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We work so that we can fly away.

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I would like to thank the San Francisco Rent Control Board for making my life a living hell.

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Went to Two Restaurant (formerly Hawthorne Lane) the other night. Wow. Never realized how much I hated this new tapa-style dining craze. Hawthorne was famous for being ridiculously over priced, serving huge platters, and the expense form on the back of its receipts. Now it’s a half-assed Mediterranean influenced menu that serves tiny dishes at 8/10 the original price.

Bad, bad, bad.

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And no, I don’t have pictures because I forgot my camera.

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The great thing about running is that you are either too engrossed by your surroundings or trying so hard not to pass out that you don’t notice your surroundings. It’s a great stress relief, and I think I’ll start doing it again because I have a lot of stress in my life right now.

I need to come up with $30K by the end of this month, otherwise Lo Kee Man will come looking for me with a meat cleaver.

Only half of that sentence is true.

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In my quest to find $30K, I have decided to join 24 Hour Fitness. They have this sweet deal where you can sign up for three years for $500. While spending money during a time where I need to make money can be considered moronic, I made an emotional reason to buy a membership because I would rather fail with six pack abs than succeed with a beer gut.

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I have to go now. A tenant needs to get his ass kicked.

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Soon.

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Trying to write some wrongs.

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My nature is pretty wicked. A few nights ago, my friend and I talked about ‘Lost’. We made a list of the women on the show and ranked them in order of ‘if we had to’ fuck-ability. Kate and, surprisingly, Claire topped my list. Rose and Rousseau were at the bottom. They even fell below Charlie.

I know that’s not all that wicked, but you don’t know the reasons accompanying all of the women’s rankings. They’re pretty fucked up and I realize they are a reflection of my personality.

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If I were on ‘Lost’, I’d probably incur the wrath of the survivors on like the first week. They’d find out I had been shitting on their tents or whatever and stealing their food and water. Except it wouldn’t be because I was greedy or anything. It’d be used to make people do stupid things for food. I’m pretty sure you’d hate me if I had a stash of food and made you try to suck your own dick or throw your poo at Locke.

Yeah, I’d get killed quick on that show.

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I’d also get killed quick because I’d constantly ask Rousseau if she could at least do something about that hair because, you know, she’s ugly.

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Hey, it’s been crazy. You? Really? Great. Anyway, so I had to get a new bed for a couple of reasons. First is I got really tired of sleeping on a small ass twin size mattress. Y’see, the last time I lived at home I was still in high school. And the last time I slept on a twin was sophomore year of college. Sure, they say it’s an extra long twin, but it’s still a fucking twin.

Even though I’m here for a short time period, I figured I should get a new bed because home is where I’ll be staying whenever I’m in SF.

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Been busy, man. Went to San Diego for a tradeshow, donated almost all of my crap to Goodwill, had diarrhea twice, tried to comfort my girl over the phone because she’s sick, took pictures for my friend who got into a car accident in the middle of the night, been trying to keep up with work demands, ended world hunger, and found that elusive g-spot.

Okay, so the last two were lies.

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Another thing I like about taking the bus is that you can look out the window and still see a reflection of the interior. It’s a pretty cool effect. I can’t explain it right, but you get to watch people in a moment. Make sense? No? Sorry, but that’s all I have.

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A lot of my clients and vendors are in this nation’s heartland. I’m pretty sure all of them have no idea they’re talking to a Chinese guy, especially since my adopted Texas drawl drops whenever I’m on the phone with them. It’s so strange. When I was young and naive, I used to make fun of Texans. Now I can sound like one. What’s more, I like sounding like one.

I notice I get much better responses and service over the phone when I use my southern charm. The younger me would get pissed and yell and scream about racism. But now I’m just money hungry. That might make me a terrible person and all, but I sleep better at night because I have a new bed.

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Just realized that I used a sentence about the last time I slept on a twin. That can be misconstrued. I’ve never slept with a twin, or a set of twins for that matter. I have been with two women at once before, though. It’s actually a lot of hard work and I don’t recommend it to people with weak backs or small beds. Sex with too many people at once is like having too many children at once. Too many mouths to please.

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If I sound bitter about sex is because I’ve been forced to become a monk. I might as well be one of those servants with his nuts chopped off. What are they called?  Eunuchs?

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Above is a pic from New Year’s Eve with my better half at Tablespoon restaurant. Food was better than average, but the service was killer. Too bad you have to rub elbows with some Polk Street/Pacific Heights snobs. Towards the end of the night, we were flanked by pricks on both sides. Or were they balls? ‘Cause you know, I’m a big dick.

I’m not saying I have a big dick. I’m saying I AM a big dick.

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When I say rub elbows I mean it literally. The place is tiny and covered in trendy glass tile. That means crowded and loud. The service almost makes up for it, though. Check it out if you want to have a nice night out without spending too much money.

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I had a pretty productive day. I’ve finally figured out how to get to job#2 via MUNI. A lot of my friends and co-workers don’t understand my fascination with public transportation. They ask if I like lengthy travel times and sitting next to people that smell like the unmistakable combination of piss, shit, and puke. I usually answer ‘yes’ to both questions, which is an indication as to why I don’t have many friends and co-workers stay away from me.

