Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

My time at work lately has actually been taken up by work, and my time at home has largely been consumed by the Boy, and as a result I have had very little time for things like updating. I will do my best to fix that.

The first topic of my reinvigorated diary will be that of complaining, in which I will complain about things.

First, I will tell you that yesterday was a very very crappy day until I got home and started drinking. I was upset enough at my day and the work-engendered stress that I ended up yelling at some lady on the subway. I never even saw her face -- I was too busy bending backwards over a stereo behind me to avoid mashing my face into the metal pole in front of me -- while she was screaming at everyone to move to the center of the car so she could get on. I said something to the effect that if she could see some magical empty-space in the middle of the car she was more than welcome to take it, but there was no room. She said something about how I should not make her "come in there," presumably to do something like "kick [my] ass," to which I replied that she was more than welcome to come in here if she could fit, and if not, let go of the god damned doors already.

Also, my eye hurts and looks horrible and red. Visine is of no appreciable assistance.

I just had a two and a half hour long meeting. Lunch was served, which meant that there was a plate of sandwiches and a plate of cookies. The cookies were too far away to reach during the meeting, so I kept myself focused by looking at the cookie I was going to eat when the meeting was over. "Breathe," I told myself, "and think of the cookie." As the meeting wrapped up, I looked to one side, away from the cookie, in order to rub my burning eye. When I looked back a moment later, my cookie was gone and the guy sitting next to me was licking melty chocolate from his fingers. I never got to eat that cookie.

Also, I am sleepy and want to be at home in my bed wrapped around my boy.

Thank you. This has been a complaining entry. We now return you to your regularly scheduled...well, hell. They are all kind of complaining entries.

I got to work this morning and discovered that two days worth of work was deleted by someone in India. I have no idea who he is or why he is doing things to MY code.

Also, guess what was due at the end of the day today? Yes. Those two days worth of code, plus the day's worth of work I was going to accomplish today.

Guess what is still due at the end of the day today? All of the above. Plus another entire section that simply must be completed right fucking now.

To summarize: 4 days worth of work, two of which have been done before. By 6 pm.

I'm fucking frantic and right now I just hate that guy in India, whoever the fuck he is.

Today is Friday, but it feels like a Saturday to me. This is a good thing -- because I will now get two (count 'em, TWO) Saturdays in a row.

I am SO playing hooky today!

I was out with the Little Owl last night, and midway through a very animated discussion on what we are going to wear this summer when it is hot and sunny outside, I had a great revelation that not only did I not have to go to work today, I in fact would not be. It made the rest of the evening much more fun.

I called my boss this morning, right after I woke up of course, so my voice would still have that growly-scratchy sound that could be interpreted as either "I just woke up" or as "I'm deathly ill." He actually started to question me on whether or not I could afford the time off given the state of all of our projects, and I was very tempted to yell at him about the fact that HE took yesterday off because he had a freakin' hangover, but managed to restrain myself to very clearly and concisely stating that my projects were fine despite having to re-do a large amount of work yesterday, and I would be seeing him on Monday, thank you very much, and oh by the way while you were gone yesterday here are the issues that came up and here are the people that you need to talk to about resolving them. That felt very good.

I am currently lounging about my eponymous royal bedchamber in comfy jeans and a new grey tank, listening to my Bubblegum Mix*, and thinking about going to the grocery store to buy a filet mignon to cook for my lunch. Yep. Life is sweeet today.

*(Bubblegum Mix: The Official Megamix, Aqua; Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go), Garbage; Into The Groove, Madonna; Hyperlink, Eiffel 65; Didn't I, Aqua; Come On Eileen, Dexy's Midnight Runners; Tout, Tout Pour Ma Cherie, Pizzicato Five; Bring It All Back, S Club 7; I Will Go With You, Donna Summer; My My Metrocard, Le Tigre; I'm Beautiful, Bette Midler; The Sailor Song, Toybox; Girl Don't Come, Garbage; Doctor Jones, Aqua; Better Day, Happy Hardcore; Don't Tell Me, Madonna.)

Yesterday was a Thank You dinner from the marketing and sales department to the Tech department for all the work we have done on a project for one of our clients. We received invitations via company email, so the dinner could be placed directly into our schedules. I was looking forward to it, until I realized -- I was only listed as an "Optional" attendee. Optional. Apparently it is not felt that I did enough work on this project to warrant being Thanked for it, despite creating pages, fine-tuning forms, and taking part in Usability studies. I decided that I would rather dig out my left eye with a citrus reamer than go to the dinner -- especially after my boss asked me if I was going, I said yes, and then ten minutes later he asked again, as if to say, "Are you sure?"

