just being polite. Then I went out to the corner queer bar last night and ran into a frind I hadn’t seen in a few months. He said the same thing, worrying, even, that there might be some health issue involved (the standard San Francisco reaction to weight loss).

Frankly, I think I’m as much of a lard-ass as ever, although I realized last night that I no longer own scales so I can’t really tell. God knows I still eat as horribly as ever, although I have been eating at home more lately, which does usually mean more vegetables. I haven’t been eating quite as much fast food, and I’ve just about sworn off booze. But I’m still quite sedentary, perhaps even more so than I used to be.

It’s a little difficult to figure out the truth here. Friends who see me every day or every week probably wouldn’t notice, and it’s not easy to arrange chance encounters with long-lost friends.

Now that I think about it, though, my pants aren’t feeling quite so tight today and my gut may not look quite so prominent. If I have lost a lot of weight, I’m glad, because I really needed to. But it sure would be nice to know how I did it, since I haven’t really been doing anything much differently than before. September and October were pretty rough months, though. Maybe I just sweated it off…

So now I’m contemplating losing still more weight, having a check-up (just in case), and selling my secrets to the world, as soon as I figure out what they are.

***

A little later same day. My friend Paula had the same “you’ve lost weight” opinion today as we headed for the thrift stores in Redwood City. I guess I believe it now…

In Olde Sanne Franciscoe

Y’know, I really didn’t intend for the gastrointestinal journal entry to be on the front page for quite so long, but it’s been a hectic couple of days. That would explain all the email I haven’t answered too. Partially.

Anyway, it looks like a pretty good election this year. Most of the ballot initiatives are going my way, including all the ones I felt strongly about. For the third time, we’ve voted on the fate of what’s left of the Central Freeway. It’s now two votes to one in favor of demolition. Can we tear the damned thing down now or do we have to go for best three out of five?

But the big story, of course, is the success of Tom Amminano’s campaign. For a write-in candidate to recieve 25% of the vote after a two-week campaign speaks volumes about San Francisco’s disgust for the arrogance and sell-out politics of Willie Brown, who managed to pull in only 38% himself. Should be an interesting run-off.

A few random links du jour which I’ve been meaning to add for a while:

Looking forward to getting a lot of sleep this weekend…

2 November 1999

I may have finally found the best bar jukebox in all of San Francisco. The bar surrounding said jukebox is Lucky 13 on Market Street. I was there tonight at a going away party for a friend who’s escaping Kinko’s (at least for a while). There are few things more wonderful than forcing an entire bar to listen to “Let’s Have a War” by Fear. I love livin’ in the city.

There was a joke embedded in that last sentence. Most people won’t get it. I’m comfortable with that.

David’s funk seems to have lifted, you may be thinking. Alas, it’s not true. I’m just masking it better. There could be denial involved. Who knows?

All I know is that now, in addition to being depressed and insomniac, I’m having to face the fact that I may be (shudder) lactose intolerant. I’ll spare you the scatalogical details and just say that consuming Count Chocula now seems to come with a price. I haven’t yet tried any of that stuff from those commercials I used to laugh at. Suggestions welcome, as long as they don’t involve soy milk.

Gee heck. I’m just falling apart, huh? Yeah, I know. Most of the world’s population would kill to have problems as insignificant as mine. That’s small comfort when I have a case of the trots and I’m out of Charmin, dammit…

Things I Never Did

I never saw “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”. It’s been almost twenty years since I first even considered it. I lied to my parents on New Year’s Eve 1979-1980, saying that’s where I was headed. I ended up getting drunk for the first time instead.

All my friends in high school and even into college had seen it, many of them numerous times. None of them could believe that I never had. After a while, I started seeing it as a sort of badge of honor. I decided I’d never see it. I consciously avoided it on video and anyplace else. It became sort of an understated running gag.

Tonight, I decided “enough is enough”. I sat down to watch it for the very first time on VH-1. I was even a little excited.

After about 45 minutes, I realized I’d completely lost interest and changed the channel. I didn’t get it, it wasn’t funny, and I just didn’t care. This isn’t my “cerebral inner critc” speaking. God knows, I watch some flat-out crap and absolutely love it. Maybe you just need to see “Rocky Horror” in a theatre full of intoxicated 18-year-olds in order to fully appreciate it. Or to appreciate it all.

Color me severely disappointed after a 20-year wait. But at least I can still say I never really saw “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”.

