Sorry for the delay, kids – I forgot that the tornado known as my family was coming into town as of last Thursday. It’s an interesting thing – having a roommate in the process of moving in and having your family come and take over your living room, kitchen, bathrooms (my mom redecorated the downstairs john – she even bought candles!). On the one hand, it’s great to have Mom do grocery shopping. On the other hand, I like to curse a lot more freely – and not worry about running the washer because somebody’s in the shower. A family visit wrap-up could be coming soon – although who knows, we’re heading to Vegas to celebrate this prodigal son’s birthday. In the meantime, let’s finish up that long overdue San Francisco post:

After the fun that was Martuni’s (actually, to be there on showtunes night was downright odd) we headed. At one point, the piano man burst out into “Hello Dolly!” – naturally it turned into a sing-along. While getting hit on by that lovely and confused girl, I apparently missed his impression of Bette Davis singing “Over The Rainbow.” Doesn’t get much gayer than that, folks. We called it a night after a couple of drinks and wandered ourselves down to a local all-night diner. The drill from here is pretty much the same as always: sit, talk, philosophize, joke around, get tired, head home.

As I was washing my face, I couldn’t help but bring up the attempted girl-on-girl action of the evening one last time: “I still can’t believe I was hit on by a lesbian.” Dear, sweet, tipsydrunk FB’s response was surprisingly nice: “Princess is probably right – it was low lighting and the girl was probably drunk.” Before I could utter a “thank you” he continued, “Also, all of that damn metal in your ear couldn’t have hurt.” Have I mentioned how much I love having a brutally honest best friend?

The rest of the weekend was a blur of coffee, chocolate, and clam chowder. We saw one of our favorite baristas - it turns out he moved up to SF and works at the Coffee Bean in Ghiradelli square. In a show of moderation - I spent only $80 at H&M (as is my style, I got some cute undies). And we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and took a trip to Sausalito. (I even walked the bridge! Proof the meds are working...)

Oddly, I wasn't sad to leave when the time came to go - I was just happy to have had the time off. We spent the last day talking about our lives and directions of some delicious & cheap pizza and salad. Life doesn't get much better than that.

Now if only FB would stop calling me a lipstick lesbian...

Later tonight: The Return of Racist Foods (and Friends)!

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Committee.

Pt. 2 Night In The City

Apologies for the lateness of this one - stupid internet threw me into a panic and went out for a few hours last night. It was like being in the dark ages!

You know you're in San Francisco when, of all places, Tower Records has an entirely unsubtle "Gay Porn" section that shames the generic “Adult” section it sits by. Naturally, I walked out with a Madonna single, the new Dixie Chicks CD and Campfire Twinks*.

The car ride up is a blur of sunlight fading and reappearing. While sleeping (I do that on long car rides), I overhear my old friend/new roommate say he doesn’t really care for my cartilage piercing; something about it being “too young” for me. (When I mention that I heard this later, we agree that it will look better once the starter stud is out and I can put in a ring or something. The Princess makes sure I overheard the part where she had my back. Duly noted.)

Cue the requisite stop at Pea Soup Andersen’s and a couple of potty breaks later, we finally arrive in beautiful Oakland, California. Commence the locking of windows and the obligatory, “Welcome to Oakland, bitches!” routine. Commence also the lookout for Hammer’s former place. Pay the $3 toll on the Bay Bridge (editor’s note: I’m willing to pay to leave Oakland, but to get back in?!?!). Finally, we’ve arrived: the highly recommended Nob Hill Motor Inn will be our home away from home. The kindly girl behind the counter makes us feel welcome and points to our room. Lo and behold, it’s 103 - the same one we stayed in last year! Kismet, I tells ya. Kis. Met.

It was previously decided that there would be no repeat of last year’s fiasco, where the Princess and FB both fell asleep and I ended up hitting Martuni’s (a local piano bar/dive) alone. The plan this time was simple: hit the room, change and shower, if necessary and hail the cab. All goes according to plan. There’s standing room only at the back, where they keep the piano. Then things get interesting. As I'm buying a round of drinks, a nice girl approaches and strikes up conversation while waiting for the bartender to come back around and take her order. She explains that she's been at the bar since 8pm and is celebrating her graduation. I congratulate her and we talk a little about how some her friends sang at the open mic. Gathering my drinks, I tell her it was nice meeting her. Apparently, it was good for her, too because her response was to pat my ass as I walked off.

