Hello all. This is a fantastic music video, kinda creepy, but a great song.
Credits:
Goldfrapp - "Number 1"
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Music Video of the Month
Purpetuating the Stereotype
Let me just start by saying this is my first official rant via blog.
As all or many of you know, we (David, Mike, Parker (the dog) and me) moved to a new place in Cortez Hill. Everything is lovely, thank you for asking--couldn't ask for better. Well, I applied for my new parking permit for the Cortez Hill area, and when I was on the phone with the DMV they mentioned that my registration has been suspended. What!? They mentioned that they sent out a letter a couple months ago stating that they needed to have documentation of financial responsibility (aka: a copy of my insurance card). I had already taken care of this months ago shortly after the letter arrived and I guess it wasn't resolved on their end. They gave me some other phone number to call, called said number, spoke to the entire phone tree until they got someone who could help me. And once I got them on the phone, they were like, "Oh yeah, the last person forgot to, like, click the 'finalize' button and process the whatever. It should clear in 48-hours." Stupid--but lovely. Okay...
Called the DMV 2-days later, still didn't clear and the DMV was like, "oh no, it takes 5-days to clear." Okay. Thanks. Called again the next week--nothing. Called the day after--nothing. Called the day ofter that--NOTHING. I'm pissed. I've been taking copious notes of my conversations with everyone I've had--I'm writing names, numbers, dates, times, anything I can. I have two pages of notes listing this whole dilemma out. Why, you may ask? Protection. I have it in my car with me for now if I should get pulled over or whatever I will be able to use those notes to possible persuade the police officer.
ANYWAY, the entire point of all this back-story is so you can get an understanding of the California DMV. I have never been one to bitch about the DMV or government agencies of the like. I know they are a necessary evil and I feel badly for the people that work at those jobs. However, the California DMV is beyond a "necessary" evil and just plain evil. They jerk you around, they don't give a shit about you as a "customer," and frankly they just chap my ass. I fart in their general direction. Shitheads.
As all or many of you know, we (David, Mike, Parker (the dog) and me) moved to a new place in Cortez Hill. Everything is lovely, thank you for asking--couldn't ask for better. Well, I applied for my new parking permit for the Cortez Hill area, and when I was on the phone with the DMV they mentioned that my registration has been suspended. What!? They mentioned that they sent out a letter a couple months ago stating that they needed to have documentation of financial responsibility (aka: a copy of my insurance card). I had already taken care of this months ago shortly after the letter arrived and I guess it wasn't resolved on their end. They gave me some other phone number to call, called said number, spoke to the entire phone tree until they got someone who could help me. And once I got them on the phone, they were like, "Oh yeah, the last person forgot to, like, click the 'finalize' button and process the whatever. It should clear in 48-hours." Stupid--but lovely. Okay...
Called the DMV 2-days later, still didn't clear and the DMV was like, "oh no, it takes 5-days to clear." Okay. Thanks. Called again the next week--nothing. Called the day after--nothing. Called the day ofter that--NOTHING. I'm pissed. I've been taking copious notes of my conversations with everyone I've had--I'm writing names, numbers, dates, times, anything I can. I have two pages of notes listing this whole dilemma out. Why, you may ask? Protection. I have it in my car with me for now if I should get pulled over or whatever I will be able to use those notes to possible persuade the police officer.
ANYWAY, the entire point of all this back-story is so you can get an understanding of the California DMV. I have never been one to bitch about the DMV or government agencies of the like. I know they are a necessary evil and I feel badly for the people that work at those jobs. However, the California DMV is beyond a "necessary" evil and just plain evil. They jerk you around, they don't give a shit about you as a "customer," and frankly they just chap my ass. I fart in their general direction. Shitheads.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
"Who are you calling a cootie queen?"
Okay y'all. If you haven't seen this commercial, please tune in. It's so freaking funny. Enjoy.
Not Mono. Solo.
Okay friends, thankfully I do not have mono. I just had a throat-closing incident is all. I looked up online and it mentioned that a severe sore throat can be completely stress induced. I've also had a minute case of hives (which I get when I'm stressed out) and I'm thinking they are both related--to the break-up. I know, random, lame, call it what you will, but that's the status on that. That's all I got!
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Mono?
Where do I even start with this little story. Well, Memorial Day Monday was just like any other day (excluding the fact that it was a paid vacation day off work--holla), except when I woke up, I had a scratchy throat. I thought nothing of it really at first. As the day progressed it kinda got a little worse. Like it was getting painful to drink and swallow. Weird, right? Well I thought to myself let's give it 24-hours and maybe it will clear up, because that's what they say. Sometime in the evening though I sent an email to my boss and the receptionist at work saying there's a chance that I will have to go to the doctor's office in the morning. So I go to bed, wake up the next morning... I could barely breathe. I describe it like an anorexic was choking me. Like, I could respire okay, but it came with a more work than the standard zero point zero zero effort. Freaky! Right? I went to the urgent care up the street from my place (okay, so like 10-blocks but same diff') and they saw me right away. They were asking me all these questions and taking all my vitals and my glads were super swollen (like, I had restricted movement of my head they were so swollen), and the back of my throat was red, like, blood red, like totally infected.
They swabbed my for strep throat, but that was negative--thank goodness right? They then said, "Well, you don't have strep, but you have all the signs of Mono." Mono!? Shit! So they said there's no real test for Mono, except, well, there is, but they have to wait like 5-days after you contract mono to do the test, then it takes like 5-days for the test results to come back and by that point you're either better or dead, I guess. All they could do is give me a prescription for some steroids that will dramatically help my swelling. They proceeded to administer a shot of mega-steroids (so I would start my prescription the next day) and I got the shot right in the fat of my ass. The lady was like, "Good job. Not a flinch, no blood, nothing." I go, "I know, I got a lot of ass back there." Honestly, yeah, I said that. Within 20-minutes the meat of my ass felt like it was hit by a baseball, but like, a baseball on fire. It was sore and it burned, but shortly my throat returned to normal with only a minimal and faint scratchy feeling, like if I ate a tortilla chip and it went down sideways. Relief. So now I'm taking a steroid prescription for 5-days, and if the swelling comes back after 5-days I have Mono. If I don't I just had a swollen shut throat phenomenon. What else... Oh but the steroids side affects are a whole other basket of issues to deal with. Following are said side affects:
1) May cause sleeplessness: the first night I took the administered super-shot of steroids, I slept a total of 2-hours the whole night, but I was completely energized. It was crazy. They called the next day for a check-up call, and I asked them if that was typical. The person whom I spoke with said that the last person that had the steroid shot cleaned her whole house, top to bottom, in and out, overnight--in one night. That was me too I guess because I went to the grocery store, cleaned, worked out for an hour and a half THEN got ready for work and started my day. It was nuts.
2) Increase of appetite: Now I'm not sure to what level this means, but I have noticed I'll eat just about anything right now. I usually inhale food, yes, but since I've been on the medication I just eat anything and everything. My eyes haven't been bigger than my stomach once.
3) Upset stomach: I get heartburn sometimes, not too badly, but occasionally. All week though I've had to take like 2 pepcids a day. Very unusual.
These symptoms, after reading the possible other side affects, I will gladly and happily take. Following are a list of other side affects: black stools, "coffee-ground" vomit (seriously!), puffy face, seizures, thinning skin, unusual hair growth, vision changes. It's like, what the hell... Anyway, that's what I'm dealing with right now kids. It's always something. I hope you enjoyed my little story. There's no way to wrap this one up except by saying Mono (or something like it) has been a pain in my ass. Cheers.
They swabbed my for strep throat, but that was negative--thank goodness right? They then said, "Well, you don't have strep, but you have all the signs of Mono." Mono!? Shit! So they said there's no real test for Mono, except, well, there is, but they have to wait like 5-days after you contract mono to do the test, then it takes like 5-days for the test results to come back and by that point you're either better or dead, I guess. All they could do is give me a prescription for some steroids that will dramatically help my swelling. They proceeded to administer a shot of mega-steroids (so I would start my prescription the next day) and I got the shot right in the fat of my ass. The lady was like, "Good job. Not a flinch, no blood, nothing." I go, "I know, I got a lot of ass back there." Honestly, yeah, I said that. Within 20-minutes the meat of my ass felt like it was hit by a baseball, but like, a baseball on fire. It was sore and it burned, but shortly my throat returned to normal with only a minimal and faint scratchy feeling, like if I ate a tortilla chip and it went down sideways. Relief. So now I'm taking a steroid prescription for 5-days, and if the swelling comes back after 5-days I have Mono. If I don't I just had a swollen shut throat phenomenon. What else... Oh but the steroids side affects are a whole other basket of issues to deal with. Following are said side affects:
1) May cause sleeplessness: the first night I took the administered super-shot of steroids, I slept a total of 2-hours the whole night, but I was completely energized. It was crazy. They called the next day for a check-up call, and I asked them if that was typical. The person whom I spoke with said that the last person that had the steroid shot cleaned her whole house, top to bottom, in and out, overnight--in one night. That was me too I guess because I went to the grocery store, cleaned, worked out for an hour and a half THEN got ready for work and started my day. It was nuts.
2) Increase of appetite: Now I'm not sure to what level this means, but I have noticed I'll eat just about anything right now. I usually inhale food, yes, but since I've been on the medication I just eat anything and everything. My eyes haven't been bigger than my stomach once.
3) Upset stomach: I get heartburn sometimes, not too badly, but occasionally. All week though I've had to take like 2 pepcids a day. Very unusual.
These symptoms, after reading the possible other side affects, I will gladly and happily take. Following are a list of other side affects: black stools, "coffee-ground" vomit (seriously!), puffy face, seizures, thinning skin, unusual hair growth, vision changes. It's like, what the hell... Anyway, that's what I'm dealing with right now kids. It's always something. I hope you enjoyed my little story. There's no way to wrap this one up except by saying Mono (or something like it) has been a pain in my ass. Cheers.
Weekend Number 18: New England
Firstly, let me disclaim that this trip was Weekend Number 18 (in May), but due to my Blog-cation, I am not writing it until now. Let us commence.
Let's start with the beginning this time. The beginning isn't really the weekend at all, but it's my blog--deal with it. The beginning was a Thursday night when I had a red-eye flight to Boston. I've never been to Boston (nor Massachusetts, nor New England) and thought it would be a lovely opportunity to go. John was there for work (about 3-weeks) and I figured Pfizer wouldn't mind me bunking with John while they pay for the hotel. Lovely. So it's a Thursday night, I go through security, yada yada, normal stuff, get on the plane, great.
We are flying, everything is normal, it's a red-eye, we are all getting sleepy when, out of nowhere comes the flight attendant and her PA to the tune of, "Thank you for choosing Delta. We are glad we have jobs because we are officially out of bankruptcy now, and today/tomorrow (cuz it would be Friday on the East Coast) marks the official day we are back on the NYSE (she didn't say the acronym but yeah, it's easier). We would like to have you join us in celebrating with a champagne toast." The lady next to me, whom I think fondly of to this day, kinda gave me a look like, "Shit--did she say, champs!?" And I gave her the same look back. So the flight attendants scuttle down the isles, passing out tiny, almost thimble-sized containers of champagne. Had a sip, then another, it was gone, great. Thank you Delta. So I'm sitting here, with my new BFF "36A" (that's not her bra size, that's her seat assignment) and neither of us could sleep. It was like a cooky boots crazyland. Everyone--quite literally everyone--was fast asleep except me and 36A. It was midnight in San Diego, it was 3:00 am (insert Matchbox 20 song) in Boston, and I was up up up. Thank GOD there was an in-flight movie, which who says that, but it was a movie with Mandy Moore (who I adore), so I watched that. So did 36A but she didn't have headphones so she umm, just watched it I guess. Hmm... now that I think about it, I love Mandy Moore so much I must have gasped a couple times (like, you know, the gay-gasp), and maybe I kept 36A up the whole time. Well, water under the bridge.
