april 2006 Archives

At the risk of being accused of copying my good vBuddy Joe.My.God., I must point you all at another new[ish] blog, So I Like Superman, Michael Hartney.

He's very talented and funny and very cute. And on his way up, so if you have aspirations of being a groupie, start on the bottom floor—so to speak.

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So, two nights ago, I got a strange message on my iBook stating that Mail.app couldn't write to any of the mailboxes so I should make room on the volume my Home Folder is on. Except that there were still a few GBs left on it. So I logged out. And I noticed, while the machine was logging me out, that the glowring on the power adapter's plug had flashed off and on. Not the typical behavior.

As I tried to log back in, I got a kernel panic. This is something sort of analogous to Windows' Blue Screen of Death, and since I haven't actually seen a kernel panic on any of my machines for several years, it took me a moment to realize the level at which things had gone south.

So I shut the iBook off, restarted it while holding down the 'T' key (for Target disk mode), which turns the whole machine into an external Fire Wire hard disk. I plugged it into my PowerMac and dragged my entire Home Folder off of it and onto the Mac mini's 1TB drive. Success!

I tried just about everything I could think of, but the iBook kept failing.

Well, shit.

After much anxiety and stress yesterday, I burned my personal discount at work and ordered me a 2.0GHz 15" MacBook Pro. What's interesting is that it's fast enough and capacious enough in a stock configuration that not only do I not have to order extra RAM from somewhere else, but its speed is in the same ballpark as my PowerMac G5. Which I am selling.

So in a 15" package, I have a desktop replacement portable again. I'm really not able to comfortably afford it, but I also can't afford to be without one.

Such is the life of a queek.

I've been meaning to do this for a while, and it's been a while since I've called out anyone else's blog for y'all to check out, but I seriously have to do this one.

It's a brand new blog called Sacky's Funhouse, and there's a permanent link over in my blogroll on this page, but go check it out. I'm lovin' the shit out of it.

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Yesterday I was out at the Lone Star and was very pleasantly surprised to run into Homer! I'd like to say that in the close quarters of a very crowded bar, it's a sizable plus to have Homer *right there* with you.

And, through Homer, I finally got to meet the Moby. Helluva nice guy..and as Paris Hilton might say, “Hot!”

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As I've mentioned before, I love web quizzes, the way that some people love, say, unicorns or piggies (wait, that's me, too) or nun dolls (hi Nick!) or duckies (again, Nick!).

I've taken a few IQ tests online and I almost always do quite well. One of the first ones I took, a few years ago, told me my IQ was 163. Then I paid the site $5 for a “detailed analysis” of the various areas of intellectual faculty. My friend Steve told me I should subtract 10 points from my IQ for paying them anything.

Aaaaaanyway, if you want to find really really stupid stuff on the net, go to the AOL of blogging, also known as “Live Journal”. It's the internet's largest by-choice ghetto on the planet. “LJers”, as they like to be called—and call themselves—form specialized echo chambers where every post that contains even one whit of aphoristic “wisdom” is met with a flurry of “well said!” and “god, that's soooo true!” and “OMG LOL!”

So I went slumming for web quizzes, and I'm going to torture you all with them because I have to stop making fun of LJ! (the ! is always implied when pronounced)

Imaginative, erotic, passionate You prefer to have one partner and to try everything with them. You have an enormous sexual appetite, and you often create sexy scenarios to play out with your significant other.

Take this quiz at QuizUniverse.com

you are violet #EE82EE

Your dominant hues are red and blue. You're confident and like showing people new ideas. You play well with others and can be very influential if you want to be. Your saturation level is lower than average - You don't stress out over things and don't understand people who do. Finishing projects may sometimes be a challenge, but you schedule time as you see fit and the important things all happen in the end, even if not everyone sees your grand master plan. Your outlook on life is bright. You see good things in situations where others may not be able to, and it frustrates you to see them get down on everything.

the spacefem.com html color quiz

Androgynous You scored 86 masculinity and 83 femininity!