Normally, being hit on my a girl wouldn't faze me. In a cruel twist of fate, I think more women are attracted to me than men. But being hit on my a woman in San Francisco is a more surreal. And in the dark of a bar, being hit on by a girl with short hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a polo shirt causes even further concern. As I set the drinks on the table, I turned to my nearest and dearest and spit it out:

"I think I was just hit on by a lesbian. And I'm pretty sure she thought I was a girl."

The Princess,, without missing a beat, tried to be supportive:

"It's the light in here. And it's loud. Or maybe she wasn't a lesbian and just thought you were cute."

FB response, on the other hand, was, well, you decide:

"It's your hair. Very lesbionic."

Have mentioned lately that I love these guys SO much?

Part 3 later tonight...

-J.

*I kid, I kid. It was Campfire Twinks 2.

The Long Weekend, Part 1.

Friday, May 30th
Sunlight.

It never fails: even when I set the alarm clock to wake me an hour later than usual, my body wakes up at 7am. Sure, I had grand plans to rise before the dawn and get to the gym early, but we all knew that wasn't gonna happen. Still, sleeping in for an hour doesn't seem like so much to ask of the universe. I try my best for a half an hour to at least keep my eyes shut and pretend to sleep. I excel at losing this battle. Grumpy and hungry and still plenty tired from the night before, I crawl to the edge of my bed, where I sit silently for what seems like forever. The clock blinks at me: 7:45am. The dilemma becomes thus: to shower or not to shower. The cable guy is scheduled to arrive at sometime between 8am and 12pm. I decided to greet him stinky. I’ve got some things to do and I’m just going to get dusty and dirty up myself anyways. This is what I argue back when the voice inside my head calls me a “lazy ass” over the sound of my toothbrush. Which reminds me – it’s time to take my Prozac. (And clean my ear - I got my lobe piercings reopened and a cartilage done all on the left.)

I realize at just abou 8am that I've forgotten to drag the computer desk downstairs into the spot where I want the connection hooked up. More precisely, I was too damn tired to drag it all downstairs at 3am when I got home the night before, but the point remains the same: the desk needs to be in place and this guy could be here any minute now. It takes me less than half an hour to nearly kill myself while dragging the desk downstairs. Setting up the computer takes me less time than that - and induces no life threatning injuries. It's at this point that I realize it's nearly 9am and I've done everything I can. Cleaning would require moving too many things around and showering would require going upstairs. Thankfully, the TV is in place and so is the GameCube.

16 rounds of X-Men: Legends II (Gimme a break I'd just seen a midnight showing of the latest movie with three hot guys!) later, Mr. Cable/Internet/Phone man still wasn't there. Seeing as FB and the Princess would be ready for San Francisco shortly after 1pm, the time to shower had come. I leave the cell phone where I can hear it ring and make a quick bathroom run. Inevitably, I miss FB's call that he parked in the garage downstairs and forgot he didn't have keys to get in the security doors. As I make my way out front and see my dearest friend turning the corner, the cable guy shows. The time is now 12:30p.

"Hey, I realize you don't have a security key yet, but why didn't you punch in the code? You do have a key to the actual apartment." I can't resist.

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, knowing I'm right but not believing I just said it, "I panicked."

I change the subject. "The cable guy's here at least."

"Fucker's late. And you have a lot of earrings in your ear," says he with a disapproving tone. He can't resist, either. This roommate thing is either gonna be a blast, a bloodbath, or a blast of a bloodbath.

Two hours later, my clothes are out of the dryer and packed and the fella is almost done installing the phone. Great - my first day with cable and internet again and I don't even get time to enjoy it. I can't help but feel this is my fault for scheduling the appointment on a day I needed to get somewhere - somewhere far. So shoot me - I already had the day of and I'm taking two more for the family trip to Vegas on my birthday. But back on point...as soon as the slowpoke (a very nice slowpoke, but a slowpoke nonetheless) is done, we call the Princess and make our way to her little castle. A quick trip to the gorcery store rounds up our L.A. need and we're off. So long cable. So long internet. So long DVR - I think I'll miss you most of all.

