Well then ...
2.4.2k2
Howdy all you lovely List Members. As I am a bit strapped for time today (and it's getting a might late in the afternoon), I figure I'll save the nonsensical little gem I was writing for another day and instead cut to the chase:
The Hyde Out
This is where you want to go tonight to meet your fellow List Members and hoist one or two. See you there. bye-ee!
Thursday, February 28, 2002
Thursday, February 21, 2002
M&M
2.3.2k2
As a freelancer, I sometimes have spare time between paying gigs. I've got a lot to do on my own during this time, but I also cough up some of it to charitable causes. So far I've done volunteer work at the donut factory, the local brewery and the coffee roastery. I had to quit those places because they actually have paid docents who are very territorial. They've banded together into quasi-government states within the institutions, doling out assignments like NEA grants. One would have to submit a written proposal (of no less than 500 pages) and three years later would be forced to answer a battery of questions in front of their tribunal of Elder Docents. All of this to have the "privilege" to survey the employees' opinions about the recent switch from conical paper cups to flat bottom cups. Who the fuck can write 500 pages about that horseshit?
Anyway, like I said, I quit those joints, but recently I found the Mother-of-All-Volunteer-Gigs: Driving folks around in a little van. It's great! Most often I drive the little van around parking lots and help people find their cars. I'll be damned if I didn't learn an important life lesson soon after starting this: Most people who can't find their cars in a parking lot are in fact NOT drunk. This was a surprise to me. I don't have much exposure to parking lots to base my predisposed belief upon, but whenever I found myself in a big parking lot for, say, a mall, I would see dozens of people wandering around the lot looking for their cars. They all looked slightly dazed, confused, lost and, frankly, drunk. Now that I shuttle them around and talk a bit to them, it's revealed to me that they're mostly not drunk, but certainly forgetful.
The mall lot gig is good, but I've found a new gem. The neighborhood I live in here in SF (as are many in the city and in big cities in general) is a frikkin nightmare when it comes to parking. If you find a spot (and that's a big IF), you often need an airport shuttle to get you to the front door of where ever you're going, as it is fifty blocks away from where you found a spot.
Many of you savvy List Members can see this one coming. My new gig is to drive folks from their cars to their front doors. I started small, with only one or two clients, but word of mouth referrals pushed their number up into the high hundred fifties. And growing! It's really simple: Client Mary makes a quick once-over of the potential spots around her pad to no avail. She rings me on her cell and tells me where she's off to look and shortly thereafter I tuck in behind her Miata. When she finds a spot, she parks and I zip her back home. Easy-Peasy. And like I said, this is volunteer work, so I do it for nothing but gas money. In this tough economy, though, tips are appreciated.
Tonight: Molotov's
News: No news is good news. Welcome Lola and Heather.
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Mary Haring, Jimi Simmons
Porn Title of the Week: Tender Tubbies
Okay, then. Lots have asked for this particular venue so here ya go. (Time was, we used to duck in here for a shot en route to Noc Noc.) Bring yer pals and yer quarters: The juke is up to snuff. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!
2.3.2k2
As a freelancer, I sometimes have spare time between paying gigs. I've got a lot to do on my own during this time, but I also cough up some of it to charitable causes. So far I've done volunteer work at the donut factory, the local brewery and the coffee roastery. I had to quit those places because they actually have paid docents who are very territorial. They've banded together into quasi-government states within the institutions, doling out assignments like NEA grants. One would have to submit a written proposal (of no less than 500 pages) and three years later would be forced to answer a battery of questions in front of their tribunal of Elder Docents. All of this to have the "privilege" to survey the employees' opinions about the recent switch from conical paper cups to flat bottom cups. Who the fuck can write 500 pages about that horseshit?
Anyway, like I said, I quit those joints, but recently I found the Mother-of-All-Volunteer-Gigs: Driving folks around in a little van. It's great! Most often I drive the little van around parking lots and help people find their cars. I'll be damned if I didn't learn an important life lesson soon after starting this: Most people who can't find their cars in a parking lot are in fact NOT drunk. This was a surprise to me. I don't have much exposure to parking lots to base my predisposed belief upon, but whenever I found myself in a big parking lot for, say, a mall, I would see dozens of people wandering around the lot looking for their cars. They all looked slightly dazed, confused, lost and, frankly, drunk. Now that I shuttle them around and talk a bit to them, it's revealed to me that they're mostly not drunk, but certainly forgetful.