Okay, I get to Boston it's about a zillion in the morning at this point, and I'm greeting by bright-eyed John with a sign that says, "Mr. Shyne" and something else like "Leone Tours -we only provide the best." or something like that. Well, that's a very, very cute gesture, however, it was done with a crumply sheet of cardboard and a big ol' black sharpie, so... it looked like some homeless person's sign. Anyway... nice gesture, not the best execution, and "A" for effort. John and I take the "T" (that's Boston's "MAX" or "BART" if you will) back to the hotel, I finally sleep, then we get up and head out.
Boston is very cute, very historic, with stout, brick buildings from the 1700's neighboring glass and metal high rises from the 2000's. It's very cool. Oh and by cool, I mean cold. It was the beginning of May and it was still at temperatures San Diego has never seen before. Ever. My thoughts on Boston: it's nothing but churches, pubs, and Paul Revere. That's it. That night we go out to one of the gay bars, The Machine (the gays have the funniest names for stuff). We go there, and again LITERALLY no one spoke to us. I was like, "What the freakin' hell is going on?" I guess people in Boston need to conserve all their energy to sustaining human body temperature and they cannot afford to waste precious calories on interaction--I guess one could call them fidget bitches. HA! I even laughed at that.
Okay the next day John and I took this walking tour of Boston. So we get to where they are all meeting, pay the guide and go. Now, if you all don't know I like walking tours--I like the narration and the anecdotes, it's lovely--but I seriously could have done what she did, if not better, and I don't even live there. We would be walking along and like, there'd be a plaque on a building, she'd go up and read it, then recite what it said. Like, I paid you for what? I mean, she had other stories and stuff, but it was just so ridiculously funny. She's all, "Oh what's this? Oh this is interesting! Everybody! Group! Please come look at this!" You're joking me, lady. And she wasn't even dressed up like Mother Goose or Paul Revere or whatever. Anyway, it was still money worth spent (more so for the story I get to tell of the tour, rather than the tour itself). Okay, so later we had plans--well, John had plans--I had no idea what they were. I guess that's called a surprise. John took me to the "Theatre District" and the whole time I was thinking to myself, "Shit--he better have not gotten tickets to a musical--he knows how much I dislike musicals." We turn into some alley, then up stairs, and it turns out we got tix to Blue Man Group.
Relief.
So we did the Blue Man group, they pounded their drums and ate cereal and ran around acting like mute fools, but it was a very nice show and I very much enjoyed the surprise (and it wasn't a musical). After the show we go to some pub, eat our food, some guy smashes his hand into a beer glass, and we leave, back into the winter wonderland that was Boston. The next day was a little more leisurely--we went to the iMax at the Boston Aquarium and watched a show on whales (I was happy) and took a city tour via Old Town Trolley. We have these in SD too; you know, the orange and green bus/trolley looking contraptions that are zipping all over town. Anyway, it was very, very cool and I would recommend them to anyone--worth the money. We saw Paul Revere's house, the Boston Convention Center, The Big Dig, all the Boston sights. The next day we just had a nice breakfast in South Boston and I went back to the airport (cuz John still had work on the East Coast to do).
Well, that pretty much sums up my trip and my weekend. Weekend Number 18, you'll be remembered as the most "wicked sweet bro'" weekend of 2007. Lovely.
Let's start with the beginning this time. The beginning isn't really the weekend at all, but it's my blog--deal with it. The beginning was a Thursday night when I had a red-eye flight to Boston. I've never been to Boston (nor Massachusetts, nor New England) and thought it would be a lovely opportunity to go. John was there for work (about 3-weeks) and I figured Pfizer wouldn't mind me bunking with John while they pay for the hotel. Lovely. So it's a Thursday night, I go through security, yada yada, normal stuff, get on the plane, great.
We are flying, everything is normal, it's a red-eye, we are all getting sleepy when, out of nowhere comes the flight attendant and her PA to the tune of, "Thank you for choosing Delta. We are glad we have jobs because we are officially out of bankruptcy now, and today/tomorrow (cuz it would be Friday on the East Coast) marks the official day we are back on the NYSE (she didn't say the acronym but yeah, it's easier). We would like to have you join us in celebrating with a champagne toast." The lady next to me, whom I think fondly of to this day, kinda gave me a look like, "Shit--did she say, champs!?" And I gave her the same look back. So the flight attendants scuttle down the isles, passing out tiny, almost thimble-sized containers of champagne. Had a sip, then another, it was gone, great. Thank you Delta. So I'm sitting here, with my new BFF "36A" (that's not her bra size, that's her seat assignment) and neither of us could sleep. It was like a cooky boots crazyland. Everyone--quite literally everyone--was fast asleep except me and 36A. It was midnight in San Diego, it was 3:00 am (insert Matchbox 20 song) in Boston, and I was up up up. Thank GOD there was an in-flight movie, which who says that, but it was a movie with Mandy Moore (who I adore), so I watched that. So did 36A but she didn't have headphones so she umm, just watched it I guess. Hmm... now that I think about it, I love Mandy Moore so much I must have gasped a couple times (like, you know, the gay-gasp), and maybe I kept 36A up the whole time. Well, water under the bridge.
Okay, I get to Boston it's about a zillion in the morning at this point, and I'm greeting by bright-eyed John with a sign that says, "Mr. Shyne" and something else like "Leone Tours -we only provide the best." or something like that. Well, that's a very, very cute gesture, however, it was done with a crumply sheet of cardboard and a big ol' black sharpie, so... it looked like some homeless person's sign. Anyway... nice gesture, not the best execution, and "A" for effort. John and I take the "T" (that's Boston's "MAX" or "BART" if you will) back to the hotel, I finally sleep, then we get up and head out.
Boston is very cute, very historic, with stout, brick buildings from the 1700's neighboring glass and metal high rises from the 2000's. It's very cool. Oh and by cool, I mean cold. It was the beginning of May and it was still at temperatures San Diego has never seen before. Ever. My thoughts on Boston: it's nothing but churches, pubs, and Paul Revere. That's it. That night we go out to one of the gay bars, The Machine (the gays have the funniest names for stuff). We go there, and again LITERALLY no one spoke to us. I was like, "What the freakin' hell is going on?" I guess people in Boston need to conserve all their energy to sustaining human body temperature and they cannot afford to waste precious calories on interaction--I guess one could call them fidget bitches. HA! I even laughed at that.
Okay the next day John and I took this walking tour of Boston. So we get to where they are all meeting, pay the guide and go. Now, if you all don't know I like walking tours--I like the narration and the anecdotes, it's lovely--but I seriously could have done what she did, if not better, and I don't even live there. We would be walking along and like, there'd be a plaque on a building, she'd go up and read it, then recite what it said. Like, I paid you for what? I mean, she had other stories and stuff, but it was just so ridiculously funny. She's all, "Oh what's this? Oh this is interesting! Everybody! Group! Please come look at this!" You're joking me, lady. And she wasn't even dressed up like Mother Goose or Paul Revere or whatever. Anyway, it was still money worth spent (more so for the story I get to tell of the tour, rather than the tour itself). Okay, so later we had plans--well, John had plans--I had no idea what they were. I guess that's called a surprise. John took me to the "Theatre District" and the whole time I was thinking to myself, "Shit--he better have not gotten tickets to a musical--he knows how much I dislike musicals." We turn into some alley, then up stairs, and it turns out we got tix to Blue Man Group.
Relief.
So we did the Blue Man group, they pounded their drums and ate cereal and ran around acting like mute fools, but it was a very nice show and I very much enjoyed the surprise (and it wasn't a musical). After the show we go to some pub, eat our food, some guy smashes his hand into a beer glass, and we leave, back into the winter wonderland that was Boston. The next day was a little more leisurely--we went to the iMax at the Boston Aquarium and watched a show on whales (I was happy) and took a city tour via Old Town Trolley. We have these in SD too; you know, the orange and green bus/trolley looking contraptions that are zipping all over town. Anyway, it was very, very cool and I would recommend them to anyone--worth the money. We saw Paul Revere's house, the Boston Convention Center, The Big Dig, all the Boston sights. The next day we just had a nice breakfast in South Boston and I went back to the airport (cuz John still had work on the East Coast to do).
Well, that pretty much sums up my trip and my weekend. Weekend Number 18, you'll be remembered as the most "wicked sweet bro'" weekend of 2007. Lovely.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Broken
Well, where do I start? One would presume the beginning but the beginning isn't a beginning at all. I guess I should just come out with it: John and I broke up. I know, I know, please people, stay seated. I don't really have much to "blog" about it, as it is a personal subject between him and me, but I wanted to just say for the record that I've absolutely enjoyed my relationship with John; he's such a great guy and I think the world of him. We are simply changing the terms and conditions of our relationship to reflect a friendship rather than boyfriendship (that should be a word huh?). Anyway, I wouldn't consider myself single either, because single would denote availability--I'm non-anything. I'm a unisexual (just me, baby) for the time being. And who knows, maybe we are making a mistake (and by "we" I mean "me"--I'm the one that decided it was probably for the best to break it off). Maybe we will get back together, and maybe it will be sooner, maybe it will be later, maybe it will never be the same again, but all I know is I had a great year, I learned a lot about myself and I have some amazing and special memories from my time close with him. I am fine, a little shaken, but I'm good. John and I had talks about this for almost 2 weeks deciding on what would be for the greater good and all that crap, and after our last conversation I'm feeling a lot better about things (good enough to talk freely about it now). If you want to hear more, than ask. and if you want to check in with Johnny, please do not hesitate to ask me for his email (I don't want to publish it on here--a public blog). Anyway... that's all I have to say tonight.
Oh and thanks everyone for your patience with my little blog vacation. Obviously had some stuff on my mind that I couldn't spurt out onto this darn thing. Until next time, bloggettes. I promise, I'll have some good stuff next time!
Oh and thanks everyone for your patience with my little blog vacation. Obviously had some stuff on my mind that I couldn't spurt out onto this darn thing. Until next time, bloggettes. I promise, I'll have some good stuff next time!
Monday, April 23, 2007
Weekend Number 16: Earth Dizzle fo' Shizzle
Saturday was a waste. I'm skipping it, thanks (it's my blog; I'll do whatever the hell I want).
Sunday was it though. So my roommate, Mike, and another great friend of mine, Vince (both of whom I've blogged about before) ran in the La Jolla Half Marathon (which I will refere to as the LJ1/2 from now on). So they had to be up in La Jolla at about half past zero in the morning to warm up and stretch and wax and breathe and kick and tai bo and all that. They run, I'm sure it's amazing and then they are done. And get back in their cars and ruin the environment. Okay, so I meet Vince at Urban Mo's (for you non-San Diegans, Mo's is an open-patio burger bar that's SUPER popular on Sunday mornings--and for those don't know, "Mo" is short for "homo"). Okay, meet Vince there apres his run (John and I walked--the environment) and had a celebritory cocktail. Horray! We order some food, meet up with a couple other friends, one of whom is Mr. Alex Blayden (some may refered to him as Mackinzie Tartan). After consuming our fried, delicious Earth Day feast we casually jaunt to Starbucks ready to concume our daily allowance of calories in one cup. So we get there, order a double-what-the-fuckie and enjoy our coffees on the patio, watching the passerbyers. So it's alex, vince, me, some group of people we literally ran into on the walk over (walking, yes, Earth Day) and some other randoms. It was like 10 of us. Lovely.
Suddenly, and without warning, a figure cloaked orange and sagging shorts materializes onto the patio and starts barraging our congregation with stammering nonsense. Yeah. This guy just starts talking about all this stuff like Ibiza platinum memberships and how we are bringing sexy back and how he asked us if we had any vicodin ("Oh shoot, I gave my last one away to the last crazy, creepy kook that asked me for one. Sorry."). He was six kinds of crazy. At least.
