It has recently come to my attention that a pattern has evolved concerning my dating habits which has me worried; I will date someone, stop dating them, usually parting on amicable terms, and not but soon after, they move. Now not because of me directly (that I know of), or by my doing at all, they just up and move. It's not one of my usual charming effects I have on people, which is usually, mental breakdown, feelings of inadequacy, or sterility. It just happens. Go figure. Off the top of my head, I can think of five people that left San Francisco, and there are probably more if I thought about it or tried to get in contact with any of the men I was with. And now, after being in LA for two years, there are three others, two in one month alone. Hell, Trigger left the country. And after a two week non-affair (yawn) with an Uberdork, I had to let him go (As stable and practical as it sounds, being with a geek isn't what it's cracked up to be. And if I have to be with another geek again, lord help me, I'll kill myself. Enough is enough thankyouverymuch) So not a week after Uberdork received my standard, "Anything is more important than you" spiel, I received a mass e-mail from him proclaiming, "I moved to Alabama!" (or Arkansas, one of those southern "A" states). Now I know it's not of my doing, my ego isn't that big. My impact on others can't be that significant, especially of late, when after two minutes of conversation I usually cut the person off (male or female) with, "I think I'll give my grandmother another sponge bath" or "Kali needs the dingleberries removed from her butt". But I do feel like this consistent transitional behavior from my booty calls a bit unnerving. I guess it could be a good thing, seeing as I will never be able to say I've fucked every man in the city, because the ones I have, will have already LEFT. So if there are only women and gay men in a certain area, you know where I am. But that might be an obstacle should I move. I'll move somewhere new and find out I've been with half of the men there. Maybe those I've already been with will move again? Or does that mean I have to fuck them again to get them to move? That would suck, because there was a reason I stopped in the first place. Ah well, I guess I'll deal with it when the time comes.
You know, the thing that kills me the most about the guys leaving isn't so much that I'll miss them, but the fact that they all have my stuff.
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Thursday, July 08, 2004
Pandemonium in the potty
I have a brand new lab space right now. I'm talking brand spankin' new. My school got a ton of money from JPL and built new science buildings. So we have cool new equipment, hoods that work so well it sucks the breath out of you. (But why do I still smell like rotten egg all the time? Is it just me? Is it all the peanut butter and jelly or the bologna sandwiches?). Point being, I'm in a modern building with slick, new appliances and stuff. Everything is new. It's a new building. So of course, the bathrooms are new. So new, that you almost don't want to use a seat cover just because. You can, it's that new. But I don't of course, I'm not stupid. So you'd think with all of the newness, the architect or designer might have planned the bathrooms better. I'm pretty sure whomever designed the women's room, was male. He figured to avoid long lines, he'll just cram more stalls in there. Let me tell you how this doesn't work. Especially in a women's room. Once in the stall, which opens IN, by the way, you can barely turn around to sit. Now, being a science student means you have a TON of crap with you, and attending school in a depressed area means you never leave your stuff unattended. So with the red menace pounding me into submission, and forcing me in the WC every twenty minutes, I brave the Kate Moss-sized stall, forgetting I have my Quasimodo hump on my back, all 80 pounds of books and supplies, forcing me to balance precariously while walking lest I bend forward and trip over myself or bend too far back and fall on my butt, only to get stuck there, getting taunted by the squirrels and sixteen year olds. So I try to wedge myself into the stall, walls of the stall pushing on me, while the walls of my bladder are pushing in another direction, while the walls of my uterus are crying tears of joy. My backpack is banging everywhere, my foot slips under one of the walls just to kick the woman struggling in there. I hear another woman scream, "Can someone help me out of here? I seem to be wedged between the wall and the door, and if I move, my foot goes in the toilet, and I haven't flushed yet." I hear grunts and groans as a response, which loosely translated, means either, "You're shit out of luck, I'm stuck too.", "I think I just flushed my pen.", or "Why did I eat that last night?" The struggle continues as I finally seat myself, and think with dread, "I still have to take care of the red menace." And I wonder if I can just wad up a bunch of industrial TP and shove it in my pants. Anything but trying to maneuver that whole affair. I figure I'll just clench right up and stay like that for the rest of the day. So trying to get out of the stall involved more gymnastics, and I eventually dismounted with the help of the stall door pretty much my spring board.