The mall lot gig is good, but I've found a new gem. The neighborhood I live in here in SF (as are many in the city and in big cities in general) is a frikkin nightmare when it comes to parking. If you find a spot (and that's a big IF), you often need an airport shuttle to get you to the front door of where ever you're going, as it is fifty blocks away from where you found a spot.
Many of you savvy List Members can see this one coming. My new gig is to drive folks from their cars to their front doors. I started small, with only one or two clients, but word of mouth referrals pushed their number up into the high hundred fifties. And growing! It's really simple: Client Mary makes a quick once-over of the potential spots around her pad to no avail. She rings me on her cell and tells me where she's off to look and shortly thereafter I tuck in behind her Miata. When she finds a spot, she parks and I zip her back home. Easy-Peasy. And like I said, this is volunteer work, so I do it for nothing but gas money. In this tough economy, though, tips are appreciated.
Tonight: Molotov's
News: No news is good news. Welcome Lola and Heather.
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Mary Haring, Jimi Simmons
Porn Title of the Week: Tender Tubbies
Okay, then. Lots have asked for this particular venue so here ya go. (Time was, we used to duck in here for a shot en route to Noc Noc.) Bring yer pals and yer quarters: The juke is up to snuff. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!
Thursday, February 14, 2002
Jules Verne
2.2.2k2
So I got one of them little peeky-peekys. Some folks call them satellite dishes. A fine, fun-loving List Member set me up with the hardware and I called the programming company and got me about 500 channels. Now while this might sound like a lot of stuff to watch, truth is there's nothing. A whole lot of nothing. The Home BO replays the crappiest movies ... ever. The Food Channel, while somewhat interesting at times, torpedoes its best show, Iron Chef, with that campy English voice over. (In the old days, Iron Chef was on a SF cable-access channel DIE-rect from Japan. It had no English VO, but rather these English subtitles, translations from Japanese, and reading them, the viewer had the feeling that the translator didn't quite saavy Japanese-to-English. And that he was stone drunk.) But at any rate, 500 channels or not, I could scarsely find anything to watch. That is, until I stumbled across the "Operation Channel."\
Pop on the Operation Channel and you're in for a treat, if you can stomach it. Well I can't. The close-ups of the gall bladder surgery or the intra-cavity camera's shots of the hernia operation frankly make me want to hurl. The strange thing, though, is my inability to look away. I'm grossed out, completely, but fascinated (discreetly).\
I threw on the Operation Channel the other night and found someone's toe being reconstructed. Someone had apparently dropped a heavy object, perhaps a bowling ball, on their toe and some enterprising surgeon figured they could salvage the little piggy. Dang but the inside of the toe is icky-looking. The doc was packing what looked like orzo or wee-little shipping peanuts into the meaty, pink, split-toe and I forgot that I needed to look away often and ended up staring at the screen for a long time. Nose wrinkled, squinting and about to puke, I remembered myself and looked at the back of my hand just in time.\
Moments later, as the nausea washed away, I returned to the screen. This time, they showed some fella sitting in bed, reading aloud crappy Laughter Is The Best Medicine jokes from Reader's Digest. The jokes weren't funny, but the guy was enjoying them. I was about to ask what happened to the toe when the camera panned down the bed and the Doc and a bunch of lackeys were down there working on the toe. The dude wasn't even konked out! That threw me for a loop. What a miraculous time we live in, when we can simultaneously enjoy the worst jokes on the planet and get our toe operated on. Oh joy!\
Tonight: Lone Palm
News: Arg! Mateys! Robot feels like a pirate!
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Moss
Satanic Word of the Week: Error [(Venue Announcement not verbose enough to constitute Satanic Word of the Week. Error No. 666)]
Porn Title of the Week: Whore of the Rings
bye-ee!