You scored high on both masculinity and femininity. You have a strong personality exhibiting characteristics of both traditional sex roles.

My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 94% on masculinity You scored higher than 92% on femininity

Link: The Bem Sex Role Inventory Test written by weirdscience on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Oh, and note to tight-assed XHTML-strict HTML-validation queens: Not all the HTML in the above is mine, and I'm not going to spend the time correcting their ugly stuff.

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Old school TheGays go for the Judy Garland. More recent TheGays go for Babs or Bette. Current TheGays go for Madonna and Britney and Christina.

I'm more on the actor side of the diva equation than the songstress side. I prefer male voices and male songwriters in general.

But on the actor side of things, I go gay gangbusters. Put Sandra Bullock in a movie, or Catherine Zeta Jones in one, and I'm all hers. Good Lord! To say nothing of Julia Roberts, the Diva-inest Actress of 'em all.

Have you ever seen America's Sweethearts or My Best Friend's Wedding? I think I've gotten around to seeing all but one or two of Julia Roberts' movies, and today Netflix delivered The Mexican, a one-two-THREE punch of a movie with Julia and gay themes and Brad Pitt.

Favorite action: death from a bullet that falls from the sky from others firing off guns into the air.

Favorite line [about relationship issues]: Are you blameshifting???

Right now, though, I'm tearing through Footballers' Wives. Hottie men showing full frontal nudity, and bitches bitchier than almost any bitches on American telly.

I'm in a Mood.

Also sprach der Gott der Plätzchen.

Previous lesson: The Gays #001

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So much for feeling a bit better.

I'm still ok with the big changes that have gone on, it's the lack of change, the same old same-old pain in my left ribs that's got me feeling a bit down.

Trying to use these lidoderm patches again instead of vicodin just made it hurt just enough to also make me sick to my stomach. Probably it's because the lidoderm patches didn't stay stuck on me. Guess I'm going to have to shave parts of me again. Not that I mind the shaving; it's just itchy when it's growing back, y'know?

Siiiigh.

<LJ_MODE>Current mood: dispirited</LJ_MODE> (props to Joe.My.God.)

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The chain of pain continues—and ends at a meeting of the weirdnesses.

First, you may recall, I invoked the dark side of pop music with references to an O'Sullivan and a Jacks. Then, BdbdbdbdbdbdBuck brings in a melancholic ONJ reference. Then Mr. Johnny Trinity invokes Ms. Manilow.

And yesterday was the 100th Anniversary of the Great San Francisco Earthquake.

Which got me thinking about the City's history, which got paired with Barry [Wo]manilow (as we used to call him) and I remembered the movie Foul Play, which was set in San Francisco in 1978 or so, and whose main theme song is my second-favorite Barry Manilow song, “Ready to Take a Chance Again”, which is an entirely apropos sentiment for me these days.

And? It just happened to be on comcast cable's “On Demand” section, so I watched it immediately last night.

You know, I love this town. As if I didn't already have the best parents in the world, not to mention the embarrassment of riches in all those who've been there for me through the years, San Francisco is something of the Mother of All of Us who know this is the only place to live.

Oh, and for the record? I'm a Jeanette, definitely not a Tony. I may be sentimental from time to time, but I'm not a sentimentalist.

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One has friends who are funny, sweet, kind, gentle, decent. Who are hot or handsome or pretty. Who have been thought of as more than friends or too much like family.

So what do you do with one of those in-betweeners, who is your friend and whom you think is hot, but who does something so horribly, horribly wrong that you don't know what to do with yourself?

I speak of my friend Buck, who after reading my entry about Gilbert O'Sullivan and Terry Jacks, decided to add even more saccharine to the mix by offering up some lines to a song as an in-kind gesture:

I find the days hard to take now.
Empty rooms, with much too much space now...

It took me embarrassingly little time to suss it out. The artist came first, oddly. And then the name of the song. And then the true nature of the appropriateness of the song.