We devised a plan to get rid of him (and get booze back in our system) and went to ANOTHER stop on our Earth Day tour, to Baja Betty's. So Baja Betty's is, the exact, exact same as Urban Mo's (previously mentioned) except instead of burgers it's burritos. Clever. So we dominate the patio of Betty's and order beers by the bucket and just talk about everything there ever was to talk about: work, school, madonna, boys, talking inanimate objects, strangers in orange, sunshine, the LJ1/2, music, clogging, etc. We were there from, oh let's say 2:00 pm to, well, until it started to rain, which was approximately 9:00 pm. It was fantastic though. It was the perfect.... oh, I forgot something. There is this troop of trannies that run around San Diego causing all sorts of ruckus called the Sisters of Purpetual Induldgence. They wear white, white faces and red lips and huge eyelashes and look like goth clowns. Goth tranny clowns actually. That's what I look for in a man, okay. No. So they were being SO funny and on their way by they were saying happy Earth Day to us and we started up a chorus of, "Happy Earth Day to you, happy Earth Day to you..." (like the birthday song right?) I pretty much died of laughter afterwards. It was soo freaking funny! So funny. They didn't think they were going to get any bite with their bark.
So anyway, that was pretty much it. A gaggle of cute boys sitting around a patio, drinking quite literally all day and laughing and bonding. Damn what a kick-ass Sunday. Weekend Number 16, you're sure to give the biggest bang for your buck.
Sunday was it though. So my roommate, Mike, and another great friend of mine, Vince (both of whom I've blogged about before) ran in the La Jolla Half Marathon (which I will refere to as the LJ1/2 from now on). So they had to be up in La Jolla at about half past zero in the morning to warm up and stretch and wax and breathe and kick and tai bo and all that. They run, I'm sure it's amazing and then they are done. And get back in their cars and ruin the environment. Okay, so I meet Vince at Urban Mo's (for you non-San Diegans, Mo's is an open-patio burger bar that's SUPER popular on Sunday mornings--and for those don't know, "Mo" is short for "homo"). Okay, meet Vince there apres his run (John and I walked--the environment) and had a celebritory cocktail. Horray! We order some food, meet up with a couple other friends, one of whom is Mr. Alex Blayden (some may refered to him as Mackinzie Tartan). After consuming our fried, delicious Earth Day feast we casually jaunt to Starbucks ready to concume our daily allowance of calories in one cup. So we get there, order a double-what-the-fuckie and enjoy our coffees on the patio, watching the passerbyers. So it's alex, vince, me, some group of people we literally ran into on the walk over (walking, yes, Earth Day) and some other randoms. It was like 10 of us. Lovely.
Suddenly, and without warning, a figure cloaked orange and sagging shorts materializes onto the patio and starts barraging our congregation with stammering nonsense. Yeah. This guy just starts talking about all this stuff like Ibiza platinum memberships and how we are bringing sexy back and how he asked us if we had any vicodin ("Oh shoot, I gave my last one away to the last crazy, creepy kook that asked me for one. Sorry."). He was six kinds of crazy. At least.
We devised a plan to get rid of him (and get booze back in our system) and went to ANOTHER stop on our Earth Day tour, to Baja Betty's. So Baja Betty's is, the exact, exact same as Urban Mo's (previously mentioned) except instead of burgers it's burritos. Clever. So we dominate the patio of Betty's and order beers by the bucket and just talk about everything there ever was to talk about: work, school, madonna, boys, talking inanimate objects, strangers in orange, sunshine, the LJ1/2, music, clogging, etc. We were there from, oh let's say 2:00 pm to, well, until it started to rain, which was approximately 9:00 pm. It was fantastic though. It was the perfect.... oh, I forgot something. There is this troop of trannies that run around San Diego causing all sorts of ruckus called the Sisters of Purpetual Induldgence. They wear white, white faces and red lips and huge eyelashes and look like goth clowns. Goth tranny clowns actually. That's what I look for in a man, okay. No. So they were being SO funny and on their way by they were saying happy Earth Day to us and we started up a chorus of, "Happy Earth Day to you, happy Earth Day to you..." (like the birthday song right?) I pretty much died of laughter afterwards. It was soo freaking funny! So funny. They didn't think they were going to get any bite with their bark.
So anyway, that was pretty much it. A gaggle of cute boys sitting around a patio, drinking quite literally all day and laughing and bonding. Damn what a kick-ass Sunday. Weekend Number 16, you're sure to give the biggest bang for your buck.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Weekend Number 15: J'adore Portland parti deux
(Reader: if you're starting here, please read "J'adore Portland" first. Thanks.)
Brother's think their they greatest thing since sliced hops. We did a couple beer samples and the went to the actual brewery. We got to see these HUGE vats of beer (or soon-to-be-beer) and watch it churn and spray and purify and Saturday I planned two activities ahead of time that were to be surprises for John: the first was a tour of the Widmer Brothers Brewery. We went to industrial North East Portland and arrived at the all-brick, super cute brewery. The hostess escorts us to the boardroom where we will soon meet with our tour guide. Other people start to filter in and soon after the tour guide arrives and we begin. They started with a movie on how beer is made and how it furments and all that. It was super, super cool. We received a Widmer Brother's glass and a bottle opener at the end of the tour and headed off to our next destination.
We arrived now in Old Town Portland where we took a tour of the "Portland Underground." Old Town Portland was very similar to San Diego's historic Stingaree district. It was at one time brothels, casino parlors, opium dens, etc. Portland, being a "port" town and had, what many other port towns called, "shanghaiing." What would happen is when some one was in this part of town and strolling down the streets intoxicated, inebriated or otherwise, they would be knocked-out, kidnapped and then drug down to the harbor and sold to a ship captain as a slave. This started around the 1850's and quickly increased in severity over the years. There was a network of tunnels that were constructed under buildings that made it easier to trap, hide and transport victims. The slavers started buying off the police force, politicians and barkeeps to just turn the other way. In the height of the Shanghaiing, it was 3,000 men a year that would be kidnapped and it lasted till 1941, World War II. The tour actually took us underground into the catacomb tunnels, and we saw some of the artifacts and actual holding cells of these people. It was very interesting to hear about the historic part of Portland, but I could have DEFINITELY done without all the campfire-ghost story-bull hockey. "If you squint your eyes, some people have said they've seen the whistler who whistled until they died....oooohh booga booga booga." Bitch please.
Okay so then what, Oh! So we get done with the Old Town tour and go to Matt's get our belongings and go to a pre-party. A pre-party to what you might ask? The red dress party!! Holla! Okay, so the red dress party is just a giant warehouse party with a bunch of men (yes, gay) in dresses. Not all are drag queens, but the ones who are are probably my old roommates. Oh yeah... okay so we go to Starbuck's house (that's his nickname, is birth name is Dave). Anyway, we get there, have a beer, muster up the balls (or not-balls) to put on a glitzy, glamorous red dress. John's was this full-length, beaded halter top gown and mine was this 80's Tiffany-ish sweater dress. It was hideous. Okay so started to bitch about how it was a little itchy and some guy there was like, "Oh, I brought this other dress that I ended up not wearing but you should totally try it." I tried it on, and what a dream come true. It is totally like a fairytale figure skater dress. It was SOO gay! And if I spun in a circle, my underwear would show, so I was happy. Okay, so we drink, great, and head off the red dress party (except John had a stomach ache and didn't end up going).
The red dress party was like, a line to get in another line, to get in ANOTHER line... uuggg. There was a line to get in the door (outdoors thanks), there was a line to get a cocktail (again, outdoors) and ANOTHER line to go the bathroom (yup...outdoors). This is not San Diego either, this is Portland, Oregon, on the river, freezing, drizzling cold. But so fun. Super fun. so we drink, eat, giggle, twirl, giggle more and go down to Silverado. For are you non-Portlanders, it's this very classy establishment, almost members-only, that the very upper-crust of society patrons. It's a total divy gay strip bar. So we changed out of our red dresses on the streets of downtown Portland (did I mention how classy I am?) and go to Silverado, meet up with friends, drink, twirl, tip, they twirl, tip again, drink and leave. It was fun.
Sunday morning Kurtis (some may know him as Asshole) came home from his work trip. Work flew him to Twinkistan or something and he was like a big in shit. Anyway, Mattgraves picked him up from the airport then we all went out to brunch--which was the most ridiculous meal I've ever had. We walk in and the hostess is like, "Okay yeah, table for four? Okay right this way (read it in a little Asian-lady-Miss-Swan voice)." We sit down, order some food and they are pestering us like, "You can't eat all that? You come wash dishes when you're finished..." and like, rubbing our heads and just being kooky. I can't even explain it. The tip of the iceberg was when I was watching the little girl that was staring into the wall, nose-to-wallpaper, like it was television screen, and I whip around and see this Asian lady cutting Mattgraves' pancake with HIS fork and putting it in HIS mouth. I checked out for the rest of the meal. I was in Kookykook Kooksville. So weird. Okay, so we get to the airport, get on our plane, talk about the amazing time we shared and about how random of a blog the whole weekend is going to make. So there you go.
Portland's fucking weird.
Brother's think their they greatest thing since sliced hops. We did a couple beer samples and the went to the actual brewery. We got to see these HUGE vats of beer (or soon-to-be-beer) and watch it churn and spray and purify and Saturday I planned two activities ahead of time that were to be surprises for John: the first was a tour of the Widmer Brothers Brewery. We went to industrial North East Portland and arrived at the all-brick, super cute brewery. The hostess escorts us to the boardroom where we will soon meet with our tour guide. Other people start to filter in and soon after the tour guide arrives and we begin. They started with a movie on how beer is made and how it furments and all that. It was super, super cool. We received a Widmer Brother's glass and a bottle opener at the end of the tour and headed off to our next destination.
We arrived now in Old Town Portland where we took a tour of the "Portland Underground." Old Town Portland was very similar to San Diego's historic Stingaree district. It was at one time brothels, casino parlors, opium dens, etc. Portland, being a "port" town and had, what many other port towns called, "shanghaiing." What would happen is when some one was in this part of town and strolling down the streets intoxicated, inebriated or otherwise, they would be knocked-out, kidnapped and then drug down to the harbor and sold to a ship captain as a slave. This started around the 1850's and quickly increased in severity over the years. There was a network of tunnels that were constructed under buildings that made it easier to trap, hide and transport victims. The slavers started buying off the police force, politicians and barkeeps to just turn the other way. In the height of the Shanghaiing, it was 3,000 men a year that would be kidnapped and it lasted till 1941, World War II. The tour actually took us underground into the catacomb tunnels, and we saw some of the artifacts and actual holding cells of these people. It was very interesting to hear about the historic part of Portland, but I could have DEFINITELY done without all the campfire-ghost story-bull hockey. "If you squint your eyes, some people have said they've seen the whistler who whistled until they died....oooohh booga booga booga." Bitch please.
Okay so then what, Oh! So we get done with the Old Town tour and go to Matt's get our belongings and go to a pre-party. A pre-party to what you might ask? The red dress party!! Holla! Okay, so the red dress party is just a giant warehouse party with a bunch of men (yes, gay) in dresses. Not all are drag queens, but the ones who are are probably my old roommates. Oh yeah... okay so we go to Starbuck's house (that's his nickname, is birth name is Dave). Anyway, we get there, have a beer, muster up the balls (or not-balls) to put on a glitzy, glamorous red dress. John's was this full-length, beaded halter top gown and mine was this 80's Tiffany-ish sweater dress. It was hideous. Okay so started to bitch about how it was a little itchy and some guy there was like, "Oh, I brought this other dress that I ended up not wearing but you should totally try it." I tried it on, and what a dream come true. It is totally like a fairytale figure skater dress. It was SOO gay! And if I spun in a circle, my underwear would show, so I was happy. Okay, so we drink, great, and head off the red dress party (except John had a stomach ache and didn't end up going).
The red dress party was like, a line to get in another line, to get in ANOTHER line... uuggg. There was a line to get in the door (outdoors thanks), there was a line to get a cocktail (again, outdoors) and ANOTHER line to go the bathroom (yup...outdoors). This is not San Diego either, this is Portland, Oregon, on the river, freezing, drizzling cold. But so fun. Super fun. so we drink, eat, giggle, twirl, giggle more and go down to Silverado. For are you non-Portlanders, it's this very classy establishment, almost members-only, that the very upper-crust of society patrons. It's a total divy gay strip bar. So we changed out of our red dresses on the streets of downtown Portland (did I mention how classy I am?) and go to Silverado, meet up with friends, drink, twirl, tip, they twirl, tip again, drink and leave. It was fun.