2.2.2k2
So I got one of them little peeky-peekys. Some folks call them satellite dishes. A fine, fun-loving List Member set me up with the hardware and I called the programming company and got me about 500 channels. Now while this might sound like a lot of stuff to watch, truth is there's nothing. A whole lot of nothing. The Home BO replays the crappiest movies ... ever. The Food Channel, while somewhat interesting at times, torpedoes its best show, Iron Chef, with that campy English voice over. (In the old days, Iron Chef was on a SF cable-access channel DIE-rect from Japan. It had no English VO, but rather these English subtitles, translations from Japanese, and reading them, the viewer had the feeling that the translator didn't quite saavy Japanese-to-English. And that he was stone drunk.) But at any rate, 500 channels or not, I could scarsely find anything to watch. That is, until I stumbled across the "Operation Channel."\
Pop on the Operation Channel and you're in for a treat, if you can stomach it. Well I can't. The close-ups of the gall bladder surgery or the intra-cavity camera's shots of the hernia operation frankly make me want to hurl. The strange thing, though, is my inability to look away. I'm grossed out, completely, but fascinated (discreetly).\
I threw on the Operation Channel the other night and found someone's toe being reconstructed. Someone had apparently dropped a heavy object, perhaps a bowling ball, on their toe and some enterprising surgeon figured they could salvage the little piggy. Dang but the inside of the toe is icky-looking. The doc was packing what looked like orzo or wee-little shipping peanuts into the meaty, pink, split-toe and I forgot that I needed to look away often and ended up staring at the screen for a long time. Nose wrinkled, squinting and about to puke, I remembered myself and looked at the back of my hand just in time.\
Moments later, as the nausea washed away, I returned to the screen. This time, they showed some fella sitting in bed, reading aloud crappy Laughter Is The Best Medicine jokes from Reader's Digest. The jokes weren't funny, but the guy was enjoying them. I was about to ask what happened to the toe when the camera panned down the bed and the Doc and a bunch of lackeys were down there working on the toe. The dude wasn't even konked out! That threw me for a loop. What a miraculous time we live in, when we can simultaneously enjoy the worst jokes on the planet and get our toe operated on. Oh joy!\
Tonight: Lone Palm
News: Arg! Mateys! Robot feels like a pirate!
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Moss
Satanic Word of the Week: Error [(Venue Announcement not verbose enough to constitute Satanic Word of the Week. Error No. 666)]
Porn Title of the Week: Whore of the Rings
bye-ee!
Thursday, February 07, 2002
Weber
2.1.2k2
Like all parents, I go through my childrens' things periodically. Now just because my children aren't exactly human don't change that none. My cats are every bit the obnoxious little devils that I was when I was their age.
Rummaging through their toys, I found a few fake mousies that needed to be tossed out and replaced. Going through their dope stash, I realized that it was getting a little low, so I made a mental note to get more Cosmic Catnip on the next Petco run. But when I got to Fatty's Palm Pilot, and started peeking around in it, I took note of some of the appointments he had in his datebook. That’s when I got more than a little peeved.
I have always hated the thought that someone was going through my stuff. I know my ma did, some, but she also respected my privacy. That made her transgressions all right as far as I was concerned. She would go through my stuff when a box of Cheez Nips went missing. I understand that. Often she would find that box tucked away behind a stack of comics or sweaters. She never searched for smokes or booze, though. She never had to. My friends’ and my consumption of such were not too big a secret. One of my pals’ ma would butcher and barbecue any and all ciggys found on her property, but my mom figured I would figure it out on my own. Sure, it took years, but I got the ciggy part figured now. The booze, though …
My mother never searched me, never patted me down. I know some guys and gals that did get such a treatment. The closest I came to that was once when I chucked a couple pair of jeans into the laundry. Back then it was like this: Wait until there’s enough dirtys and then do a whole load. Well there wasn’t enough dirtys, so I left them in a pile. I also left something in one of the pockets.
I think I was 12 or 13, maybe 14. I came home and went into my room and waiting for me was a couple pair of clean jeans. And a little pile of stuff that was in the pockets. This was normal. Sometimes I would leave dice or chalk or kleenex or crap like that in my pockets and ma would dutifully check those pockets before she washed them and find and remove the items that would otherwise ruin a wash. Well yeah, this time I had left a condom in my pocket. I think at the age I was I had MAYBE French-kissed a girl, but it was cool to carry around a raincoat, so I did. My mom left a little note that said, “From your pockets. –Mom.” I was so goddamn embarrassed. I laugh my ass off now.
So I got no real right to snoop through my cat Fatty’s appointments – I’m not trying to save a wash from being ruined, or the equivalent thereof - but I’m looking out for him. I was shocked and annoyed, however, to see the details of some of his scheduled appointments: “Tuesday, 4am: Allow no human to sleep.” “Thursday, noon: Puke on carpet.” Saturday, whenever Lunkhead takes a shower: Sit outside door and cry as loudly as possible.” “All Day Sunday: Knock shit over.”
