Explosivo!

Last night I was sitting at my desk, drinking a glass of water (not alcohol) and catching up on CNN (not porn) when something massive exploded with a loud fucking CRACK on the street outside of my apartment. A flash of white light illuminated my blinds, and then all was silent. I have previously considered myself the type who'd immediately spring into action at the first sign of a gunshot / explosion / danger, but now I know that it takes a good four seconds for me to think of anything more strategic than "what the fuck!". By the time I'd come to my senses and thrown myself behind my bed, I definitely would have been killed... if the explosion had been the first of a series of gunshots aimed at my windows. Luckily, it wasn't, and after a few minutes passed I stepped outside to investigate. All my neighbors were on their porches as well. Word on the street was that dozens of cop cars were dealing with an extension of the emergency two blocks away by Crack Alley (McDonald's). Whatever went down in front of good ole' 931 Fulton last night is classified as: still a mystery.

The Weekend, in 10 Bullets

• Went to Something and watched drag queens act out performance art pieces / dance numbers. 
• Climbed onto a rooftop.
• Got home at 2:15 am, ordered GrubHub.
• Watched Peggy Sue Got Married until 4:15 am, when GrubHub finally showed up. 
• Decided to be all "productive" by going to the hardware store and buying a soap dish. 
• Hooked my friend Joe on LOST (essentially re-hooking myself). 
• Woke up at 10 am Sunday, then fell back asleep and woke up at 1 pm.
• Developed a mid/high-level crush on a robot in Dolores Park. 
• Watched Serial Mom (Kathleen Turner was all over the place this weekend). 
• Stayed up til 3 am for no reason, knowing full well I had work this morning. 

The Master

Bedding

A few days ago I surveyed the items on display in my apartment and realized a good 75% of what I own qualifies as college leftovers. This is all well and good, except I'm nearly a 25-year-old gay man living in San Francisco, and my taste should have evolved since I lunged for the least expensive, pseudo-classy duvet cover I could find at Bed, Bath, and Beyond six years ago. The problem with upgrading, though, is that once one thing is replaced, the rest has to follow. And preferably sooner than later. How many more times is this going to happen? If I buy a new lamp and bedside rug now, will I be keeping them both another six years? What am I going to favor at 31? I'm reminded of that scene from Fight Club where Edward Norton is doing a voiceover and mentions that he flips through IKEA magazines looking for the perfect couch that will both define his personality and last forever. "That's it. That's the last sofa I'm gonna need." Should I be perturbed that certain elements of my life are beginning to mirror the depressing underbelly of Fight Club? I'm voting yes.

Quarter-life Crisis

Last night I had a friend over. He walked in on me aggressively cleaning my b**g, which has more or less sat in a corner collecting dust for the past year. Then I asked for his opinion on a number of changes I was considering for my apartment. Then I told him I wanted to train for, and ride in, the AIDS Life Cycle next year. Finally I brought up my somewhat irrational fear of being fired from my job, and how although on a personal level I wouldn't be crushed, such a development would suck money-wise. When I realized I'd done nothing for 45 minutes but pick apart my life - even though it's actually a really great one - I figured it's because I'm turning 25 and time isn't making any exceptions for me. What is it I really want? Where do I go for it? And how quickly can I make it happen?

The Weekend, in 10 Bullets

• Drank at / groped in the Castro.
• Tried to pass as cool and bro-ish by playing Golden Eye with two straights and a straight gay.
• Stewed over granola as loud Marina trash blathered on and on in Café du Soleil.
• Took my bike for a tune up, ended up with a giant new TV.
• Contemplated a run, then opted for a two-hour “spontaneous” nap.
• Drank at / groped in the Castro.
• Tried to pass as swanky Marina trash as a means of infiltrating their home turf for a badass burger.
• Ogled a 14-foot miniature of Disneyland at the Disney Family Museum.
• Contemplated a run, then opted for a leisurely stroll to the gym.
• Watched Top Secret!

In the Dark it all Feels the Same

Last night the power went down in the massive quadrant between Haight and Divisadero, meaning some 11,000 people were plunged into near-complete dark. I always think I'll be a survivor of the apocalypse until something like this happens. While all the hipsters who were kicked out of the Divisadero art walk and the Independent Theater mulled around, cool, I anxiously biked back to my apartment. "Just 1,100 more feet and I definitely will have made it home without being being run over." Once I'd reached safety, I realized my relaxing night without power wasn't going to be so cushy. A refresher course in what "power outage" actually means: no lights; no internet; no means of ordering food; no means of cooking food; no means of walking anywhere nearby for food. Thank God for the super-gay headlamp my brother's girlfriend recently gifted me. And also for my super-gay purchase of Tina Fey's Bossypants. Together, we whiled away the dark hours.