Sunday morning Kurtis (some may know him as Asshole) came home from his work trip. Work flew him to Twinkistan or something and he was like a big in shit. Anyway, Mattgraves picked him up from the airport then we all went out to brunch--which was the most ridiculous meal I've ever had. We walk in and the hostess is like, "Okay yeah, table for four? Okay right this way (read it in a little Asian-lady-Miss-Swan voice)." We sit down, order some food and they are pestering us like, "You can't eat all that? You come wash dishes when you're finished..." and like, rubbing our heads and just being kooky. I can't even explain it. The tip of the iceberg was when I was watching the little girl that was staring into the wall, nose-to-wallpaper, like it was television screen, and I whip around and see this Asian lady cutting Mattgraves' pancake with HIS fork and putting it in HIS mouth. I checked out for the rest of the meal. I was in Kookykook Kooksville. So weird. Okay, so we get to the airport, get on our plane, talk about the amazing time we shared and about how random of a blog the whole weekend is going to make. So there you go.
Portland's fucking weird.
J'adore Portland
Our adventure starts on a Thursday evening, after I get off from work, race to school to turn in my homework to my teachers dropbox (because I was missing class to go to Portland) and head to the airport. My roommate Mike took John and I too the airport and we bolted right to the security line (we were already checked in and we had no bags to check thank goodness). We see our good friend Allan who works at the airport and take him through the line with us. Once through the drones of people we make our way to the counter and--guess what, our flight's delayed. Crap. That's like the worst thing, well, not THE worst, but you get where I'm going. We happen to notice on a neighboring reader-board there is another flight to Portland that takes off in about 30-minutes (compared the the 2-hours we'd probably have to wait for OUR flight). We ask the lady at the ticketing counter if we can get on (we didn't check luggage remember) and she said, "You'd have to pay the difference in fair to change airplanes... but since your flight is delayed, I'm going to just put you on." Oh thank goodness! Oh crap. Thank Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth for shining down upon Terminal 1 of San Diego International.
Okay, so we get on the plane, fly in, great, good for us, land, meet one of my best friends, Mattgraves (it's really "Matt (space) Graves" but you say it like one word--for no reason at all, it's just fun). So we meet Mattgraves and head to a place called Doug Fir. It's this super-cute, hipster, modern bar that looks like a funky, futuristic log cabin type thing. There we meet up with some friends, on of whom is Celess. Celess and I met in French class (hence the "j'adore") and we've stuck ever since. She was leaving over the weekend and could only see us on this evening, so we made it work. After jovial rekindling We went downtown to a gay bar with a cocktail or two in our bellies, had another drink there and went home (Mattgraves had to work the next day). While we were downtown at the bar though, I see a familiar drunken homo, wedged in the corner of the room, slouched on a piece of furniture. I order Mattgraves to swiftly inspect. To our surprise it was Dan Quiearcuigrocia! He's another super-great friend of mine whom I was very excited to see. Yay! Okay so we drank, laughed, I spit an ice cube in Mattgraves' mouth by accident (but it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen/done) and we went home and crashed.
The next morning (Friday) John and I woke up and hustled out the door to take a walking adventure of downtown Portland. Since it was Friday, everyone was working, which was great because we got to spend the day to ourselves. Our first stop was a restaurant called Southpark. It's one of my favorites places in Portland. I took my mom their a couple times when she visited me. It's just a super cute restaurant with fantastic ambiance and delicious cuisine. It's just lovely. It's like high-end but their lunch menus are actually quite affordable. Anyway, okay, after lunch we walked down to the "U District" where Portland State University is, then down along Broadway and down to the waterfront. It was very pleasant walking around a city where you don't live yet being completely familiar with your surroundings. Anyway... at the waterfront we caught the MAX (the public transit lightrail--which is free in downtown) and went back to the middle of downtown to meet up with my former boss, Susanne, for a cocktail. Consumed said cocktails, visited a couple other stores then headed back to Mattgraves' house.
Mattgraves decided to have a little BBQ at his place and we invited a few friends over and had a mary ol' time. We drank, ate and conversed. After the BBQ commenced Mattgraves convinced us to go to this club called Halocene; they were having some event called "Gaycation." (The gays think they are so clever with their play on words). I've been to this club before actually, but it was in a fashion show for Portland Fashion week a couple years ago and was runway model (you better work...). Anyway, this night it was so far from a gaycation it was a gaytastrophe. It was purGAYtory. Let me explain: it was NOT a bunch of cute gays running around in muscle shirts and tank tops, drinking blended drinks--no--it was a bunch of gnarly lesbians and their b.o. and attidutes and craziness, making out with each other or cutting in line and just being rude. We begged Mattgraves for departure and he finally caves (why he was enjoying himself is still a mattgraves mystery). We go BACK downtown to the same gay bar we were at the night before and play video poker (well, Mattgraves played video poker) and drank and shortly after went home. Phew!
Continue Story onto Weekend Number 15.
Okay, so we get on the plane, fly in, great, good for us, land, meet one of my best friends, Mattgraves (it's really "Matt (space) Graves" but you say it like one word--for no reason at all, it's just fun). So we meet Mattgraves and head to a place called Doug Fir. It's this super-cute, hipster, modern bar that looks like a funky, futuristic log cabin type thing. There we meet up with some friends, on of whom is Celess. Celess and I met in French class (hence the "j'adore") and we've stuck ever since. She was leaving over the weekend and could only see us on this evening, so we made it work. After jovial rekindling We went downtown to a gay bar with a cocktail or two in our bellies, had another drink there and went home (Mattgraves had to work the next day). While we were downtown at the bar though, I see a familiar drunken homo, wedged in the corner of the room, slouched on a piece of furniture. I order Mattgraves to swiftly inspect. To our surprise it was Dan Quiearcuigrocia! He's another super-great friend of mine whom I was very excited to see. Yay! Okay so we drank, laughed, I spit an ice cube in Mattgraves' mouth by accident (but it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen/done) and we went home and crashed.
The next morning (Friday) John and I woke up and hustled out the door to take a walking adventure of downtown Portland. Since it was Friday, everyone was working, which was great because we got to spend the day to ourselves. Our first stop was a restaurant called Southpark. It's one of my favorites places in Portland. I took my mom their a couple times when she visited me. It's just a super cute restaurant with fantastic ambiance and delicious cuisine. It's just lovely. It's like high-end but their lunch menus are actually quite affordable. Anyway, okay, after lunch we walked down to the "U District" where Portland State University is, then down along Broadway and down to the waterfront. It was very pleasant walking around a city where you don't live yet being completely familiar with your surroundings. Anyway... at the waterfront we caught the MAX (the public transit lightrail--which is free in downtown) and went back to the middle of downtown to meet up with my former boss, Susanne, for a cocktail. Consumed said cocktails, visited a couple other stores then headed back to Mattgraves' house.
Mattgraves decided to have a little BBQ at his place and we invited a few friends over and had a mary ol' time. We drank, ate and conversed. After the BBQ commenced Mattgraves convinced us to go to this club called Halocene; they were having some event called "Gaycation." (The gays think they are so clever with their play on words). I've been to this club before actually, but it was in a fashion show for Portland Fashion week a couple years ago and was runway model (you better work...). Anyway, this night it was so far from a gaycation it was a gaytastrophe. It was purGAYtory. Let me explain: it was NOT a bunch of cute gays running around in muscle shirts and tank tops, drinking blended drinks--no--it was a bunch of gnarly lesbians and their b.o. and attidutes and craziness, making out with each other or cutting in line and just being rude. We begged Mattgraves for departure and he finally caves (why he was enjoying himself is still a mattgraves mystery). We go BACK downtown to the same gay bar we were at the night before and play video poker (well, Mattgraves played video poker) and drank and shortly after went home. Phew!
Continue Story onto Weekend Number 15.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
The Me Only I Know
The title may not be easily understandable, but this entry is to capture the pieces of me that only I know. Everyone has activities they do only in the company of themselves--all the way from talking to one's self to dressing in women's clothing (not strange for a woman I guess but odd for a man in most cases). Following are some of my own personal observations about myself that I can share:
Quasimodo: I tend to make funny faces in the mirror. I like making scary faces, ugly faces, animal faces, puffy faces, whatever kind of face I make. The elevators at both my house and work all have mirrored walls in them and are prime face-making real estate. What else is one going to do in the elevator by themselves for the 4-seconds it takes to go from first floor to? Honestly.
Back-up Singer: We ALL do this--I sing. I sing in the car. I will gladly sing the newest Madonna tune in the privacy of my glass-house Cavalier. It's so interesting how cars are 360' of glass and yet we think NO one can see us, we can just see all of them. I'm sure I look like such a fool, but come on, like 100% of all the other driver's are doing it, thinking of doing it, or wishing they were doing it.
Psychic Public Servant: This is an odd one, and it's not that I truly think I can move things with my mind, but after playing the X-men game on PS2 so much and playing specific characters that can move things with their minds, I sometimes envision THEM moving things with their minds in real life, but through me. Following? Example: As I'm walking down the street maybe I see a piece of garbage lying there, waiting patiently for someone to scoop it up and throw it away. I have envisioned the object being levitated from its current location to a nearby trash container. I'm not doing it, an X-man is, but I still imagine myself making it happen? Got it now? If you don't got it now, just forget about it--read on.
Cigarette Vigilante: This is a stretch too but hear me out. I don't like smoking. It's a horrible, ugly habit and may you find the strength if you do smoke to quit somehow. This is my over-active imagination envisioning scenarios again, but I imagine myself just walking up to someone, grabbing the lit or soon-to-be-lit cigarette from their lips/fingers and flicking it casually into the street--without regret or remorse. It's not that I hate smokers, it's that I hate smoking. Smokers (most of them--honestly) are just not courteous and borderline-obnoxious. But if you know one than they are lovely.
I'm sure there will be many more to come but let's start with this for now. Enjoy.
Quasimodo: I tend to make funny faces in the mirror. I like making scary faces, ugly faces, animal faces, puffy faces, whatever kind of face I make. The elevators at both my house and work all have mirrored walls in them and are prime face-making real estate. What else is one going to do in the elevator by themselves for the 4-seconds it takes to go from first floor to
Back-up Singer: We ALL do this--I sing. I sing in the car. I will gladly sing the newest Madonna tune in the privacy of my glass-house Cavalier. It's so interesting how cars are 360' of glass and yet we think NO one can see us, we can just see all of them. I'm sure I look like such a fool, but come on, like 100% of all the other driver's are doing it, thinking of doing it, or wishing they were doing it.
Psychic Public Servant: This is an odd one, and it's not that I truly think I can move things with my mind, but after playing the X-men game on PS2 so much and playing specific characters that can move things with their minds, I sometimes envision THEM moving things with their minds in real life, but through me. Following? Example: As I'm walking down the street maybe I see a piece of garbage lying there, waiting patiently for someone to scoop it up and throw it away. I have envisioned the object being levitated from its current location to a nearby trash container. I'm not doing it, an X-man is, but I still imagine myself making it happen? Got it now? If you don't got it now, just forget about it--read on.
Cigarette Vigilante: This is a stretch too but hear me out. I don't like smoking. It's a horrible, ugly habit and may you find the strength if you do smoke to quit somehow. This is my over-active imagination envisioning scenarios again, but I imagine myself just walking up to someone, grabbing the lit or soon-to-be-lit cigarette from their lips/fingers and flicking it casually into the street--without regret or remorse. It's not that I hate smokers, it's that I hate smoking. Smokers (most of them--honestly) are just not courteous and borderline-obnoxious. But if you know one than they are lovely.
I'm sure there will be many more to come but let's start with this for now. Enjoy.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wisdom is a Dish Best Served Mushy
About 6-months ago I woke up with a horrible stabbing pain in my mouth. After prolonged agony I found what I thought was a 5th wisdom tooth coming in. After a moment of panic and confusion, I figured out that my wisdom tooth that had already come in, only it had started to shift to the side, outward toward my jawbone and was scraping against bone. It was one of the most painful experiences I've had. I called up my dentist who recommended an oral surgeon for the task. I rang the surgeon's office and they were like, "We can get you in for a consultation tomorrow but we can't extract until about 3-weeks." I gasped (surely a gay-gasp) and replied, "If you don't get this thing out tomorrow I'm going to do have to do it myself." She started to laugh and I quickly said, "Mm, I'm not kidding. This has to come out."
