Day

Today was like I was describing to my friend Lars, similar to the time I took half a Zoloft for test anxiety: within one day I became enclosed in a bottle - with fluid in it, unable to hear, see nor feel clearly my surrounding world. I wondered who would want to feel that way, no matter how much anxiety they might want to conquer.

But more than that, it was like someone else's detached dream. Although it was generally pleasant lunching with my friend and strolling on a rare and unseasonably warm SF day, it was still someone else's day.

Then the magik happened: as we got in the normally extended ordering line at UNNAMED EXPENSIVE HIPSTER MICROBREW COFFEE - and not even the longest I've seen there - we were discussing what to get, and we finally settled on a mocha which we knew was so overpriced we would split it and consume it on site. The instant our decision was made the place fell silent for a mere fraction of a second - and the next loud words out of the barista boy's mouth were: WOULD ANYBODY LIKE A FREE MOCHA FOR HERE? lifting a cup into the air. The even weirder part - we were the only ones to raise our hand in a line of twelve people. I stepped out of the quiet line to the front to take it from him before he changed his mind, and drifted directly to a table where Lars and I sat in amazement for a second before having a taste to make sure this really happened.

It was definitely the real deal, the coveted Mocha from U.E.H.M.C. It wasn't flawed in production, tainted or defective in any way at all. Correct temperature, cocoa sweetness and froth consistency, not to mention the usually intricate foam decor.

The young people who frequent this place always stand in line very patiently. They turn to have conversations with their friends or other folks behind them with the knowledgable resignation that their sacrifice is a necessity which will ultimately yield the exquisite and exclusively appropriate cup of java.

We shared and terminated it with glee, and conversed over it for longer than I'd done in a while, taking up the tabled seating for an extended period of time.

1-800-HATEYOU

A phone line - texting number? - where you can call and spew all your nastiest hatred for someone/something which has been percolating inside your deepest recesses for the longest time.

Have no guilt! Just lay it on me, baby, for a mere $6.66 per call. This would relieve the most pent-up do-gooder liberals who have no such other un-PC outlet, unlike neo-cons who apparently know how to express themselves much more freely in this manner on a judgemental daily basis.

Do this before we adopt euro-like anti-hate-speech laws, as it looks like we are long overdue.

Undecided if some of the proceeds should go to some worthy cause somewhere else, considering my current placement as a good recipient.

Night Cuts

I keep waking up with cuts and scratches on my face - when I've slept alone.

Wondering what the story was...

Public Servants Don't Have a Safeword

People who vote for Prop B: Consider most SF public servants can't even afford to live in SF on their city pay, and frequently do jobs which are dangerous or really unpleasant for the sole public good, thankless and generally unrewarded, all to sew back the seams of a flawed and increasingly stressed out system. Lower level employees have already taken pay cuts, services have been getting slashed yearly and budgets cut drastically.

Private sector entities who get rich basically feeding off the general population don't have to deal with their own by-products: exploitation and despair, and use their money to distance themselves from where that happens. Public servants are the ones who pick up after this consumptive process, mainly to keep things running in some fashion.

Life and Decrapitation

Repetitive stress injury from working day after day. Thought I would be an observer through this, but got caught up in the routine druggedness of people with jobs, like The Man Who Fell to Earth.

This was never going to be the healthy choice, guess I felt privileged by thinking I would never fall for this establishmentarianistic trap. Never would I work full-time for anyone but MYSELF again, and any future money I'd make would go directly to my craft and skill, whether it was my latest short video, new guitar or launching/developing the ultimate psychosex site.

Where did all the good will go? or the ENERGY whatwithall?

The body: we all know it eventually breaks down. Living like it never will is in some kind of positive attitude self-help book all over the world, soon to be in every language, originating straight from our holier-than-thou californian coasts. So why would anyone want to waste even one precious moment doing with their body -- their only true possession (if not factually physically enslaved by some other entity) doing something they don't really want to do?

A-ha, there's the rub: Whether tis nobler for the heart to suffer the slings and arrows...
No, wait.

Tuesday. Seven pee-em.

Driving back home from work I saw people with very gray, sickly faces. Not just the first guy, who was crossing in front of SF General Hospital, but later another lady, several blocks past the hospital. She had baggy clothes, but not necessarily disheveled, and a nice haircut. Everything else about her was quite normal, except her face -- a grayish-green shade.

Now, I doubt they both had the same terminal illness at the same time. But now that I think about it, they also had the same malaise in expression, a very unhappy one, on the fringe of desperation.

At the moment of seeing the first person I also began realizing everyone was driving crazy, they had been doing that since I left work. This was Tuesday evening. Had everybody gone to happy hour and were now totally drunk going home? Had something suddenly happened in local/international news that I wasn't aware of yet? Was this a regular behavioral pattern of normal people on every Tuesday after work?

I'm either becoming less wise about humanity, or creating my own mystery thriller in my head out of pure boredom.

Camille Paglia - No Sex Please, We're Middle Class

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/27/opinion/27Paglia.html?src=me&ref=general

Amusing article. Smacks a bit of old fuddy-duddy bemusing the infamous "lack of eroticism" of modern media, and nostalgia the so-much-better bygone days when things were more prohibited.

"There’s no mystery left. "

Heard that before?



"...without an ounce of genuine eroticism. "

This quip about L. Gaga is not an insult at all. Her art transgresses the erotic norm, and you'd think Paglia would see that with in-your-face s&m dirty video imagery. I concur, that is not genuine eroticism, it's late century expressionism, like M. Manson and Nine Inch Nails.
It is so not what she's about.


Paglia even sounds chauvinistic, when as a spectator she wants women to be more erotic. I do agree that modern life de-sexualizes people for business purposes -- modern family can survive only in function of business (that's why they'll HAVE to let gays marry. It's practical business sense, although I don't believe marriage the way it's still set up like the middle ages makes any business sense either: obsolescent.) But if making a living in the real world means having to curtail a bit of your eroticism on the job site (!) then maybe you can lead a fulfilling career in some other field and then do or pay for your sexuality somewhere else intimately fulfilling, like guys do, and that might just be okay. Because you can.

In this following quote she's pretty much defining successful and ambitious women as reproductive ones. I have serious issues with that statement. There will be more and more women foregoing reproduction, you watch. Truth is, it's just not an essential/defining part of womanhood anymore. Sorry, just the way it is.

"Men must neuter themselves, while ambitious women postpone procreation".

But as women try to gain more life power -- as in jobs, cultural careers and options for life choices -- they can define their own kind of sexuality and eroticism. Hate pseudo-quoting Kissinger, but power is one of the best aphrodisiacs in my book, too.