Part Deux to come in the mid-morning...

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Broadband Committee.

Currently hanging in my kitchen...

I got it for less than ten bucks and it relates to my little corner of the blogosphere...

The place is still a mess - but the fridge and TV are in place. Internet, cable, and new phone service will be connected Friday morning. In the meantime, I can play video games and play DVDs to pass the time. (Thank God - all the reading last week was making my brain hurt!)

I'm sneaking time at work to prep a few posts for next week, when full time blogging will resume. On the slate for then:

• Rockin' a five-year old's birthday party 'til dawn!
• San Francisco!
• More racist food products!
• A Pop-locking monkey dance troupe.

Yes, nonsensical (but hilarious) blogging waters are ahead. You've been warned...

I might be able to check before the week is out. If not, just imagine the breakdancing primates and know that it will be as good as it promises to be.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Holding Pattern Committee.

The Underwear Stage.

Still no modern conveniences on at home. I've got calls in to the cable/internet/phone people, so hopefully by this weekend or early next week. So I'm posting a shorty (pun intended - keep readin', you'll see) just to keep my cred and my sanity intact.

One of the habits of my old roommate was to walk around the place (downstairs and upstairs) in her bra and undies. This never bothered me in the slightest. On the contrary - that she felt OK strolling down in the middle of Buffy wearing nothing but a bathrobe was actually a sign to me that we were doing all right. Still, the feeling was never reciprocal. I hate wearing sweatpants or flip-flops in outside of my own bedroom. I'll go barefoot or in socks, but I'm a freak about being in clothing while other people are around.

Flash forward to this weekend. The old roomie and her boy moved all of her stuff into their new place, leaving me an open bedroom to move into and a downstairs that looks like something out of Warsaw circa 1943. FB was over and we marvelled at how little we do without television or the internet. A few hours into Sunday evening and my best friend/new roommate sauntered down the stairs in nothing but his skivvies and a tank top. I thought nothing of it - I mean we have seen each other naked in the past. It wasn't until later in the evening (while I was reading comic books and Fb was perusing W magazine) I was in nothing but my skivvies and a tank. In the living room!

And so it's offcial I've crossed the threshold: we've reached the underwear stage.

(No pictures are forthcoming, just to be clear.)

J.

Sponsored by the A Day Late, A Boxer Short Committee.

I ain't Happy, that's for sure.

First off: anyone need a Madonna ticket or two? I've got two singles for opening night at the Forum that are barely above face value (seriously, factor in Ticketmaster's charges and I might make $10 bucks on my ticket...) And just for the curious, the reason I'm not going is because the Princess and I got tickets to a different night that actually have us sitting together. Alright, alright - my job as a salesman is officially over. Seriously, though, tell a friend - I don't want to haveta venture down to Inglewood and be arrested for scalping. Solictation on Santa Monica Blvd. is a much less embarassing offense, after all.

OK, onto business...literally. I'm going to do the oh-so-rare Bitch-About-Work-Blog tonight. Naive fucker that I can be sometimes, I really thought that the end of my former manager's reign would bring about some sort of Utopia in my department. But in the absence of our despotic Alpha dog, the rest of the pack seems to be scrambling. Oh, nevermind that we've already got a new manager who's got some great ideas about how to improve the way we do things. What some folks seem to be really concerned about is how much they can get away with during the transition, i.e. making long personal calls every time management isn't around or passing off work because you're "too busy" and then taking an hour and a half lunch to rub it in. Thing is, I know better than to get on management's bad side this early in the game. After all, previous management got on my bad side even earlier than this just last year, and she's been canned - need I say more? This worker bee is buzzing away loudly in his corner of the hive until told otherwise.