She penciled me in and the doc came in early to see me the NEXT DAY, which was so great, and he removed my wisdom tooth (which was only numero quatro, not a 5th wisdom tooth (which can actually happen, by the way). So anyway I sent them a "thank you" card for seeing me so quickly and being so helpful. Good for me. This isn't the point of this story so let's get to it:
I scheduled an appointment to get my OTHER three wisdom teeth removed preventatively, avoiding the chance of future pain and discomfort. My roommate Mike was free the day of my surgery and offered to take me there and help me out. Props to Mike. So we get to the oral surgeon's office and I check-in with the receptionist, pay my bill and soon after head back. The people had all remembered me from last time and were very nice. I get in the doctor's chair and the oral surgeon comes in the room. He thanked me gratefully for sending a "thank you" card--I guess they rarely get them, considering they torture people for a living. I said, "well, my Mom raised me properly yada yada," or something like that. Props to Momma. So they hook me up to an IV and put a heart monitor on me and start strapping me down to the bed. Like, my arms, legs, chest, everything. He said that I might have a dream when I go under and they don't want to risk me running a marathon in my dreams while they are operating. So I'm all hooked up and have a gas mask on my face and the doctor says, "We just served you your favorite martini, and you're at your best friend's party and..." OUT. The next thing I know, I'm in the lobby of the hospital, in a wheel chair, with a mouthful of gauze and a head wrap, waiting for Mike to bring the car around. There was a lot I missed I guess. Following is the interim:
Mike brought his laptop so he could get some emails out while I was being operated on. A mere 15-minutes after I go back to the OR, the nurse emerges and says to Mike, "We're all finished. Do you want to go back and see him?" Mike walks back with the nurse, walks in and finds me with my pants around my knees saying, "SURPRISE!" I guess I thought it would have been funny--nay hilarious--if I flashed Mike while high as kite. Front side, not back. Front. Well, it would have been funny if the nurse wasn't in the room also. She bolts out of the door, yelping like a kicked dog. She got the doctor and brought him into the room. He sternly questions, "Did you just do what she said you did?" I bashfully remain quiet and he evidently notices my fly is still down. My fate is sealed. He says, "That's unacceptable--but I'll let you get away with it because you're so drugged up,"In like a doctor-y kinda parent tone. Yeah.
The doctor escorts Mike and I to a "containment room" where I can be monitored to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction to the anesthetics. While we are in there some how Mike produces a book on Balboa Park. I start reciting everything there ever was to know about Balboa Park: its history, its origin--all while I have a literal mouth FULL of gauze. I was completely inaudible but Mike let me ramble on, knowing that if he said anything I would try removing the gauze from my bleeding oral cavity.
After everything that happened at the oral surgeon's office, Mike and I head to Rite Aid to get my prescription filled. We do so and afterwards walk across the street to Jamba Juice. Mind you I'm extremely drugged-up and have a mouthful of cotton. The lady takes one look at me, with my puffy cheeks, glazed-over eyes, and icy head wrap and says, "Wisdom teeth, huh?" This little cashier must have seen the like before. We get our Jamba and head back to Rite Aid, get my prescription and head home. I continue to lie on the couch in a groggy, half-lucid state for the next day or so and in a tremendous amount of pain.
My diet now consists of pudding, mashed potatoes, soup, broth and yogurt. Wisdom is a dish best served mushy.
She penciled me in and the doc came in early to see me the NEXT DAY, which was so great, and he removed my wisdom tooth (which was only numero quatro, not a 5th wisdom tooth (which can actually happen, by the way). So anyway I sent them a "thank you" card for seeing me so quickly and being so helpful. Good for me. This isn't the point of this story so let's get to it:
I scheduled an appointment to get my OTHER three wisdom teeth removed preventatively, avoiding the chance of future pain and discomfort. My roommate Mike was free the day of my surgery and offered to take me there and help me out. Props to Mike. So we get to the oral surgeon's office and I check-in with the receptionist, pay my bill and soon after head back. The people had all remembered me from last time and were very nice. I get in the doctor's chair and the oral surgeon comes in the room. He thanked me gratefully for sending a "thank you" card--I guess they rarely get them, considering they torture people for a living. I said, "well, my Mom raised me properly yada yada," or something like that. Props to Momma. So they hook me up to an IV and put a heart monitor on me and start strapping me down to the bed. Like, my arms, legs, chest, everything. He said that I might have a dream when I go under and they don't want to risk me running a marathon in my dreams while they are operating. So I'm all hooked up and have a gas mask on my face and the doctor says, "We just served you your favorite martini, and you're at your best friend's party and..." OUT. The next thing I know, I'm in the lobby of the hospital, in a wheel chair, with a mouthful of gauze and a head wrap, waiting for Mike to bring the car around. There was a lot I missed I guess. Following is the interim:
Mike brought his laptop so he could get some emails out while I was being operated on. A mere 15-minutes after I go back to the OR, the nurse emerges and says to Mike, "We're all finished. Do you want to go back and see him?" Mike walks back with the nurse, walks in and finds me with my pants around my knees saying, "SURPRISE!" I guess I thought it would have been funny--nay hilarious--if I flashed Mike while high as kite. Front side, not back. Front. Well, it would have been funny if the nurse wasn't in the room also. She bolts out of the door, yelping like a kicked dog. She got the doctor and brought him into the room. He sternly questions, "Did you just do what she said you did?" I bashfully remain quiet and he evidently notices my fly is still down. My fate is sealed. He says, "That's unacceptable--but I'll let you get away with it because you're so drugged up,"In like a doctor-y kinda parent tone. Yeah.
The doctor escorts Mike and I to a "containment room" where I can be monitored to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction to the anesthetics. While we are in there some how Mike produces a book on Balboa Park. I start reciting everything there ever was to know about Balboa Park: its history, its origin--all while I have a literal mouth FULL of gauze. I was completely inaudible but Mike let me ramble on, knowing that if he said anything I would try removing the gauze from my bleeding oral cavity.
After everything that happened at the oral surgeon's office, Mike and I head to Rite Aid to get my prescription filled. We do so and afterwards walk across the street to Jamba Juice. Mind you I'm extremely drugged-up and have a mouthful of cotton. The lady takes one look at me, with my puffy cheeks, glazed-over eyes, and icy head wrap and says, "Wisdom teeth, huh?" This little cashier must have seen the like before. We get our Jamba and head back to Rite Aid, get my prescription and head home. I continue to lie on the couch in a groggy, half-lucid state for the next day or so and in a tremendous amount of pain.
My diet now consists of pudding, mashed potatoes, soup, broth and yogurt. Wisdom is a dish best served mushy.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Weekend Number 12: Sunday
With Saturday behind us and the day chalk-full (I wonder where that saying comes from) of exciting activities, John and I wake up early (like 7:45 am--and trust me, for gays on a Sunday, that's like walking on water--miracle) and hit the gym. After an invigorating workout we rendez-vous with our friends David and Todd (another gay couple) and get some brunch. We go to a place called the Mission; I have had heard of it several times by this point but still never went. Excellent choice. Great food, good (enough) service, horrible chocolate mike (don't ever order it from them) but in-out-eat-yum-burp-done and that's all I wanted.
We had a task at hand. We had a goal. We--David, Todd, John and I--had plans: we were going to the Cat Show. I said it--Cat Show. It's like a dog show, except there are more gays and old ladies. Not like, the little old ladies with blue hair that drive 110 miles per hour and sit on a stack of phone books to see over the steering wheel, but like, the old ladies with big, homemade earrings and a sweater with a big cat on it and it says "My cat's shit don't stink" or some bull like that. Oh god. The cats were fun--some beautiful and exotic looking breeds--but the real entertainment was the freak show parade of these ladies and gays. It's like, they were so serious about these cats and how they were brushed a certain way and blow-dried and teased and probably sedated that it was a miracle both the owner and the cat actually made it to the venue.
Let me just say something: cats are predators. Brushed fur does not make them happy, death and carnage does. Let them eat cake. Mice rather. Let them eat Micecake. After the Cat Show (I still can't believe I went to a freaking cat show) we walked to Horton Plaza and casually let time slink by before preparing ourselves for a fantastic and fabulous evening at hand. My dear friend, and peanut, Vince had a little b-day celebration at Lei Lounge. Lei Lounge is a venue unlike any other really--it's hip, it's chic, it's smart--it's SO Vince. It was perf'. The event started out with cool cocktails and warm conversations over the fire pit and in the reserved cabanas. More and more people started to gather and a serious crowd had developed. Vince's parents and brother and all of Vince's close friends and it really was just a fantastic time--an enviable birthday event for sure. Allan, Vince's homohusband, even made a video montage of people that couldn't be at Lei (like former Talk Soup personality Hal Sparks) wishing him a wonderful two-five. Then there was cake (but, no Micecake). It was cupcakes on tiered serveware and just lovely lovely lovely. It gets better--there was a hosted champagne toast to accompany these said cupcakes. Let me just explain how I looked: pink shirt, fierce jeans, bitchin' hair, champagne glass in one hand, cupcake AND a partially spilling martini in the other and a big cupcake-eating grin on my face. Oh, to die for. John you're one lucky bitch. OH OH I forgot to mention it was a total pink party, where everyone had to have something on that was pink. Vince, you're a dream come true (and we happen to have identical taste--coincidence? No. Fate.). Fantastic. Finally the night progresses, (remember, this is Sunday the whole time) and it is time for John and I to retire. He pretty much pours me into the passenger seat of my car and escorts us home.
That was pretty much my weekend in review. I learned that my signature sucks (if you're a gypsy), steak is now on the black market (watch out cocaine), animals can be spoiled (and whored) and Vince is truly lovely (with a capital Meow). Thank you for tuning in and there will definitely be more to come shortly. Signing off.
We had a task at hand. We had a goal. We--David, Todd, John and I--had plans: we were going to the Cat Show. I said it--Cat Show. It's like a dog show, except there are more gays and old ladies. Not like, the little old ladies with blue hair that drive 110 miles per hour and sit on a stack of phone books to see over the steering wheel, but like, the old ladies with big, homemade earrings and a sweater with a big cat on it and it says "My cat's shit don't stink" or some bull like that. Oh god. The cats were fun--some beautiful and exotic looking breeds--but the real entertainment was the freak show parade of these ladies and gays. It's like, they were so serious about these cats and how they were brushed a certain way and blow-dried and teased and probably sedated that it was a miracle both the owner and the cat actually made it to the venue.
Let me just say something: cats are predators. Brushed fur does not make them happy, death and carnage does. Let them eat cake. Mice rather. Let them eat Micecake. After the Cat Show (I still can't believe I went to a freaking cat show) we walked to Horton Plaza and casually let time slink by before preparing ourselves for a fantastic and fabulous evening at hand. My dear friend, and peanut, Vince had a little b-day celebration at Lei Lounge. Lei Lounge is a venue unlike any other really--it's hip, it's chic, it's smart--it's SO Vince. It was perf'. The event started out with cool cocktails and warm conversations over the fire pit and in the reserved cabanas. More and more people started to gather and a serious crowd had developed. Vince's parents and brother and all of Vince's close friends and it really was just a fantastic time--an enviable birthday event for sure. Allan, Vince's homohusband, even made a video montage of people that couldn't be at Lei (like former Talk Soup personality Hal Sparks) wishing him a wonderful two-five. Then there was cake (but, no Micecake). It was cupcakes on tiered serveware and just lovely lovely lovely. It gets better--there was a hosted champagne toast to accompany these said cupcakes. Let me just explain how I looked: pink shirt, fierce jeans, bitchin' hair, champagne glass in one hand, cupcake AND a partially spilling martini in the other and a big cupcake-eating grin on my face. Oh, to die for. John you're one lucky bitch. OH OH I forgot to mention it was a total pink party, where everyone had to have something on that was pink. Vince, you're a dream come true (and we happen to have identical taste--coincidence? No. Fate.). Fantastic. Finally the night progresses, (remember, this is Sunday the whole time) and it is time for John and I to retire. He pretty much pours me into the passenger seat of my car and escorts us home.
