Monday, April 28, 2003

This weekend I’ve managed to somehow do nothing but (a) sleep well past noon, (b) drink way too much every night, and (c) dance and sing to I Will Survive, the quintessential gay song, during closing hours in a diner in the company of other drunks, each of us using a ketchup bottle as a microphone, swirling in our booth chairs, our arms flailing about in joyful abandon, and the bus boys, in their boredom, raising the volume of the quarter jukebox and chiming in with, Just turn around now, you’re not welcome anymore, in their Spanish accents.

It was the sort of thing you’d see in a commercial for Sprite: young adults seemingly having fun without alcohol, pouring quarts of soda down their throats, with the workers, who under normal circumstances would have asked you nicely to vacate the premises, garnering smiles as wide as watermelons.

Tomorrow I’ve got to return to practicality: that series of classes, gym workouts, and dentist appointments. Got to do things like buy groceries, do the laundry, vacuum beneath the couch. All these things that interfere with our true desire to do nothing but (a) sleep well past noon, (b) drink way too much every night, and (c) dance on tabletops with a fistful of french-fries hoisted in the air.

If only life were more like a soft drink commercial every day.

Wednesday, April 23, 2003

When the Alpha Waves Hit the Fan

For some reason my brain has refused to work today. Like a stubborn sweatshop worker finally realizing his exploitation over a half-hemmed pair of Diesel jeans, it's switched off, crossed its arms, turned the neuronal activity on low until its needs of an ergonomic working environment, paid vacation leaves, and an efficient water cooler are met.

I feel as unintelligent as a fern.

Actually, scratch that. Ferns are somehow capable of determining day length and average temperature during asexual reproduction in order to gauge the optimal time to release their spores, whereas I hesitated twice before typing the word unintelligent and, after deciding that my mental faculties were as deficient as healthcare in Central Africa, ran a spell check to, you know, just make sure.

In an hour I'll be taking part in a body image workshop at the Queer Resource Center on campus.

Naturally, I volunteered to bring the snacks, hoping that stuffing my mouth full of Twinkies and marshmallows would somehow render me incapable of speech.

If only there were such a thing as spell check for the soul.







Sunday, April 20, 2003

Quick Observation

You know you're terminally depressed when you've got both Bette Midler and The Smiths playing on repeat on your computer and you've barely the strength to raise yourself from your bed to lower the volume because Unloveable just seems to hit a little too close to home.

It took Unloveable x 3, coupled with The Rose, to motivate me to do as much as throw a pillow at my laptop.

Obviously, someone needs to come over and shoot me.

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

Two for Tuesdays

This afternoon I received the California DUI News: The Official Publication for Arrestees in my mailbox which informed me of pressing issues regarding DUI cases such as proper courtroom etiquette and dress code. A suit, it seems, is suggested as proper attire for such formal court appearances, but I’m somewhat wary of their suggestion.

It appears to me that only rappers facing murder charges appear on their court dates donned in Gucci suits, as if pin stripes would somehow further their defense. Either way, the sight of the monthly publication of all things DUI resting silently on my coffee table depressed me, so I did as any well-adjusted alcoholic would do.

I called a cab and ordered them to drive Danee and I to the nearest bar.

Two rum and cokes into the night, however, I was feeling less of a fabulous lush and more like a responsible dad sitting in the corner safe-guarding his daughters’ belongings as they went about doing whatever it is young women do these days.

Sure I volunteered myself to hold Danee’s purse, which later led to me guarding Anie’s sweater, which further led me to assist Jamie in holding onto her laptop, but I couldn’t help but feel like the lost-and-found at Nordstroms Rack, struggling to organize articles of clothing thrown in my direction. It also didn’t help that the only thing to occupy me, save for the sight of straight men feigning interests in their dates, were televisions set to only ESPN and ESPN2.

So I redistributed the purses, the sweaters, the laptops, to anyone who would claim them and walked back to my apartment. I hesitated for a moment before treading the long walk home, debating whether a cab would be safer but, in the end, concluded that it was far too much a nice night to waste away cocooned in the back compartment of a taxi and that hate crimes rarely occurred during good weather.

So I’m here again, alone again, wishing that my damn roommate wasn’t a non-smoker so that I could blow rings of smoke from my chair while thinking of the proper way to end this.