I've long contended that in the workplace, assets become weaknesses in the blink of an eye. In fact, before the recent coup, I told my manager straight out the following: "Competency has become a liability around here. To be dependable, intelligent, and willing these days is to be abused and exploited while other folks get away with flying under the radar, doing nothing but make more work for people like me." (How Norma Rae of me. And I wonder why she hated me so...) Still, there's no way around it -the bulk of departmental CYA work tends to fall on me - the only man-boy in my area, the mouthy kid with "distracting" blond hair (funny story - I'll blog it another time), the punk who has been with the company less than three years and out of of high school less than most of my co-workers have been with the company. Maybe I give off an air of confidence and intelligence (at least I hope that's it - I have been eating a lot of broccoli lately...) Maybe it's my "can-do"attitude. (Doubtful, as I'm more apt of make a sarcastic, though hilarious barb than to encourage a co-worker under stress...). Or maybe I have "SUCKER" written on my forehead because of that damn Catholic guilt my currently agnostic ass still can't seem to shake completely. (Bingo!)

Bottom line: I know I'm capable of doing my job and doing it well. By no means, do I think I'm smarter than everyone else. I just think I work harder than a lot of folks. Why? The cynic in me says it's because I haven't had the wind knocked out of my optimism. The optimist in me says. "What the hell are you talking about? You've never been optimistic. Shut up and be cynical about it already." The little boy who pushes all the button and feeds the hamster on the wheel in my head says, "Voices in J.'s head are fun."

On the plus side, my new manager is looking at having my labor grade updated because I act like a senior employee so I should be titled and paid like one. Nothing like a little cha-ching carrot dangling to make the day end on a sweeter note.

Still, I was stressed out enough by the end of today that I actually ditched out on plans to hit an *open* (that's right, free) bar because I knew I needed to sweat the stress out more than I needed to drink it away. I'll gladly pay for drinks another night. Tonight, I was tearing muscle and imagining the sands of Bora Bora. Also, I was watching San Antonio get trounced by Miami in the playoffs. I'll always vote for the guy with Superman tattoos over a wife beater.

See ya Thursday!
-J.

This post was sponsored by the Which Dwarf Am I? Committee

Conversation

Last night:

Roommate's Boyfriend: "My dreams are coming true - Mission Impossible III came in below expectations at the box office."

Me: "I know - it's awesome."

RB: "But it still made like $70 million worldwide! Jeez."

Me: "Yes, except in Germany, where his movies never do well. And you can't ever compeltely discount international appeal. It's like Michael Jackson."

RB: "So you're saying Tom Cruise could molest a bunch of young boys and get away with it?"

Me: "Probably."

I am gonna miss having nightly banter with that guy. Lucky for me, he'll be just a few doors down so I can harass him at least a couple of times a week.

Corporate racism in the food industry isn't anything new. Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima (confusingly, not ever pitched to the public as a couple) are among the most notable examples. As a child, I thought Mrs. Butterworth was a dark-skinned English woman - though it appears she's just brown on the inside. Famous Amos was a real guy, but the Keebler Elves have since bought him out and to quote my favorite new girl at work, "He's probably drunk, living it up on the sands of Barbados now." I imagine he and Billy Ocean are doing the limbo with that guy who played Bernie.

While refilling my Sprite at the local Corner Bakery, something caught my eye (see photographic evidence on the left). I know - if you look at it now, it clearly says "China Mist." But if you're filling your drink, checking out a fellow patron and glancing at the tea dispenser, the "A" in the word becomes a "K" and the context of the wacky and stereotypical "Asian" font changes completely.

Then this weekend, I faced down a package of Nips in, of all places, my dear friend Armi's place. (Lily, by the way, is adorable and full of Sunday evening energy well past her bedtime.) I snapped a spycam pic for evidence and moved on.

Later in the evening, while grocery shopping, I found more evidence:

First off, what makes a particular cheddar bold? Is it extra-strength, mold resistant cheddar? Does it lean in to kiss you on the first date? Does it dare to wear white socks with dark dress pants?
Also, I don't know that the two Nips products are related and if so, which is the chicken or the egg, but the plot definitely thickened in Aisle 3, where I found that our Asian brethren weren't the only victims:

The people at Nabisco even went so far as to assume the type of meals white people like. Seriously, if you're trying to peddle you're food-like product, placing it next to the economy-sized baking soda isn't exactly the most appetizing way to sell it.