That was pretty much my weekend in review. I learned that my signature sucks (if you're a gypsy), steak is now on the black market (watch out cocaine), animals can be spoiled (and whored) and Vince is truly lovely (with a capital Meow). Thank you for tuning in and there will definitely be more to come shortly. Signing off.
Weekend Number 12: Saturday
This weekend was particularly kooky. Where do I even begin. Well, let's start with the morning I guess. Saturday John and I woke up, made the bed, un-made the bed (okaay!), and cooked up some breakfast. I love sandwiches, which I've already confessed to you, my faithful bloggettes, so we made breakfast sandwiches. We decided to recreate Jack In the Box's amazing breakfast ciabatta sandwiches . Okay, let's explain these little joyful nuggets: they are warm, soft ciabatta with two fried eggs, melted American cheese and a touch of butter, warmed and made fresh to order. Crap my mouth is watering just thinkin' of them. So we got some ciabatta bread, eggs, cheese, all the goods right? The bread was tough, the cheese wasn't gooey enough and it just wasn't the same--it was good, but not the same. After my tasty yet unsatisfying breakfast we thought to ourselves (outloud), well let's take a walk. Where to? We could walk to the pet store and stare into the windows at all the little kitties and puppies--not enough... we came to a new conclusion: The Zoo.
John lives in Hillcrest and the Zoo is in Balboa Park--not far, not far at all. We took a medium-paced stroll down University Avenue, then Park Boulevard to our destination of the world famous San Diego Zoo. We had a leisurely jont through the park, visiting the petting zoo, the pygmy marmosets and the wolf's monkey exhibit (Kurtis, Matt, Mark and Mike you know what I'm talking about). After dodging strollers and colliding with families no less than 5 strong, we headed to our next destination: The Psychic Fair. My friend Patti at work turned me onto this activity. So freakin' random. It was in like a community center and you pay ten bucks and get two free readings of your choice (permitting availability). First I had my astrology read; she was gooood. I had chills the whole time and everything she said was pretty dead on--she said I was a healer in a past life and I'm very creative and I'm in a relationship right now and I breathe out of my nostrils and I'm so good at blinking it comes almost naturally to me. Amazing. The tarot card lady was next and like "you'll meet a celebrity in 6-months time and you're about to make changes and some things will stay the same and voodoo blah blah"and I just wasn't having her. Lastly they also had free hand writing analysis. This lady pointed at, like a "t" and was like "you're a strong individual" and then would point at a "w" and would be all "you like salty foods" and lastly was like "you're signature is shitty and you push people away." what the hell kind of reading is that!? You're supposed to make me feel better about myself, gypsy whore. I bet her signature is a picture of her shooting up heroine. Bitch.
After the Psychic Fair we were headed back to John's house, but before returning to our destination I ordered a detour. Two words: Cold Stone. oooooh yes, I said it. I love Coldstone Creamery. It's like a vacation to Pleasure Town for my taste buds and oooh was it so well deserved. After all it was reward for walking far and wide. I ordered my ice cream treat (politely if I may add) and sat in front of the store, dining on this confection whilst basking in both the sun's rays and the envious glares of the passer-byers.
One such passer-byer was more like a passer-seller--you know the type: a person of transient status approaches you with the sale of goods. Goods which most likely were stolen or looted and now they are trying to liquidate them into cash so they can buy smack or slick or sluck or whatever it is they buy. Sometimes it's flashlights or radios or Chinese babies or whatever. This particular individual asked if I wanted to buy steak from him. Steak.
Steak.
He tried to sell me steak. Steak that came from Whole Foods. He pleaded that he purchased this steak with his food stamps and is willing to sell it for ten dollars. Is that what steak goes for? How do you meat eaters survive? I mean, no wonder why all you all aren't bitchin' about gas prices as much as I am cuz you're too busy bitching about steak prices. "Come on, buddy. It's grade A, New York Strip [steak]." "No thanks," I quickly and decidedly declined.
I could have said, "Sorry, I'm vegetarian," but that would have been something he would have expected so I just kept it simple. No. Well, the sales person leaves, I finish my delicacy and John and I make our way back to his place, where we play X-men on the PS2 until I cannot even pry my bloodshot, dried-out eyes open any longer. Time for bed. (Continued on next chapter.)
John lives in Hillcrest and the Zoo is in Balboa Park--not far, not far at all. We took a medium-paced stroll down University Avenue, then Park Boulevard to our destination of the world famous San Diego Zoo. We had a leisurely jont through the park, visiting the petting zoo, the pygmy marmosets and the wolf's monkey exhibit (Kurtis, Matt, Mark and Mike you know what I'm talking about). After dodging strollers and colliding with families no less than 5 strong, we headed to our next destination: The Psychic Fair. My friend Patti at work turned me onto this activity. So freakin' random. It was in like a community center and you pay ten bucks and get two free readings of your choice (permitting availability). First I had my astrology read; she was gooood. I had chills the whole time and everything she said was pretty dead on--she said I was a healer in a past life and I'm very creative and I'm in a relationship right now and I breathe out of my nostrils and I'm so good at blinking it comes almost naturally to me. Amazing. The tarot card lady was next and like "you'll meet a celebrity in 6-months time and you're about to make changes and some things will stay the same and voodoo blah blah"and I just wasn't having her. Lastly they also had free hand writing analysis. This lady pointed at, like a "t" and was like "you're a strong individual" and then would point at a "w" and would be all "you like salty foods" and lastly was like "you're signature is shitty and you push people away." what the hell kind of reading is that!? You're supposed to make me feel better about myself, gypsy whore. I bet her signature is a picture of her shooting up heroine. Bitch.
After the Psychic Fair we were headed back to John's house, but before returning to our destination I ordered a detour. Two words: Cold Stone. oooooh yes, I said it. I love Coldstone Creamery. It's like a vacation to Pleasure Town for my taste buds and oooh was it so well deserved. After all it was reward for walking far and wide. I ordered my ice cream treat (politely if I may add) and sat in front of the store, dining on this confection whilst basking in both the sun's rays and the envious glares of the passer-byers.
One such passer-byer was more like a passer-seller--you know the type: a person of transient status approaches you with the sale of goods. Goods which most likely were stolen or looted and now they are trying to liquidate them into cash so they can buy smack or slick or sluck or whatever it is they buy. Sometimes it's flashlights or radios or Chinese babies or whatever. This particular individual asked if I wanted to buy steak from him. Steak.
Steak.
He tried to sell me steak. Steak that came from Whole Foods. He pleaded that he purchased this steak with his food stamps and is willing to sell it for ten dollars. Is that what steak goes for? How do you meat eaters survive? I mean, no wonder why all you all aren't bitchin' about gas prices as much as I am cuz you're too busy bitching about steak prices. "Come on, buddy. It's grade A, New York Strip [steak]." "No thanks," I quickly and decidedly declined.
I could have said, "Sorry, I'm vegetarian," but that would have been something he would have expected so I just kept it simple. No. Well, the sales person leaves, I finish my delicacy and John and I make our way back to his place, where we play X-men on the PS2 until I cannot even pry my bloodshot, dried-out eyes open any longer. Time for bed. (Continued on next chapter.)
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Weekend Number 10
This weekend was for sure a blast. For sure. I've got to say that moving to San Diego was a blessing, and the climate alone has really made me enjoy life a little more. Saturday was a busy day. Saturday wasn't much, however I did see "300" and let me just say this, it was bad ass. For sure. It was such a manly, epic, visually flawless, beautiful, strong and just a kick-butt, drag-out, bad-ass awesome movie. You have to go see it in the theatres. For sure.
Sunday aka daylight savings was the highlight. I think it was the warmest day San Diego has had all year, and if not the warmest, definitely the warmest I've been able to enjoy. I met up with a smattering of close friends for brunch. We went to Dmood. For you non-SDers, Dmood is a Persian restaurant serving breakfast, lunch and dinner and has great decor, lounge music, very cheap cocktails (comparatively), a tasty array of food and is still "undiscovered" by the other brunch-goers and therefore very low traffice still. At one point we were the only party in the restaurant. It was fantastic. Fore sure. I will say that I've heard from people--as was Sunday--the service is inconsistent. Sometimes good and sometimes bad. Either way it was a smashing brunch full of conversation and merriment. And Marys (mom, that's a gay term used for "gay guy," like "Hey, Mary...")
Anyway, that was just the beginning; apres brunch we went to my friend Vince's condo at the El Cortez to lounge by the pool in the smoldering winter sun. What a wonderful idea. For sure. The El Cortez used to be a hotel and since has renovated and converted to a condominium building. Anyway, back to the day at hand: we made vodka-lemonade-something-or-others and just had a pleasant time. The story doesn't stop there; several of Vince's fellow condo tenants showed up around the same time as we did, and we all got to talking and laughing and conversing and lying poolside, simply soaking in the company as well as the rays for hours. Once the sun hid behind the neighboring buildings of downtown, we moved to one of the condo tenant's places, with access to a large patio area and a barbecue on-site. We drank more, barbecued (I had some vegetarian meat stuff) and spent the cooling evening with all these new friends. Nine o'clock rolls around and after the sun, food, and booze it's time to retire early. John and I go back to his house and just crash. What a wonderful weekend. For sure.
Weekend number 10, you will surely be remembered as the must unexpected weekend of them all.
Sunday aka daylight savings was the highlight. I think it was the warmest day San Diego has had all year, and if not the warmest, definitely the warmest I've been able to enjoy. I met up with a smattering of close friends for brunch. We went to Dmood. For you non-SDers, Dmood is a Persian restaurant serving breakfast, lunch and dinner and has great decor, lounge music, very cheap cocktails (comparatively), a tasty array of food and is still "undiscovered" by the other brunch-goers and therefore very low traffice still. At one point we were the only party in the restaurant. It was fantastic. Fore sure. I will say that I've heard from people--as was Sunday--the service is inconsistent. Sometimes good and sometimes bad. Either way it was a smashing brunch full of conversation and merriment. And Marys (mom, that's a gay term used for "gay guy," like "Hey, Mary...")
Anyway, that was just the beginning; apres brunch we went to my friend Vince's condo at the El Cortez to lounge by the pool in the smoldering winter sun. What a wonderful idea. For sure. The El Cortez used to be a hotel and since has renovated and converted to a condominium building. Anyway, back to the day at hand: we made vodka-lemonade-something-or-others and just had a pleasant time. The story doesn't stop there; several of Vince's fellow condo tenants showed up around the same time as we did, and we all got to talking and laughing and conversing and lying poolside, simply soaking in the company as well as the rays for hours. Once the sun hid behind the neighboring buildings of downtown, we moved to one of the condo tenant's places, with access to a large patio area and a barbecue on-site. We drank more, barbecued (I had some vegetarian meat stuff) and spent the cooling evening with all these new friends. Nine o'clock rolls around and after the sun, food, and booze it's time to retire early. John and I go back to his house and just crash. What a wonderful weekend. For sure.
Weekend number 10, you will surely be remembered as the must unexpected weekend of them all.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Chocolate Ain't So Sweet
Firstly, Jessie don't worry--this posting isn't really about chocolate (she has a small obsession--and by small I mean she can't go a day without).
As most of you may know I have the LG Chocolate phone. It's sleek, it's modern, it's stylish. It's perfect for a sleek, modern, stylish man like myself, however... Chocolate ain't so sweet.
Firstly, let's talk about the sheer mechanics of the device; the "end call" button is NOT located on the front face of the phone with every other button ever since the history of telephones, rather, it is located on the side. The side of which a right hander's index finger will be on or where a left hander's thumb will be on. furthermore, it is a sensitive button. I've hung up on people tons of times. Tons. Sorry everybody.
Battery life. Or, battery half-life more like it. When one purchases the phone they give you two batteries--that should have been a red flag in hind-sight.
Next, I've never had so many problems with dropped calls. "System Is Busy," or "Connection Lost," or "Network is Unavailable," are all common excuses--excuses which my phone casually alerts me. Those should be the names of CDs, never error messages.