While I’m at it, here are some other defining cultural moments of my generation which I’ve missed:

  • I never played Pac-Man (or any of its derivatives).
  • I never read “The Outsiders” (but I think that was more of a “girl thing” anyway).
  • I never talked on a CB.
  • I watched “Guiding Light” instead of “General Hospital”.
  • I never lived in a dorm.
  • I never made the switch from briefs to boxers and probably never will.
  • The first “Star Wars” movie is still the only one I’ve ever seen.

I’m so ashamed…

Friday Nights, 1972-Present

Friday night rituals over the years:

  • 1972: The Brady Bunch. The Partridge Family. Room 222. The Odd Couple. Love, American Style.
  • 1977: Stay home. Get depressed because I don’t have any friends.
  • 1979: Football games. Smoke cigarettes. Impress potential friends.
  • 1980: Go to the mall. Smoke cigarettes. Get stoned with new friends. Come home and pretend I’ve been doing neither. Fool no one.
  • 1981: Work at McDonald’s. Smoke cigarettes. Come home and pretend I’m not depressed about the fact that I no longer have friends since I no longer get stoned.
  • 1984: Radio show. Smoke cigarettes. Pretend I’m not depressed about not having a boyfriend.
  • 1985: Drive drunk to the queer bar in Winston Salem with friends. Get still drunker. Misplace cigarettes several times. Drive home. Pretend this isn’t a problem.
  • 1990: Spend the evening drinking lots of free beer at XTC, smoking cigarettes, and being aloof. Drive home.
  • 1994: Sit at home depressed and wishing the boyfriend I had could actually spend some time with me like he said he would. Smoke lots of cigarettes.
  • 1995: Hole in the Wall. My Place. Ringold Alley. Manic anonymous sex. Cigarette afterward on the way home.
  • 1999: Dinner with Dan and Jamie. Smoke cigarettes, while pretending not to be generally freaked out by life right now. In bed alone by midnight. Sigh with relief that at least I pretty much don’t drink anymore. Drinking might not be prudent this week.

There’s a message here. I’m not sure if I know what it is or if I want to hear it.

Strange Phone Calls

Two very strange phone messages recently. Last week, some guy from Indianapolis called to ask if I’d receieved the article he’d submitted. To XY Magazine. This morning, the concierge from a hotel here in the city called to arrange one of my “walking tours” for a guest.

Now I am most definitely not affiliated with XY Magazine. I don’t even read it. I think it’s pure crap. And, while I do an awful lot of walking, I don’t give walking tours professionally. Granted, the thought has crossed my mind, but I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this idea to someone named Hannah at the Nob Hill Inn.

Of course, Southern politeness required me to call them both back and let them know they’d gotten the wrong person. Ever called a hotel and tried to leave a message saying “your concierge got a wrong number”?

Here’s the strange part. Both of these calls involve activities just barely similar enough to things I actually do to make me wonder if they were really just coincidental wrong numbers. I can almost imagine someone reading this site and getting the idea that I conduct tours, and maybe even looking up my number. God knows I get enough idiots who read Loftomania and email me thinking I’m a real estate agent, dying to sell them new luxury live/work condo…

There’s a very strange sort of visibility involved with this web thing. I guess, though, that I should get used to it after all these years. Hasn’t been a really big problem yet.

I just wish Hannah had been there when I called back so I could have found out where she got my number…

Behind the Times

It didn’t strike me as odd at the time, but I closed an email message to Sarah this afternoon with something to the effect of “Gotta run…there’s the doorbell…” Sounds a little anachronistic in retrospect.

Yer behind the times humble host, volume 15:

  • I still prefer to read the newspaper in its cumbersome paper format, and I regularly spend money for content I could read free online. I make an exception for my hometown paper which I can’t buy here.
  • Iced tea must be brewed in a suitably stained pot. Iced tea in a can or bottle is a crime against nature.
  • I wish radio stations still had jingles and played music in the morning.
  • I have never owned an automobile with power locks or windows.
  • I do not automatically address strangers using their first names unless they introduce themselves that way, especially if they’re older than me. Yes, I behaved the same way even when I worked in retail customer service.
  • Canned vegetables are just fine in a pinch, thank you.
  • My long distance carrier is AT&T.
  • Give me “Maude” over “Ally McBeal” and “Streets of San Francisco” over “Nash Bridges” any day of the week.
  • The TV in my living room is a 20-year-old Sony. I’m not really inclined to replace it anytime soon.
  • Coke really does taste better from a glass bottle.
  • “Downtown” by Petulia Clark is still one of my favorite songs, even though it was released the year I was born. I listen to KABL more than KUSF these days.
  • I still use a 28.8K modem. I still believe all web designers should be forced to do the same.
  • My dream car is a 1964 Corvair convertible.
  • The last bar I visited was the Tonga Room. There will be pictures soon…

The Great Funk of 1999

Remember when this site used to be sarcastic and funny?