So. I was feeling a little underappreciated. Then, I got the following in the mail today. It was a cover letter accompanying an HTML/CSS/web programmey reference card I ordered last week. I cannot help but be a little more enthusiastic about my job this morning -- at least someone appreciates me.

Dear Customer,

Thank you! What an incomparable joy to have the honor of your business. I hope you're pleased with these tools and find them useful in your work. VisiBone is a small company, about as small as you can imagine, dedicated to visualization technology for web designers, online and in print. There are now reference cards, charts, foldouts and mouse pads for web design color, HTML, and JavaScript.

I cannot imagine what wonders you will create on the web, what new forms of online usefulness you will define, what bright visions you will arrest into pixels.

The tools and technologies available for this job are numbingly, embarrassingly difficult. The design software, the formatting standards, the codes and symbols. Using them is like building a ship in a bottle with buttery boxing gloves. In brave spite of this, you're going to construct some stunning online material.

I want to help. I want to expose structure and pattern, diagram intricacies and boundaries. I want to portray the mental models that one pieces together from twisted scraps on the hard embattled road to expertise. I love untangling order out of practical chaos and serving it up for your intuition. Like a nurse to a surgeon, I want to assist you, arranging the facts and figures and forgettable arcana, placing them at mental fingertip reach.

As you create and invent and heroically wrestle electronic civilization into being, I hope you'll find the things I'll be making useful. I also hope you'll think of them as honor and tribute to what you will do. I'd like to hear what you end up doing, and what you dream you could be doing.

Drop me a line and let me know what's on your mind.

Bob Stein, VisiBone.

(emphasis added)

I doubt that commentary on this letter is even necessary -- I will just say this: I freaking LOVE this guy! "I cannot imagine what bright visions you will arrest into pixels" ?!? Oh. Yes. Neither can I, Bob Stein of Visibone. Neither can I.

I am sure you have seen the commercials. Siegfried and Roy in a 7-11, microwaving a hot dog. Little Richard bowling. And someone on their cell, photographing the incident with their magical photo-phone and sending the evidence to their disbelieving friend on the other end of the line.

Yesterday was my moment to wish for a photographone. I was smoking a cigarette and talking to StyleGirl in an attempt to alleviate the boredom of my day, when they walked by. A dozen young men in hot pink spandex bodysuits and matching hats. They wore harnesses (also hot pink) over their shoulders, each of which held a laptop suspended in front of their shiny hot pink chests. "Come see the latest Intel Something-Or-Other In Action!" they cried, their clarion call echoing down the canyons of midtown side streets.

My jaw dropped open as I murmured, "Oh. My. God." into my phone. "You're not going to believe this."

Me:

Me After Straightening My Hair Last Night:

It is still such a novel experience for me, to be madly in love with someone who returns the sentiment.

Actually, scratch that. The times when someone has not reciprocated, when what I thought of as "love" was not shared (see the beginnings of this diary for a somewhat-less-than-charming account of this phenomenon) -- it could hardly be called being "madly in love" on my part. It was a convenient label to put on things at the time, certainly, and one that explained my mopey demeanor.

The other times when someone and I have said "I love you" with equal fervor and candor are a different experience as well -- this does not diminish those times at all, as I think it is only because I have had that already that allows me to take part in this new sensation.

Now, it feels like every time I say "I love you," and he looks back and says "I love you," each feeds off the other and gets stronger and my heart just fills my chest and my breath just catches in my throat so I have to blink and look away to make my lungs work again. And somehow, despite this haze of boy that consumes my brain, I did not even find out his favorite color until yesterday.

Good lord, I am full.

I just ate what may be considered a trough of Beef Stew, plus approximately ninety-eight rolls or other types of bread, and no less than six pats of butter.

I feel sluggish and lethargic. And round. Very, very round.

For some reason, Little Owl and I decided to go to our usual lunch spot today -- which just happens to double as an Irish pub. Silly us. Our waitress had sparkly green gems glued to her forehead, and the hostess asked why I did not dye my mohawk green. I allowed that I might be dyeing it green for this evening, which seemed to satisfy her.

Speaking of this evening, it contains another show by our resident red-headed songstress, The Shiv. Extra-special hip-hip-hooray to her and her Very Irish Birthday!

In other news, I am SO full, Oh My God.

Usually I despise Times Square, just on principle. It is the not-so-secret headquarters of every tourist who ever walked very slowly down a street in New York. It is overpriced and busy and crowded and obnoxious.

