Let's see, two nights ago, I was standed up for the Kaiju Big Battel by BtheBBT, his little brother who looks just like him and a girl named S*r*h. As he said on his phone message to me, "so your name is on the guest list, and we'll be there around 8.45; I'm about five-eight with short brown hair and glasses." Have any of you actually been to B*st*n? You can't fart without knocking down twenty people who match that description, particularly if you're standing in front of a sci-fi-orientalist-kitsch event with your trousers cuffed, picking at your Morrissey badges.
Last night: Cards and drinks with some very nice young heterosexual gentlemen and LJT. They were so unreclaimed; get this -- they had almost-naked ladies on their fridge, clipped from "men's magazines," and their throw pillows were Red-Sox-themed. I felt like I should be wearing a pith helmet, taking notes. I no longer assume that the frat-boy type is homophobic, as I once did: a few Thursday nights at ManRay taught me the fine line between man-love and man-hate. Hell, one of these guys was even wearing an *b*rcr*mb** shirt. My encounters with this particular unquestioned and "authentic" gender-identity look rather like an arctic seal and an okapi sniffing one another mystifi�dly. Non-intellectual straight men are my noble savages, huge and gentle as mastodons, so unafraid of anything. *Shrug*.
Music: More Purcell odes for St. Cecilia, b/w the 1695 birthday ode for the DoG.
Work continues to bite my ass like a flea doing an impression of Edith Massey in Desperate Living. At the moment, I have two trophies on the shelf over my desk: "Least Productive" and "Most Likely to Cry to get what I want" -- the good news (we hope?) is that they (so far) want to humor me. My department hath attracted Management's eyes: we are now a pet-project (I suppose rightly so, but I would rather have lain under th duvet of comfortable obscurity a little longer). Please -- o, please! -- stay tuned for more post-Dilbertian mayhem as Tech Support enters the New Millenium [sic]. [This {sic} brought to you by one of our club treasurers. "No, only one 'N'," she says. "You know that's, ah, incorrect?" "Yes. But that's how we want it spelled."]
Did you know that Doris Day had been offered the r�le of Mrs. Robinson in the Graduate, but turned it down?