Unfortunately, getting what one wants seems more like the exception rather than the rule, otherwise I wouldn’t be reminded of my my ex every time I was in the mood for a google search and a torrent of sentimental love songs.

Though the song goes, Georgia’s the last thing on my mind tonight.


Thursday, April 10, 2003

Takin' it in Stride

Today I bought a bottle of self-tanner under the assumption that it would transfix me into a bronze beauty. I lathered myself up in the bathroom, sat on my sink, and watched five minutes roll away on my cell phone.

I am orange.

I am as orange as the caution sign the Vietnamese woman at McDonalds uses to mark off her freshly mopped tiles.

I am as orange as a tangerine, as orange as the cap from a Sunny Delight bottle--I am so orange my naked body resembles an inkblot you'd see in post-expressionist conceptual art.

As if facing misdemeanor charges wasn’t cause enough to kill myself already.





Wednesday, April 09, 2003

Under the Influence of a Sober Heart

I had thought that an extended period of silence would rid me of any feelings of embarrassment and disappointment that ensued after last Friday night, but three days later I’ve painfully decided that not even a decade of silence could accomplish such an impossible feat.

In short, after a night of half-dancing and half-gawking at go-go boy on his go-go podium, I drove across the bridge half-intoxicated. Obviously, the officer who pulled me over was not convinced of this and, instead, cuffed me and stuck me in the back of his patrol car.

“Do you understand that you are being arrested for driving under the influence?” he asked me though clearly not expecting an answer. His face was as impersonal as a refrigerator.

“Under the influence of what?” I was forced to ask, the unfinished sentence clearly irritating me.

He wasn’t amused.

The car ride to the San Francisco Police Department was uneventful. The handcuffs were digging into my wrists, and the silence in the car was unbearable.

“So what are your names?” I thought would be a decent icebreaker on my behalf. “Officer Broca,” he replied unaffected. “No, your first name,” I interjected, congratulating myself for not having added “silly” to the end of my sentence as I had originally planned.

He looked at me as if I had asked whether he shaved his balls.

“Officer,” he said, “To you, I’m officer.”

The rest of the night was pretty much procedure: mug shots, fingerprinting, the taking away of my belt and personal belongings, and my placement in the drunk tank along with five other rather uncouth looking men. One was wearing orange socks and was sprawled on the floor snoring audibly. Another was facing the wall, barefoot, exclaiming things like, “There’s no more food!” into them. The remaining three were the type of men who would make you ball your hands into fists if you confronted them in an alley on one unfortunate night, hoping to dear God that you had retained something useful from that god-awful Jennifer Lopez movie about self-defense. Save for one, who noticed my sand-blasted Diesel jeans and issued forth a “faggot”, they pretty much left me to myself as I squatted in my solitary corner and wasted away the remaining hours of the night.

Looking back now it seems that I’ve been compensating the lack of love in my life by indulging in my many other vices, as if being reckless in every way imaginable would somehow cancel out my emotional sobriety the way an equal number of electrons and protons bring about neutrality in an atom. But is that what I’m looking for, stabilization, neutrality, that ability to eat dinner alone on a Friday night and think nothing of it?

Kirin picked me up from the police department Saturday morning, my eyes swollen from sleeplessness, and we headed toward the location where my car was being stored. There were things, I knew, that needed to be done that morning, calls to be made, lawyers to be consulted, legal documents to be unearthed from drawers and manila folders, and the sun was already in the northern part of the sky, and the 80 East was congested with traffic already, and neither of us barely spoke as the odometer silently documented the distance we would travel that day.

And I thought nothing of it.


Friday, April 04, 2003

Emotional Counseling on the Golden Gate Bridge

What do you mean there's still life after love???






Tuesday, April 01, 2003

A Question:

When go-go boy yelled after me, "I want you to meet my girl," as I was walking to the liquor store, did he mean my girl as in "hey, she's my gurl from back in the day," or my girl in more of a Macualay Culkin gets stung by a squadron of bees and dies kind of a way?

I just want to know if my buying a large bottle of rum, an equally needed bottle of Diet Coke, and pretending not to give a damn while dancing ridiculously belligerent with a Mexican and an Indian girl to Punjabi music was really that justified.