I've been singing the damned song in my head since I got his email last night at 10:32pm. Even more embarrassingly, I remembered all the words to the song. I guess they write these heart-wrenching ballads for a reason.

I kid the Buck. Even though what I've told you is all true. When I get back to the house I'm going to have to find it in my music collection and play it over and over again. (Yes, I own the song and have for a while—fuck you, too and shut up :)

Actually, everything in the last few days has reminded me of one song or another. Not necessarily sad songs, but sometimes the happier ones are the ones that end up being the most poignant as they play contrapunto to beat of your steps and your heart.

Still. Buck will pay.

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Three words for the previous post: Love. That. Vicodin.

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This is a time for maudlin songs and lyrics so sappy they make your teeth hurt. This is a time for motion and a time for standing still.

With no motion-towards and no motion-away, motion finds its way in spin.

Y'know, like a top. -giggle-

Or maybe a gyroscope. Spin it does, but that's what keeps it standing upright. Not only does the spin keep it upright, it also resists being tipped over. It's the same phenomenon that makes riding a bicycle so stable, once you get going.

Anyhow, that's how I feel right now. I'm standing. With no particular direction and no particular fix on any one point on the horizon. And maybe that's good for now.

Friends offer to prop me up, but I like it when they help keep the angular momentum going instead. Keeps me spinning. Keeps me smiling. Keeps me OK.

I love my friends. I love the new people in my life who offer kindnesses with no expectations. I still love Sam and he loves me.

I'm still alive, and things will get better. And they'll take off in one direction or another (though I'm starting to develop certain preferences for exactly where, when, how and especially WHO will head in that direction with me).

Paths are instructive. Making new paths is life.

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...the witch on Passions had her doll, Timmy, hold the wheel of the car so she could get a butterfly net to trap an angel.

I said this to James as a non sequitur and got a “WTF?”

They should really just rename Passions to WTF, because you can say “WTF” about just about every aspect of the show. The acting, the writing, the story writing, the plots, the plot devices, all of it.

And yet, there's Eric Martsolf, as Ethan, who more than makes up for all of that. But even without him (pearl clutch!), all the badness of the show adds up to something you can't stop watching. Well, I can't.

The SciFi Channel is airing the show from the beginning, so lately I've been getting week-daily double doses of it, spaced 7 years apart. It's fun trying to work my way backward from the present and forward from about 1999 to fill in the gaps. Who knows? Maybe I'll be surprised.

Even if I'm not surprised, I can count on Eric Martsolf to remain gorgeous and for each and every episode to have shirtless hotties in it.

And really, that's plenty, isn't it?

Bonus questions for you entertainment nerds: Juliet Mills plays the witch, Tabitha. This was a nice little bit of casting based on a previous TV gig of hers. What was that show, and why is the casting apropos?

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I'm absolutely not being glib, it's just my defense mechanism. Sam and I have broken up and I'm just so sad. Disappointed. Scared. My identity is significantly borked.

I love him so very much. And that love is returned. That won't go away, but our relationship has.

No more details are forthcoming, I'm just so very sad about it all. I know I've said it before; I say it often, presently.

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How Awesome Will It Be? A Teenager's Guide to Understanding and Preparing for the Second Coming
by Roger A. McKenzie

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We all have one—or, heaven help us, many—of those people in our lives. You know the kind. The one who will call you up and say, I've got to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else! Why don't they just come out and say, I have a hidden agenda! and be done with it? At least if they claim to be a friend of yours, they should let you in on their motives, don't you think? I'd think a real friend would owe you that much.

Naturally, the kind of promise you make is about as valid as pretense under which it is enjoined. Which is to say: Nil. Zip. Zilch.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think that more is being asked of you than the gossiper is willing to ask of himself because, well, that's exactly what's going on. And somewhere in the fore of your mind, you know that O-the-tangled-web-being-woven is closing in around your life.

And you know how to unweave it.

So you do, and O, The Horror! The gossiping is All. Your. Fault.