It’s something that I shouldn’t have been surprised about. I’ve suspected as much for some time. Not that my cat refers to me as Lunkhead, but that there was an organized campaign by felines against us humans.
I’ll have a chat with the little sneak and get this mess squared away, but I would advise the rest of you folks that live with cats to check their Palm Pilots and see if there’s something unpleasant waiting for you Friday morn. There is a deluxe treatment scheduled for me, and with the hangover I’m expecting, I shudder to think of the misery …
Tonight: Annie's.
News: If you missed last week’s meeting … pity for you! Don’t make the same mistake this week. Welcome to the List: Alaina!
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Kyra and Sara. Where the heck are those two?
Satanic Word of the Week: Tonight
Aye Carumba! I so tired. I work lot. How I find time for Venue Announcement I not know. You make happy and come to venue and bring friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!
2.1.2k2
Like all parents, I go through my childrens' things periodically. Now just because my children aren't exactly human don't change that none. My cats are every bit the obnoxious little devils that I was when I was their age.
Rummaging through their toys, I found a few fake mousies that needed to be tossed out and replaced. Going through their dope stash, I realized that it was getting a little low, so I made a mental note to get more Cosmic Catnip on the next Petco run. But when I got to Fatty's Palm Pilot, and started peeking around in it, I took note of some of the appointments he had in his datebook. That’s when I got more than a little peeved.
I have always hated the thought that someone was going through my stuff. I know my ma did, some, but she also respected my privacy. That made her transgressions all right as far as I was concerned. She would go through my stuff when a box of Cheez Nips went missing. I understand that. Often she would find that box tucked away behind a stack of comics or sweaters. She never searched for smokes or booze, though. She never had to. My friends’ and my consumption of such were not too big a secret. One of my pals’ ma would butcher and barbecue any and all ciggys found on her property, but my mom figured I would figure it out on my own. Sure, it took years, but I got the ciggy part figured now. The booze, though …
My mother never searched me, never patted me down. I know some guys and gals that did get such a treatment. The closest I came to that was once when I chucked a couple pair of jeans into the laundry. Back then it was like this: Wait until there’s enough dirtys and then do a whole load. Well there wasn’t enough dirtys, so I left them in a pile. I also left something in one of the pockets.
I think I was 12 or 13, maybe 14. I came home and went into my room and waiting for me was a couple pair of clean jeans. And a little pile of stuff that was in the pockets. This was normal. Sometimes I would leave dice or chalk or kleenex or crap like that in my pockets and ma would dutifully check those pockets before she washed them and find and remove the items that would otherwise ruin a wash. Well yeah, this time I had left a condom in my pocket. I think at the age I was I had MAYBE French-kissed a girl, but it was cool to carry around a raincoat, so I did. My mom left a little note that said, “From your pockets. –Mom.” I was so goddamn embarrassed. I laugh my ass off now.
So I got no real right to snoop through my cat Fatty’s appointments – I’m not trying to save a wash from being ruined, or the equivalent thereof - but I’m looking out for him. I was shocked and annoyed, however, to see the details of some of his scheduled appointments: “Tuesday, 4am: Allow no human to sleep.” “Thursday, noon: Puke on carpet.” Saturday, whenever Lunkhead takes a shower: Sit outside door and cry as loudly as possible.” “All Day Sunday: Knock shit over.”
It’s something that I shouldn’t have been surprised about. I’ve suspected as much for some time. Not that my cat refers to me as Lunkhead, but that there was an organized campaign by felines against us humans.
I’ll have a chat with the little sneak and get this mess squared away, but I would advise the rest of you folks that live with cats to check their Palm Pilots and see if there’s something unpleasant waiting for you Friday morn. There is a deluxe treatment scheduled for me, and with the hangover I’m expecting, I shudder to think of the misery …
Tonight: Annie's.
News: If you missed last week’s meeting … pity for you! Don’t make the same mistake this week. Welcome to the List: Alaina!
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Kyra and Sara. Where the heck are those two?
Satanic Word of the Week: Tonight
Aye Carumba! I so tired. I work lot. How I find time for Venue Announcement I not know. You make happy and come to venue and bring friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!
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