Grrr!! I feel like pulling a Donatella and just throwing my phone at somebody--like Catherine Zeta Jones. I've had a Nokia ever since day 1 of having phones and I sincerely miss the sweet, subtle and user-friendly ways of the Nokia. T-Mobile has been great to me, and again I've never EVER had an issue until this damn phoned marched it's way from the advertizers to my front, right pocket. Oh yeah, Chocolate doesn't have speaker phone either. Chocolate has circular, non-terminating menus. Chocolate is a sleek, modern, and stylish disaster. I'm bitter. I'm bitter from Chocolate.
As most of you may know I have the LG Chocolate phone. It's sleek, it's modern, it's stylish. It's perfect for a sleek, modern, stylish man like myself, however... Chocolate ain't so sweet.
Firstly, let's talk about the sheer mechanics of the device; the "end call" button is NOT located on the front face of the phone with every other button ever since the history of telephones, rather, it is located on the side. The side of which a right hander's index finger will be on or where a left hander's thumb will be on. furthermore, it is a sensitive button. I've hung up on people tons of times. Tons. Sorry everybody.
Battery life. Or, battery half-life more like it. When one purchases the phone they give you two batteries--that should have been a red flag in hind-sight.
Next, I've never had so many problems with dropped calls. "System Is Busy," or "Connection Lost," or "Network is Unavailable," are all common excuses--excuses which my phone casually alerts me. Those should be the names of CDs, never error messages.
Grrr!! I feel like pulling a Donatella and just throwing my phone at somebody--like Catherine Zeta Jones. I've had a Nokia ever since day 1 of having phones and I sincerely miss the sweet, subtle and user-friendly ways of the Nokia. T-Mobile has been great to me, and again I've never EVER had an issue until this damn phoned marched it's way from the advertizers to my front, right pocket. Oh yeah, Chocolate doesn't have speaker phone either. Chocolate has circular, non-terminating menus. Chocolate is a sleek, modern, and stylish disaster. I'm bitter. I'm bitter from Chocolate.
Off With Their Heads!
Today was a day that shook the walls of my office; today three people were laid off. That may not be a big deal to all of you, my faithful readers, but to me that's 3 less familiar faces I have at work every day. I loved these people professionally and personally and only wish good things for them.
One was an accountant: she has been with the company for 9 years or something like that, has a 1 year old (or 2--same thing), and really is sweet. But I saw that coming; they are "centralizing" our accounting so it all comes from one office. She was to be expected.
Another blind-sided me: she was a sales person and just finished a $1 million (or 2--same thing) program and then, comes back to the office with a pink slip on her chair. That sucks!
The third was completely out of the blue: she was a sales assistant to our VP of West Coast Sales. She didn't deserve it at all--she's talented, she's energetic, NEVER complained a bit about anything, loves the industry (well, okay likes) and is just a great, great person. She should have never been cut.
So get this though--One quit yesterday and another is in the process of quitting and yet another had her last day last Friday. Add my GM who resigned in January that's 7 people out the door in 60-days. Holy (insert garage word here)!!
Why so shaken, Stevie-hates-bacon? If anyone else is going to get canned next--it's me. No, no, don't say it "You could lose your job at any time. You could get in a car crash or wake up in a coma (which actually that's like saying 'you'd fall asleep alert')." Whatever, anyway, if there is any more fat to be cut from the money pig, it would be me. I was close to the bottom of the pole and now I AM the bottom of the pole. I'm not going to let it get to me though. There's plenty of fish in the barrel to shoot (is what it seems like, okay). It's fine. I'm fine...
But lord knows I'm gonna start lookin'--just in case. I'd rather have an ace up my sleeve than leave the table with no chips. You got it? Damn right you do. Signing out and sorry again it took me so long to get another post up. Bite.
One was an accountant: she has been with the company for 9 years or something like that, has a 1 year old (or 2--same thing), and really is sweet. But I saw that coming; they are "centralizing" our accounting so it all comes from one office. She was to be expected.
Another blind-sided me: she was a sales person and just finished a $1 million (or 2--same thing) program and then, comes back to the office with a pink slip on her chair. That sucks!
The third was completely out of the blue: she was a sales assistant to our VP of West Coast Sales. She didn't deserve it at all--she's talented, she's energetic, NEVER complained a bit about anything, loves the industry (well, okay likes) and is just a great, great person. She should have never been cut.
So get this though--One quit yesterday and another is in the process of quitting and yet another had her last day last Friday. Add my GM who resigned in January that's 7 people out the door in 60-days. Holy (insert garage word here)!!
Why so shaken, Stevie-hates-bacon? If anyone else is going to get canned next--it's me. No, no, don't say it "You could lose your job at any time. You could get in a car crash or wake up in a coma (which actually that's like saying 'you'd fall asleep alert')." Whatever, anyway, if there is any more fat to be cut from the money pig, it would be me. I was close to the bottom of the pole and now I AM the bottom of the pole. I'm not going to let it get to me though. There's plenty of fish in the barrel to shoot (is what it seems like, okay). It's fine. I'm fine...
But lord knows I'm gonna start lookin'--just in case. I'd rather have an ace up my sleeve than leave the table with no chips. You got it? Damn right you do. Signing out and sorry again it took me so long to get another post up. Bite.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
In Your Face, Rockstar!
As all of you readers may know I'm attending college again (new reader? please check out the blog entry "Third-First Day of School"). We were given the task of impromptu speeches to do in my oral comm class, as an exercise of readiness and swiftness. As I'm sure you've guessed I go up in front of the class, dazzled everyone away with my charm and poise and return to my seat to the applause I well deserved. I owned that speech--and funny thing is, I honestly don't remember anything I said, due to my nerves. Good for me, Steven Shyne.
Other students face the gambit but their nerves get the best of them and they suffer through the whole speech. Well, another student approaches the front of the class and gave his impromptu speech on "if he were a rockstar" or something nutty like that. This kid is still in high school and attending City College at night to get a jump start on his college career. Anyway, he blows my speech out of the water and receives more whistling and clapping than I thought possible from a improv college speech class audience. He now is forever known as "Rockstar" due to the nature of his speech.
The next day he walks into class and everyone student, as well as the instructor, greets him as "Rockstar." He is smug with victory and basks in his impromptu glory. However I have an ace up my sleeve--it's called "current event speech." The assignment we previously had was an impromptu speech--a spilling of words off the cuff. Today we are exercising a more decided and planned approach to public speaking. I've been practicing and know my topic like the back of my hand. I waltz to the front of the room, deliver a mind-blowing account on China's inevitable acquisition of power and (after q+a) return to my chair satisfied and victorious. Rockstar--I'm sure--is shaking in his dirty little shoes at this point. Defeat is racing towards him like an impregnable, bony greyhound rounding the corner of it's last lap. He readies himself, presents his current event and to my delicious prediction, fails to meet such standards as the ones I set. He had some HPV bleeding-heart story and was unable to capture it's severity. He returns to his chair sulkily and to a splatter of hand clapping--I dare not even say applause.
He is completely unaware of our silent quarrel; he knows nothing of my wishes toward his constant defeat. You got me the first time around, but all I can say now is "in your face, Rockstar!"
Other students face the gambit but their nerves get the best of them and they suffer through the whole speech. Well, another student approaches the front of the class and gave his impromptu speech on "if he were a rockstar" or something nutty like that. This kid is still in high school and attending City College at night to get a jump start on his college career. Anyway, he blows my speech out of the water and receives more whistling and clapping than I thought possible from a improv college speech class audience. He now is forever known as "Rockstar" due to the nature of his speech.
The next day he walks into class and everyone student, as well as the instructor, greets him as "Rockstar." He is smug with victory and basks in his impromptu glory. However I have an ace up my sleeve--it's called "current event speech." The assignment we previously had was an impromptu speech--a spilling of words off the cuff. Today we are exercising a more decided and planned approach to public speaking. I've been practicing and know my topic like the back of my hand. I waltz to the front of the room, deliver a mind-blowing account on China's inevitable acquisition of power and (after q+a) return to my chair satisfied and victorious. Rockstar--I'm sure--is shaking in his dirty little shoes at this point. Defeat is racing towards him like an impregnable, bony greyhound rounding the corner of it's last lap. He readies himself, presents his current event and to my delicious prediction, fails to meet such standards as the ones I set. He had some HPV bleeding-heart story and was unable to capture it's severity. He returns to his chair sulkily and to a splatter of hand clapping--I dare not even say applause.
He is completely unaware of our silent quarrel; he knows nothing of my wishes toward his constant defeat. You got me the first time around, but all I can say now is "in your face, Rockstar!"
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Weekend Number 6
Firstly I'd like to explain the title of this entry: I've decided that weekends can be a large contribution to the blog as they are a great source of activity, inspiration, and all around bad taste. Therefore I'll be categorizing weekends by it's sequential number (out of 52 weekends in a year). Last weekend was the 6th weekend of 2007--and what a weekend it was.
My roommate's birthday is actually today, but Saturday night we had a small gathering of people over at the apartment--some of Mike's coworkers, some relatives, but mostly close friends of his (and some of mine). Anyway, Mike's boyfriend David lives in Cleavland, Ohio (by his own masochistic choice) but thankfully is moving out here in a few weeks (and not soon enough, right Mike?). So the party went off without a hitch--I presume--as I was only there for the very beginning and the very end.
John (my lovely bf) and I had tickets to the symphony. How high-brow of us, I know. Actually John's a nerd in disguise and what we really had were tickets to John Williams, movie score and composer extraordinaire, direct the symphony, to such riveting classics as "The Indiana Jones Theme" and heart-renchers like "The Jaws Theme." Worry not, I wasn't in complete boredom. It was actually fun. I had a really great time--it was pretty much a combination of a Star Wars convention and a Four Seasons. There was this one guy I can remember who I'm guessing was killed off in his Dungeons & Dragons marathon or he wouldn't have been able to make it to the concert. Damn hippie. He had long, long coarse black hair, like a buffalo; a big dark suit jacket from his dad's closet (and this gentleman must have been in his late 30s; and jean cut-off shorts which, may I ask, do they still even make such a thing? Damn hippie indeed.
My bitching aside, John Williams really was amazing; he did a couple theme song I would actually know, like three Star Wars songs (bum-bum-bum bom be-bum bom be-bum) and (ba-buh ba, ba-ba-ba beee ba). What really blew me away was when he did the theme to Harry Potter and it was AMAZING. truly amazing. worth every cent I didn't spend. He also did a song from Memoires of a Geisha and that was fantastic. The nerd-audience could have cared less but I was a fat kid with cake for that song, and it was really really great.
Anyway, so then we go back to the party, grab a cocktail and start shooting the shit. Fun. a lot of people had left by this point and it was just the hardcore friends in for the long hall. It was awesome. (you hear that adam? Awesome.) So we were drinking and all of a sudden we chose to go out. Where to go, where to go... Well, as drunk as we were and as crazy as we needed to be we went to Montage. Let's see, how do I describe Montage to those in the dark. Umm... on one side it's a very large, very cool nightclub. It's three stories, with several different rooms that play different genres of music, and the top floor is an open patio and a sushi bar that's open all hours of the night. And on the other hand when I say all hours of the night, I mean all hours of the morning. I leave around two am typically, but that's because I don't do crack and can't stay up all night long. excuse me, morning long. I think it closes around 5am. No thank you. The gays love their dance music and they just want to party. Good for them, I'll keep my heart lub-dubbing the pace it's supposed to--Oh and no judgement--unless you're an obvious cooky boot and your dilated eyes about to spring out from their sockets while you're waving your glow sticks in the air. Silly gays.
So that was nice. we drank, danced, conversed, made jokes about the crazies and went home. All in all a 9.5 out of 10. Thank you weekend number 6. You wont be soon forgotten.
My roommate's birthday is actually today, but Saturday night we had a small gathering of people over at the apartment--some of Mike's coworkers, some relatives, but mostly close friends of his (and some of mine). Anyway, Mike's boyfriend David lives in Cleavland, Ohio (by his own masochistic choice) but thankfully is moving out here in a few weeks (and not soon enough, right Mike?). So the party went off without a hitch--I presume--as I was only there for the very beginning and the very end.