Today, however, as I decided that if I did not get some new music I would, in fact, be killing myself by teatime, I had to venture north to a Virgin Megastore to pick myself up a little something. I had originally intended to buy a Eurovision compilation, as I have just learned of the existence of this very exciting contest celebrating all things Bubblegum Europop. Sadly, even Virgin did not have a copy on hand, but happily, Happy Hardcore has a brand-spankin'-new album out: Happy 2B Hardcore, Volume 7, A New Beginning. Oh, oh, oh yes. And plus the Thoroughly Modern Millie cast recording. That Sutton Foster is such a cutie-pie-face.

Anyhow. Times Square did not make me want to scrape off my face with a rusty fork today. Despite having to force my way through a very tightly packed crowd of people screaming "Hogan! Hogan! Hogan!" around a line of limousines outside the ESPNZone restaurant twice (there and back again), the sunshine let me ignore them all. Plus, the girl at the check-out register smiled at me, and then while I was signing my receipt she told me that my bent-antique-fork-ring-from-Portobello-Road was gorgeous. And a guy on the street stopped me to tell me that my hair is "fuckin' bad-ass." And I saw my very first in-person Segway, that lovely little Human Transporter that I so covet, as I do with most things ridiculously technological. Some guy was just tooling down the sidewalk on one, and it really looked like a lot of fun.

Then we got to the mob of Hoganites, and as there was absolutely z-e-r-o room to get by, he just kind of had to stand there, balancing, for a minute, and then decided to go all the way around the block. Despite the fact that I'm rather fond of the Segway, this really made me laugh. What good are your fancy-schmancy gyro-stabilizers going to do now, Mr. Richy Segwaypants?

Now, if you will excuse me. I have some Happy Hardcore to pour deep into my ears -- Good thing my boss does not mind me having aural sex at my desk.

Because I am obsessed with my own hair, I hereby take the opportunity to subject you to it as well.

Image 1: A front view. I am drinking scotch and oh-so-slightly raising an eyebrow at the camera. Note one of my many shirts recently purchased at Express.
(image 1 courtesy of the incomparable Little Owl.)

Image 2: A side view. I am enjoying a cigarette in a public place while I still can. The hair now appears much longer, due to the straightening-episode of last week. Also, imagine the very front fanning straight forward, much like a cockatoo.
(image 2 courtesy of the magnanimous and lovely Little Owl.)

Image 3: A cockatoo.
(image 3 courtesy of a cockatoo.)

Last night, towards the end of my work day, I fell victim to a Major Industrial-Strength Freakout. Short of breath, shaky, wild-eyed, panicked Freakout.

A few contributing factors: some major issues going on with my mom and her job and how I think she should tell the fuckers that she works for to fuck off, and her deciding to be scared and safe instead; the people at my work driving me to distraction, as they refuse to realize the fact that I have responsibility for the look and feel of the entire website, and not just the tiny corner that each developer oversees, and as such do not necessarily have time to make every tiny change every person wants at the exact moment they want it; and being greeted, upon leaving my office, by screaming protesters and rows after row of cops with riot gear and big armored trucks up and down Times Square.

I use these examples as excuses, to explain why I was smashed into the emotional mud by the most absurd, irrational, ridiculous surge of jealousy I have ever experienced. Regarding the Boy, of course, and my friend J, deciding that as both of them need apartments, that they may as well get an apartment together. I still maintain that I do not know why this struck me as hard as it did, but I suddenly had images in my head of J conniving with all of my other friends to make the Boy hate me, and the Boy trying to figure out how to seduce J, and a whole passel of other unpleasant self-deprecatory images.

Glorious, wonderful, saintly Little Owl helped talk me down, although when the two of us met Shiv and J for drinks shortly thereafter, I was still seized by an almost-irresistable urge to punch that hypocritical insincere bastard in his smug little face.

I was very aware at the time that I was being completely utterly ridiculous and I did not actually believe any of the things I was thinking (and did not actually think that J was a hypocritical insincere bastard with a smug little face, for the record), but they still made my stomach knot up and my heart palpitate. So I decided that something needed to happen to expiate the absurd amounts of tension I was carrying around. Something dramatic and impetuous --

So I got my tongue pierced.

Re-pierced, actually, as I had it done a few years ago and took it out after a year when I got bored with it -- in fact, I think that Zona may be the only person I know now who saw it the first time 'round. Fortunately, as soon as I had it done -- the tension was g-o-n-e. And I was able to dance around in the rain and drink some whiskey. And pretend that I am Hard Core. (ha ha ha!!)

And they all lived happily ever after.

For the record, right now I am ecstatic.

A brief summary of my Saturday activities follows. It is only a brief summary because I have told the story in person so many times, I do not think I can bring myself to go into full detail in print.