I got a 7.5 for that routine. I was cheated.
You'd think, with a swank, new facility, there would be swank, new facilities. Go figure.
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Monday, July 05, 2004
Nostalgia
I'm hardly what you would call a patriot, but I happen to be quite fond of the July 4th holiday. Not because of what it represents. Not because of the feeling of pride it's supposed to instill, nor for to honor those who have served or fallen for "our cause" (that's what Memorial Day and veteran's Day is for anyway.). I've just always had a good time during the festivities. Except for my years in San Francisco, but that's my own fault, I either worked or didn't do anything, not wanting to deal with all of the people. Too much trouble.
My earliest memories of Independence Day are of a block-full of children belonging to my parents' friends, all pre-divorce. I would sit with those stupid black charcoal snakes, and watch those until it was too dark to see them any more. The kids would make bets over whether a certain kid or a particular adult would burn themselves first. It was usually the adult. I would gorge myself on BBQ and various indistinguishable Japanese foods that I liked anyway because they had an interesting texture. No one would eat the ambrosia. Night would come and the adults would light the "big" red devil fireworks in the middle of the street and we would all "ooooh" and "aaahhh". It went on like that for many years, then the 80's hit and everyone divorced and the kids were getting too old to be impressed, and certain adults couldn't be in the same vicinity as others (because of the D-I-V-O-R-C-E, or the affair, etc.). My parents split up soon after, so no more block parties. But that didn't damper my enthusiasm for the 4th, as my mother always made sure I always had those stupid snakes.
In the early/mid-80's, my brother was a pot smoking high school slacker, and I was a middle school kid, teetering on the precipice of innocence and adolescence, where I still had some child-like exuberance, but was developing my pubescent indolence. That 4th, my mother took me to the Santa Monica pier, when they had fireworks in the evening, not at 4 am the morning of, as they do now. It was just the two of us. Me, a little surly to go, when I'd rather be with my friends, but still a little intrigued, since I never went to see a fireworks show. Living in the 'hood doesn't afford the opportunity for such events. We went and had monster sized slices of pizza, and cotton candy that stuck to the side of my face all night, that she didn't tell me was there until we got home. But for all of my childhood (that would lead to adolescence that would lead to adulthood) belligerence, we had a good time. The fireworks display (for that time period) was awe-inspiring to me. I had never seen anything like it. And from that moment on, my mother was no longer my mother, but my friend.
The following year, we went again, but this time, I brought one of my friends, so the parental bonding wasn't as apparent, and the familial magic just wasn't the same, but I had a great time anyway, and my friends were impressed also.
As time went on, as the young girl became a full on skank ho, the 4th of July meant parties, drinking, revelry, and young men burning themselves. But I still managed me a good time. That same friend that went to Santa Monica was still the companion of choice, walking up and down the beach with Boone's Strawberry Hill, or a 40oz. of Mickey's, or if we were really lucky, a four pack of Bartles and James. We always had fun and never got into trouble. Go figure.
As I left for college, I still came back to LA for a couple of summers, meeting new people to do things like watch the fireworks with the symphony and a picnic at the Hollywood Bowl, or even just have a BBQ with the family friends with the new wives and husbands, but able to be in the same vicinity because they were all over it. After I stopped coming down to LA for the summer, the fireworks kind of stopped. The Fourth meant staying indoors, lest I "accidentally" go into one of my homicidal fits of rage and bludgeon someone to death. But now that I'm back in LA, I'm happy to report yet another successful 4th, ending it with that same friend from so many years ago. Actually, this September, we will be celebrating our 20th anniversary as friends.
At least there were no burns. But I miss the stupid snakes.
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Friday, July 02, 2004
Things most often heard at a gathering of young, independent filmmakers and their associates:
"I'm not going to compromise my art for the studios, man. This is MY project. Is there free food here?"
"Are you important?"
"I'm trying to get Parker Posey/Robert De Niro/Matt Damon/Quinten Tarantino to read my script."
"Can we shoot at your house?"
"You'll be working for free, but when I sell the movie, you'll be making so much money"
"If you contribute money, you can be in my film"
"Where's the free food?"
"Hey, can I crash at your place this week?"
"I'd take a meeting with a studio just out of courtesy."