A case can be made that you have done a bad thing. Until you discover that your accuser—the original gossiper—in the same time interval, has been gossiping to others about you. Now we're in the territory of hypocrisy.

The trouble, dear readers, is this: what territory are we in next, when the accuser becomes indignant and demands to be left out of the resultant drama of too many people “hearing” too many never-directly-heard things and feels as if he's being treated like a doormat, disconsolate?

What lies beneath/beyond the vanguard of such hypocrisy? Anyone got a word for that?

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Everything is continuous. Funny thing to say, you might say, from a man whose life has been derailed by a MUNI rail and a Vespa on a day with the Perfect Light Rain Storm.

There's really nothing funny about much these days; but it does continue. Else, who would be here bitching about what sucks?

If a Life is a continuity, then there are no beginnings and no endings as life continues. No, they're only in the interpreting. And ending is a beginning, and vice versa. It just depends on what the Event means, which direction the slow gradient points and where the cliff is.

Getting a new job, for example, is an Event that defines a beginning, but it also is the start of the relatively slower taper in the old job as it winds down. Some people make friends in an Instant (Event) and the discovery over time that the instant decision may have been mistaken and the friendship fades and dwindles in yet another slow taper.

In relationships, just as often an Event starts one as it precipitates the end of one. Sometimes both and neither at the same time. Continuity has its own physics just as infinity (∞) has its own math.

When the threads of the Past are refracted through the lens of Now the multifaceted prism of the Future paints a picture on the wall. It's a confusing and liquid picture, and the confusing psychedelia urges you not to make any missteps.

Those of you who know what it means when my prose goes this turgid and this circumspect have already figured out what prompts me to write such as this.

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No, this isn't an update on the Biscuit God's health, although that's proceeding, well, not as quickly as I'd like, but what are you going to do but keep on keepin' on?

Apparently, Our Leaker in Chief gave Cheney the OK to let Scooter Libby leak classified information on Iraq to rebut Wilson' Op-Ed piece that there was no evidence Iraq was seeking Uraniam.

We all know how that all turned out. The White House had to change horses midstream and say it wasn't WMDs we were looking for, it was that we needed to unseat an enemy of civil rights and of its own people. I mean, at this point, the whole she-bang (we're not allowed to call it 'war' anymore) has been rechristened (har har) Operation Iraqi Freedom.

The most interesting part is yet to come. Attacks will be made by the rightwingnuts on Scooter Libby. Attacks will most certainly be made on the Liberals. On the “MSM” (that's main stream media, for you folks who don't keep up on the RNC's TLAs). (Interesting side note: if the media is mainstream and the media is lousy with Liberals, then the conclusion might be that the mainstream is liberal. Not so! The neocon nutters say that they are the “real” America, and that it's the Liberals who are out of touch).

I have yet to venture to the invariate iscariots of “freedom” to see what the main thrust will be. I'd love to be surprised that it's none of the above and they're all just going a little “hmmmmmm” about Bush's motives and just start to question their own executive.

Of course, the Christians believe they're a war on THEM, too. The Legistative, Judicial and Executive Branches of the most powerful nation known to man, and 80% of the populace claiming a belief in the Jesus figure as an incarnation of a Diety, and they want you to believe they're the underdogs.

The Invisible Pink Unicorns that actually did spin the web of the universe and control all actions and movements with invisible blue jewel-encrusted levers have told me even they didn't see that one coming.

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A big happy birthday to Mikey, the Dogpoet!

It will be good to have him back where he belongs (Hello, Dolly!).

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Also a happy belated birthday to Vincy, who was born two years to the day after I was born, April 3.

Vincy and I have known each other not nearly as long as it seems. He's just one of those guys who seems to have always been there, a good sign that I need him to keep on sticking around being the wise one he is.

And wise-ass.

Vincy turned 40 on Monday, April 3. I turned 42, and I considered a celebration involving two 21 yr olds. No, not really.

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