Basically, as a result of participating in the anti-war protest/march down Manhattan on Saturday, I was almost arrested twice, one instance of which actually included me running away from police, and calling my roommate ArtStudent to tell her that if she did not hear from me for a while, she should start checking into how to bail people out of jail. The best part is that I had already left the march and was just going to meet some friends for pizza (honest, officer!), and apparently got caught in the middle of some very silly people deciding to run up and down the side streets off Broadway, where the cops had very nicely asked everyone to not go. But when a mob of people in masks comes running up a street at you, screaming "Run! Run! They're picking up stragglers!!!" and you see cops sprinting down the street and motorcycles with sirens blaring chasing people, well. You run. I am intensely amused that everyone who heard about my possible incarceration reacted with incredulity ("Ful?!? No, not FUL. He's too harmless to get arrested."), and the statement that all I'd have to do is smile at the cops and they'd let me go.

(Also, for the record, I would like to say that while I do not think any of the anti-war protests are going to have the slightest effect in government policy -- I mean, they did absolutely no good beforehand, why should during be any different? -- I think it is still incumbent upon the people who disagree with these actions to make their feelings known. Anything else is implicit approval. "Dissent without resistance is consent.")

Anyhow. After losing the fuzz, I had a truly amazing meal at Mario Batali's new pizza place, Otto, and I do not think I can adequately explain how truly inspired this place is. Appetizer of three cheeses (chunks of gorgonzola, parmesan, and taleggio) served with cheese-condiments (bitter marmalade, cherries soaked in brandy, and black truffle honey). Porcini, artichoke, prosciutto, and Swiss chard pizza. And French Vanilla gelato with blood orange slices, olive oil, and a sprinkling of sea salt. Plus a double espresso and a few glasses of wine. Yes.

Also seen at the march: Signs hoisted by the Glamericans, trimmed in faux-fur and glitter, with inspirational phrases such as "Peace is the New Black," "Foreplay, Not Warplay," and "Makeup, Not War." The "Tranny Brigade" also made an appearance, singing slogans such as "We're sexy, we're cute! And anti-war to boot!" Bring It On references will always win my love and admiration.

Seen on the streets of midtown today: Some intensely hot rockstar wearing low-slung boot-cut jeans, a french-cuff tuxedo shirt, a cockatoo mohawk, and aviator glasses. Oh wait! That was me!

Received a few moments ago: An anonymous email from an anonymous coworker telling me to cut out the foot-tapping already.

So, you know how there are certain things you just never think you are going to hear? Something that you never ever expect someone to say to you? Right. I heard one of those things last night. Had I actually pondered this earlier, this thing I heard may well have been in the top five things I never would have thought I would ever hear.

*ring ring* (Or, more appropriately, *buzzzz buzzzz*, as it was an incoming call on my vibrating cellphone.) Oh, look, Boy is calling!

"Hello!"

"So I told the Olsen Twins all about you today."

The. Olsen. Twins.

Apparently they came into his restaurant. They were chatty, he was chatty, they asked if he was seeing anyone. When he said yes, they asked what she was like, and he said, "Oh, she's about 6'2", has blue eyes, a mohawk, and is a boy." They gave him some variation on the "Ohh, you're a cute gay boy and we get to flirt with you now!" routine, which apparently their mother disapproved of.

The important thing to take away from this, however, is that somehow, the OLSEN TWINS have had a discussion about ME, which I find both irretrievably strange, and so completely unexpected as to have never once registered as a blip on my Radar of the Possible.

Also, when they release "Mary-Kate and Ashley Go To Fire Island" next year, you will know that the tall blue-eyed guy with a mohawk is totally based on me.

So this weekend I ended up painting my bedroom.

It is now Dill Pickle colored, which, I must admit, looks fucking stellar with the deep red theme I already had going. And no, it is not red-and-green in the Christmassy way. It is deep royal red and pale creamy green in the god-damn-that-is-hot way.

Also occurring this weekend: a birthday party at which I drank a margarita, two vodka-tonics, and a shot of tequila, which under normal circumstances would have hardly made me tipsy (as I am a pretty big guy). However, I forgot to eat any, you know, FOOD that entire day, so when I got home I collapsed on my bed in a sleepy sleepy heap. Apparently I was so far out, I did not say anything to my boy when he tried to climb into bed with me, and so he thought I had gotten very angry with him about something he said in the car ride home, and was therefore giving him the Silent Treatment. I did not properly wake up until an hour later when StyleGirl was shoving me, trying to make me acknowledge the fact that my boy was downstairs, very upset, and about to take a cab back to Queens. Downstairs still felt like a very long way away, so I called his cell phone from my cell phone, repeatedly, until he came back upstairs and I could profusely apologize and ask him to please please crawl back under the covers. And then he did, and everything was fine again -- but for a few minutes I was in an utter panic that forgetting to eat my dinner had ruined my whole life.