Something’s gotta give. In case it hasn’t been painfully obvious, I’ve been in a heavy-duty funk for months now, my worst since the Great Funk of 1989. It’s a combination of many things, from boredom to finances to a general uncertainty about where my life is going to the fact that I just plain don’t like San Francisco much anymore. I’ve been coping with it so far, but it’s starting to affect my daily life in disturbing ways.

I’m not sleeping well. My stomach hurts. I’m not getting things done. I watch a lot of TV. I sit. I spend the weekends taking long drives into nowhere, partially to avoid doing much of anything else. I’m not writing. I don’t follow through on personal projects. I’m even moving slowly on work-related ones. The email just doesn’t get answered, except during occasional bursts of energy. Sex? Yeah, right.

I keep thinking that I’m going to “fix everything” and do everything I need to do “this weekend”. I never do. Things pile up after a few months of this, sometimes catastrophically.

And I don’t really feel like talking about any of it, except in cryptic statements about what a rotten mood I’m in or how “stressed” I am. Maybe talking about it in depth would involve too much of an admission that something is really wrong.. Or maybe it would involve actually “inviting someone in”, something I’ve been accused of being reluctant to do.

Last time I felt this rotten, I quit my job, moved home with Mom and Dad, and went back to school full-time. I’m hoping I come up with a similarly creative plan this time. Maybe I’ll hash it out here. Hmmm…I’m lazy and depressed, and now I’m gonna whine about it on the site even more. The should drive the hits way up, huh?

I’d go on, but it’s time for Maude on Nick-at-Nite. I’ll work on the diagnosis later…

New Year’s Eve

Only 79 days to go, and I have no New Year’s Eve plans. Should I be worried?

New Year’s Eve has never been one of my favorite holidays, and I’ve actually spent the past three at home with Mom and Dad in North Carolina, parked in front of the TV. But this one is special, after all, and I feel morally obliged to do something moderately memorable.

But what? I definitely don’t want to be in the middle of a crowd, be it in San Francisco, New York, Las Vegas, or wherever else. The traditional champagne toast in a ballroom or nightclub holds no appeal whatsoever. And the first person who suggests a sex club will be publicly ridiculed.

I thought about hosting Planet SOMA M&M party (get it? M&M? MM? the Roman numeral for 2000?) at some Motel 6 in Fresno or someplace like that. I’d probably be holding court completely alone but at least I’d have free HBO and coffee in the morning.

Of course, the thought of sleeping through the whole damned thing and “waking up in the future” has also crossed my mind.

Anyway, I’m open to suggestions. This does NOT mean I’m looking for a “date”, so thanks in advance for skipping the generic and unspecific “I’d love to hang out with you on New Year’s Eve” messages this time around. What I’m looking for is something unusual to DO, or some bizzare UNCROWDED place to go. You might be allowed to come along if I like your idea…

Coming tomorrow: why I hate PG&E…

October 1984

I found it tonight while looking in a box for something else: a scrap of paper which apparently never made its way into my 1984 journals. Coincidentally, I wrote it fifteen years ago, almost to the day. It fits my current state of mind startlingly well. Such timing:

9 October 1984:

Life never gets any easier, no matter what I may do or how I may change. It just brings different problems given different situations.

“Coming out” was not the catch-all and end-all I believed it to be during high school. The biggest change I see now, at age 20 and in my third year of college, is that I have no more idea where my life is going than I did in high school — perhaps even less. My dreams and my idealism (as well as my motivation to work for what I want) seem to have disappeared. What happened to all those things I was going to do? I hope they’re not gone forever.

I try to blame it all on a bad couple of months, but everyone has rough times. Those times, however, don’t cause them to lose sight of life. There’s something deeper involved. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me, and quite frankly it scares living hell out of me.

But I’ve got to go to class now. There’s not much I can do about it at the moment.

Self-analysis or self-pity? You be the judge. Either way, it hits pretty damned close to home for a 15-year-old piece of paper ripped out of a composition book…