John (my lovely bf) and I had tickets to the symphony. How high-brow of us, I know. Actually John's a nerd in disguise and what we really had were tickets to John Williams, movie score and composer extraordinaire, direct the symphony, to such riveting classics as "The Indiana Jones Theme" and heart-renchers like "The Jaws Theme." Worry not, I wasn't in complete boredom. It was actually fun. I had a really great time--it was pretty much a combination of a Star Wars convention and a Four Seasons. There was this one guy I can remember who I'm guessing was killed off in his Dungeons & Dragons marathon or he wouldn't have been able to make it to the concert. Damn hippie. He had long, long coarse black hair, like a buffalo; a big dark suit jacket from his dad's closet (and this gentleman must have been in his late 30s; and jean cut-off shorts which, may I ask, do they still even make such a thing? Damn hippie indeed.
My bitching aside, John Williams really was amazing; he did a couple theme song I would actually know, like three Star Wars songs (bum-bum-bum bom be-bum bom be-bum) and (ba-buh ba, ba-ba-ba beee ba). What really blew me away was when he did the theme to Harry Potter and it was AMAZING. truly amazing. worth every cent I didn't spend. He also did a song from Memoires of a Geisha and that was fantastic. The nerd-audience could have cared less but I was a fat kid with cake for that song, and it was really really great.
Anyway, so then we go back to the party, grab a cocktail and start shooting the shit. Fun. a lot of people had left by this point and it was just the hardcore friends in for the long hall. It was awesome. (you hear that adam? Awesome.) So we were drinking and all of a sudden we chose to go out. Where to go, where to go... Well, as drunk as we were and as crazy as we needed to be we went to Montage. Let's see, how do I describe Montage to those in the dark. Umm... on one side it's a very large, very cool nightclub. It's three stories, with several different rooms that play different genres of music, and the top floor is an open patio and a sushi bar that's open all hours of the night. And on the other hand when I say all hours of the night, I mean all hours of the morning. I leave around two am typically, but that's because I don't do crack and can't stay up all night long. excuse me, morning long. I think it closes around 5am. No thank you. The gays love their dance music and they just want to party. Good for them, I'll keep my heart lub-dubbing the pace it's supposed to--Oh and no judgement--unless you're an obvious cooky boot and your dilated eyes about to spring out from their sockets while you're waving your glow sticks in the air. Silly gays.
So that was nice. we drank, danced, conversed, made jokes about the crazies and went home. All in all a 9.5 out of 10. Thank you weekend number 6. You wont be soon forgotten.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
The Better You Do...
Some of you know what I do for work, other may not have the foggiest. I'll just break it down for ya'll anyway:
I work for a company called TBA Global Events, LLC. It's not just an "event" company, it's considered a Business Communications and Connective Marketing company (so, well, okay that means event company still). Anyway, the company as a whole has produced such events (on their client's behalf) as the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, the Lance Armstrong Tour of Hope, and the Ben & Jerry's marketing campaign of "Random Acts of Cone-ness" (where street-marketing teams would go into offices or places of public service (fire departments, police stations, hospitals) and they would give out Ben & Jerry's ice cream cone products). We also did the open ceremonies for the Olympics in Italy and many other cool corporate events all around the nation and the world.
The piece of the pie that I work in is called "Destination Services" where once a Meeting Planner has planned their meetings and booked a hotel room block and reserved hotel ballroom space and contracted with a production agency (we do this too) to execute the meeting (A/V, speakers, staging, branded materials, etc.)--once they do all that they call a DMC (Destination Management Company) to produce all the other services and components AROUND the meeting such as tours, activities, airport coordination (arrivals/departures), receptions, award ceremonies, and a butt-load of other fun stuff. Pretty much we'll never say no. Holiday parties? sure. Trasnfering people A-to-B? Bring it on. Beach parties (how original)? Do it all the time.
Continuing on: yesterday I wrote a proposal for a small communications company, you may not have heard of them, AT&T, for their convention in 2008. They are going to have 4 waves of people over a course of a few days and need a large event space for this group. When I say (and by "say", I mean "type") "waves" of people, I mean 1,100 people come in all at once and are here for a short time, then the same day they leave, 500 people come in replacing them. When those people leave another group (the same day) of 435 replaces them, and when they leave the last group of 200 comes in and replaces those people. It will probably be 3 days each wave, totalling in 12 days straight of non-stop madness. A kind of madness a Meeting Planner (or a me) would love to witness (or make a commission on). So we had to find several options of event spaces that could work for 1,100 people all the way scaling down to 200 (and the 2 other tiers in between) PLUS 10 tours/activity options for this group. Think that's enough? No. We had to propose--not only San Diego--by Las Vegas, San Francisco and Phoenix as well. It was the largest proposal I've ever seen this office do and I got to be a part of it. Final product was 90-some pages in length, and it was down-right amazing and I'm sure you are all dying of boredom but I think it's freaking awesome.
So that's what I do all day long, I plan parties and make up tours and so on. It's fun and great and good for me but every job has it's dark side and future blogs I'm sure will reveal the darker side of party planners--mwah-ha-ha-ha!! (that's a cackle--fyi.) Thanks for reading--I leave you with a saying that I have in my cubicle which pretty much sums up the corporate world (and Adam Nordost): "Remember: The Better You Do, The More They Expect."
I work for a company called TBA Global Events, LLC. It's not just an "event" company, it's considered a Business Communications and Connective Marketing company (so, well, okay that means event company still). Anyway, the company as a whole has produced such events (on their client's behalf) as the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, the Lance Armstrong Tour of Hope, and the Ben & Jerry's marketing campaign of "Random Acts of Cone-ness" (where street-marketing teams would go into offices or places of public service (fire departments, police stations, hospitals) and they would give out Ben & Jerry's ice cream cone products). We also did the open ceremonies for the Olympics in Italy and many other cool corporate events all around the nation and the world.
The piece of the pie that I work in is called "Destination Services" where once a Meeting Planner has planned their meetings and booked a hotel room block and reserved hotel ballroom space and contracted with a production agency (we do this too) to execute the meeting (A/V, speakers, staging, branded materials, etc.)--once they do all that they call a DMC (Destination Management Company) to produce all the other services and components AROUND the meeting such as tours, activities, airport coordination (arrivals/departures), receptions, award ceremonies, and a butt-load of other fun stuff. Pretty much we'll never say no. Holiday parties? sure. Trasnfering people A-to-B? Bring it on. Beach parties (how original)? Do it all the time.
Continuing on: yesterday I wrote a proposal for a small communications company, you may not have heard of them, AT&T, for their convention in 2008. They are going to have 4 waves of people over a course of a few days and need a large event space for this group. When I say (and by "say", I mean "type") "waves" of people, I mean 1,100 people come in all at once and are here for a short time, then the same day they leave, 500 people come in replacing them. When those people leave another group (the same day) of 435 replaces them, and when they leave the last group of 200 comes in and replaces those people. It will probably be 3 days each wave, totalling in 12 days straight of non-stop madness. A kind of madness a Meeting Planner (or a me) would love to witness (or make a commission on). So we had to find several options of event spaces that could work for 1,100 people all the way scaling down to 200 (and the 2 other tiers in between) PLUS 10 tours/activity options for this group. Think that's enough? No. We had to propose--not only San Diego--by Las Vegas, San Francisco and Phoenix as well. It was the largest proposal I've ever seen this office do and I got to be a part of it. Final product was 90-some pages in length, and it was down-right amazing and I'm sure you are all dying of boredom but I think it's freaking awesome.
So that's what I do all day long, I plan parties and make up tours and so on. It's fun and great and good for me but every job has it's dark side and future blogs I'm sure will reveal the darker side of party planners--mwah-ha-ha-ha!! (that's a cackle--fyi.) Thanks for reading--I leave you with a saying that I have in my cubicle which pretty much sums up the corporate world (and Adam Nordost): "Remember: The Better You Do, The More They Expect."
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Third First Day of School
Firstly, starting a blog was my New Years resolution and, well it's February 6th so not really a good start on a New Years resolution, but what the hell, better late than never.
This is my first blog you are reading. Ever. I thought I'd like to start a blog, not just to keep people in the loop of every intricately detailed inner workings of my psyche, but so I could hear myself talk--well not hear, but read; read myself talk. You know what I mean.
Okay, let's start things off right: I had a good day today; bad things happened, too, but it was a good day. Here's the good: Have you ever been thinking about someone and then they call? Have you ever had that happen 3 times in a day? Rachael Williams (from High School), Terri London (a client), and Jay White (a best friend). Crazy. Next a coworker gave me a coupon for a free sandwich--you may be thinking "who gives a shit" well, I do, thanks. I love sandwiches. I could most likely eat them every day for the rest of my life. I've dreamt of opening my own sandwich shop. Oohh... that's a good blog (later, Steven, later).
Let's get down to business with the bad--today was my third first day of school. (That's not the bad part just keep reading) It was my first day at San Diego City College, the third University system I'll be attending. I printed my schedule and showed up 5-minutes early and good for me and felt so prepared and then, all of a sudden, I couldn't find the classroom. So I'm running around and asking people left and right and finally I go to the Admissions office and ask them where my class is, "Oh, yeah, this is at ECC." "Okay, where's ECC?", "It's on Ocean View Boulevard." "Well, okay, where's that?" "Oh it's easy, just get on the 54, then the 805 then..." (Okay by this time I'm already thinking, "If someone says 'oh it's easy' and follows with a highway interchange, it ain't easy, bitch"). Needless to say I missed my class. I missed my third first day of class. So I feel like a booger for not like, finding out what campus the plugged this class into and--oh but let me just say this, I've heard from several sources that this place, this ECC, is like GHETTO, (for you Portlanders) it's like San Diego's Gresham. Nay, Washugal--except with more Mexicans and no Tanya Harting. Eww she's nasty.
And on that note... so that's my day people, I hope you enjoyed my blog about my third first day of school, you know I did. Anytime I can talk about myself endlessly and not feel guilty about it is a good thing for me. Until next time.
This is my first blog you are reading. Ever. I thought I'd like to start a blog, not just to keep people in the loop of every intricately detailed inner workings of my psyche, but so I could hear myself talk--well not hear, but read; read myself talk. You know what I mean.
Okay, let's start things off right: I had a good day today; bad things happened, too, but it was a good day. Here's the good: Have you ever been thinking about someone and then they call? Have you ever had that happen 3 times in a day? Rachael Williams (from High School), Terri London (a client), and Jay White (a best friend). Crazy. Next a coworker gave me a coupon for a free sandwich--you may be thinking "who gives a shit" well, I do, thanks. I love sandwiches. I could most likely eat them every day for the rest of my life. I've dreamt of opening my own sandwich shop. Oohh... that's a good blog (later, Steven, later).
Let's get down to business with the bad--today was my third first day of school. (That's not the bad part just keep reading) It was my first day at San Diego City College, the third University system I'll be attending. I printed my schedule and showed up 5-minutes early and good for me and felt so prepared and then, all of a sudden, I couldn't find the classroom. So I'm running around and asking people left and right and finally I go to the Admissions office and ask them where my class is, "Oh, yeah, this is at ECC." "Okay, where's ECC?", "It's on Ocean View Boulevard." "Well, okay, where's that?" "Oh it's easy, just get on the 54, then the 805 then..." (Okay by this time I'm already thinking, "If someone says 'oh it's easy' and follows with a highway interchange, it ain't easy, bitch"). Needless to say I missed my class. I missed my third first day of class. So I feel like a booger for not like, finding out what campus the plugged this class into and--oh but let me just say this, I've heard from several sources that this place, this ECC, is like GHETTO, (for you Portlanders) it's like San Diego's Gresham. Nay, Washugal--except with more Mexicans and no Tanya Harting. Eww she's nasty.
And on that note... so that's my day people, I hope you enjoyed my blog about my third first day of school, you know I did. Anytime I can talk about myself endlessly and not feel guilty about it is a good thing for me. Until next time.
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