Anyway, the list goes on and on - Rosarita, Florence Henderson, George Foreman, Wendy, Colonel Sanders, even Ling Ling the Panda Express panda - pawns, all of them. I don't think it's any one race the food industry's trying to incite hate against. I think it's a full-blown race war they're looking' for. Why, you ask? Because when riots break out and curfews are instituted, people will need to start hoarding food. And we won't be able to eat healthy, with our perishables. We'll need our stereotypical staples to keep us thriving.

It all makes me wonder if "Sprite" isn't a crack at little people. Maybe I should call those elves and see what they think...

In other news, I'm being really strict with my eating lately (restricting sugars and cutting almost all dairy) in an effort to detox. I'm chowing mostly on carrots, broccoli, oranges, and apples. Frankly, I think the lack of junk food is making me loopy. Sad, as it's only been a day.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Starvation Nation Committee.

To tide y'all over while I'm at the gym, slacking from tonight's main blogging plans...


These photos are to serve as proof that, despite my protestations, we had a good time at the failed charity outing on Saturday. To the right: J. & A. make funny for the phonecam. At left: FB strikes a sexy pose, as usual.

Next time, I'll write a check.

Sometimes charity shouldn't just begin at home. Very often it should stay there - right in that soft, warm bed that nobody should be forced to leave on a Saturday except to pee and eat (separately, of course).

As hard as I true to suppress my altruism, it takes over at weirdest times. And as hard as I try to suppress my inner cynic at said times, it never works. Take this weekend, for example. My company sponsored a volunteer event, in association with United We Paint. A good sized number of my co-workers and I showed up with assorted friends and family (yes, FB came along) at roughly 8 in the morning. The problems began immediately:

In the email we'd received from our public relations specialist, a continental breakfast was offered. I've stayed at Best Westerns before, so I wasn't expecting an omelette, but basics (a coffee pot? fresh baked goods? a table to put the foodstuffs on?) didn't seem too much to ask. Apparently my standards were too high. All we had were some boxed donuts (and I like Entemann's as much as the next guy, but...) and bottled water and sodas. The latter were not cold because our illustrious PR Chica neglected to get ice. She ended up asking the elderly couple whose house we painted for ice. And then proceeded to use their fridge to cool down some of the drinks faster.


I woofed a chocolate donut or two and grabbed a lukewarm Coke, naively thinking the worst was over. Poor A. - who was nice enough to carpool us there - seemed too depressed to sample the pathetic spread.


The day only got better from there. Apparently, PRC didn't realize you actually need supplies to paint a house. So off went our Vice President of marketing (aka PRCs boss) to Home Depot to pick up odds and ends like, oh paint, brushes, rollers, etc. During the course of the day we managed to kill several bushes, scrape a little too much plaster, and plug up one of the bathrooms. Where were our fixed-income hosts? The far-too trusting couple had left us with their home while they attended a wedding.

A funny thing happens when events like this go haywire: people stop working. Then they slowly and quietly disappear completely. I wasn't too surprised that folks bailed a little early, but when I realized our fearless leader, the inept PR chick was among the first to go, my antennae perked. Apparently she left before the pizza arrived for lunch, not thinking that she would have to use her corporate to pay for said food. Apparently, she had a birthday party to throw for her daughter. And in PR, it's always a good idea to doublebook - especially when the CEO brought his family, as did most of sernior management.

During the course of the day, the lone professional (yes, there was only one on hand) came out to A. within earshot of FB and myself. That was about as exciting as it gets. The house looked better after we "finished" (we never even put on a second coat), but I can't say I felt like it was much of a charity effort. Yes, the man served in WWII and has had an account with us since before Moses was floating down the river. Yes, they were too frail to paint the house themselves. But upon finding out that they have 8 kids, 29 grandkids, and a dozen or so more great-grandkids, I couldn't help but wonder if the family couldn't have a pitched in.

Oh! Silly me. They had a wedding to go to and there were birthdays to be celebrated.

See? My cynical side never fails me.

Night kids.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Water Based Skepticism Committee.