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Pictures of food, the symphony, and food are on the way. There’s also a picture taken from an airplane, but it’s not all that interesting. I do have a picture of Antonio Banderas’ cologne. If you already knew Antonio Banderas has a cologne, well, you might be a dork. Or it could mean you get out more than I do. If the latter is true, I resent the fuck out of you.

It’s okay, though, because I am devestatingly attractive and sexually superior to all of you. I’m not insecure or anything, I just like to announce it every once in a while because I am a jerk.

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Ahoy mateys!

It’s been a crazy ass month. I got sick for the first time in years. It only took me two days to physically recover, but those two days had the two longest nights of my life. Coughing, barfing, hocking fat loogies, snot bubbles; I had everything.

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I usually take the bus to job #1. The mornings are crowded, but I live a few blocks from the start of the line. Means I always get a seat.

Anyway, half way through my trip the bus is full. This woman- late twenties, achingly stylish- gets on and her hands are full from what looks like her work bag and shopping bags. She’s headed towards me when the bus driver decides to floor it. She does that momentary loss of balance thing that all Muni riders love, but so does the guy behind her. He bumps into her and she is headed down the aisle. I catch her.

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Aside from fucking a girl, catching her is the most chivalrous thing I can do. The second most chivalrous thing to do is give up my seat. So I do it. She sits, I stand, we chit chat. I get off the bus and feel a little bit better about myself.

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I started saying this was a crazy ass month, but the day described above was pretty crazy. Crazy as in coincidental. Y’see, I was taking the bus home that evening. A chick was sitting next to me and we were both on the phone. She’s talking to a friend from what I gather and I pretend to talk/’click, click, click’ to the tribal chief of Uganda.

She gets up just before her stop comes up. This time the bus driver decides to floor the brake pedal and she falls forward and then backward. I stick my arm out and stop her from falling and ask her if she’s okay. She gets all red from embarrassment, thanks me, and runs off of the bus.

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I deserve a very good Christmas present.

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Been sleepless lately. No matter what time I go to bed I end up waking up at three and five o’clock. It’s like my body thinks I’m the Gorton’s fisherman or something. I’ve tried sleeping at ten, twelve, and two. Same shit. I’ve tried drinking. No luck there, just empty bottles. Anybody have advice?

I have a strange feeling it’s because I don’t have sex.

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This perdicament is probably why people came up with the idea to “save your virginity”. It could very likely have absolutely nothing to do with wholesomeness or the love for a god. Think about it. Don’t you know some virgin assholes and wonderful non-virgins? No? You’re fucking lying.

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My theory is that people figured out withdrawal from sex can make you do some crazy shit. ‘Like what’ you ask? Well, there’s this hole in a tree that is looking kinda fucking good to me right now.

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I’ll use this last space to send out a warning. If anyone talks to me in person while I’m totally ‘backed up’, I might come off as a virgin asshole to you because my girlfriend isn’t around to keep me in a wonderful mood. It could also be the fact that I am not a wonderful non-virgin to begin with, but an asshole non-virgin at heart. Either way, well, you won’t like talking to me and chances are I won’t like talking to you.

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Come to think of it, I was an asshole before I lost my virginity, too.

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A friend of mine has gone through a few deaths this past weekend. I know what that’s like.

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During dinner I had a conversation about sex, shit, and comedy clubs.

Something’s not right.

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The girlfriend is far away once again. I’m looking for something to do during the gaps she usally fills. The extra job isn’t keeping me busy like I thought it would. In the past, this would be a time for me to get depressed and walk around with no pants. I don’t think I’m going to do that this time; get depressed. Instead I’ll try to find activities and friends to take out my boredom and inner sadness on.

The pants are staying off, though. Gotta love the feeling of an icy October San Francisco wind on your balls. It’s refreshing, like those stupid Sierra Mist commericals with the guy in frozen underwear. Although I don’t like frozen underwear. It burns when frozen and gets super wet when it thaws.

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If you can find some point to this entry, well, you are a better man than me.

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Because you care:
lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice
fleetwood mac
mirage

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At about three thirty, I’m gonna MUNI to the BART station on Mission. Then I’m gonna catch a southbound train to SFO. Fleetwood Mac, Adriena Bartosova, and Zucchero will sing and play for me on my headphones as I stare out the blurry window. I don’t know why, but there is something very comforting about isolating myself with music while on public trasportation. I like it better than driving.

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There’s a flight leaving SFO for SEA a little after six, and I have a ticket to get on that flight. I mean, I don’t have an actual paper ticket, but one of those electronic ones.(Meaning I shouldn’t spill coffee on it.) The last paper ticket I got was probably in ’94. I was 12 years old then and planes had paper menus in Economy.

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I’m fucking 24 years old now and peanuts have become too expensive to provide in Economy. At this rate Economy really will become cattle class because it’d be cheaper to move cows and people at the same time. Many redneck farmers will subsequently join the mile high club when they hear Old Betsy can ride with them on an aeroplane.

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I need to leave now. I have to pick up Old Betsy to sow some wild oats 30,000 feet up from here.

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