Affable Omnivorous Gay Male Seeks Shelter

Affable Omnivorous Gay Male Seeks Shelter

My Craigslist Advert Date: 2004-06-16, 2:39PM PDT Hey Y’all, I’m a 27 year-old gay Nor Cal native who has lived in SF for the past 3.5 years. I’m looking to move into a place mid-July – beginning of August. I'm willing to spend 500-700 clams for a room; more coin if the place is truly worth it. I want the place, as cliché as it sounds, to be home sweet home. During the weekdays I work as an Intellectual Property Paralegal for a multimedia company in the Mission. (Feel free to ask me about it because it is quite interesting. The 3 P’s: Peer2Peer, Porn and Politics.) At night I can be found at SFSU finishing up their Creative Writing program. Each semester is different so my schedule changes. The weekends I chill out with friends or go on road trips. I’m affable and easy to get along with. I don’t do the passive-aggressive thing, so you won’t see notes tagged up on the fridge or a list of everything you do that drives me crazy (we’ve all been there haven’t we?) Any challenges that arise I feel should be nipped in the bud before they become unmanageable. I like to keep common areas clean and I don’t freak out if there’s a glass in the sink. I’m looking for roommate(s) that feel the same. I don’t drink or swear or rat my hair... Actually I don’t smoke or do drugs though I do have the occasional libation. I eat meat and it doesn’t bother me if you happen to be Vegan or Vegetarian. It’s all good in my book. 420 friendly, but I don’t smoke. Having a rather irreverent sense of humor sets me apart from most everyone else you’ll meet. I’m a cross between Harold from “Harold and Maude” and Enid from “Ghost World” Everyday I choose a Daily Hero to obsess over (though my obsession is quite mild and almost apathetic— “I’m obsessed with _______” and that’s usually where it ends.) I’m a hopeless blogger. I’m a hopeless jogger. I’m just an ogger. I have to mention as part of my parole— just kidding. I’ve never been incarcerated or for that matter have yet to do anything worthy of being incarcerated for. I am toting a pet. She lives in a cage, is quiet and well mannered and exclusively will stay in my room. I like dogs, cats, birds and exotics. As I mentioned, I work in the Mission. I’d like to find some place close enough to work but far enough away. Ideal neighborhoods for me are Castro/Upper Market, Noe Valley, Ashbury Terrace/Cole Valley, Buena Vista Park, the Haight, and the Panhandle. I’d go to Pacific Heights, Russian Hill or Nob Hill if the place was just right—and there’s street parking. I own a small pickup and I’m not getting rid of it any time soon. I encourage questions so please feel free to ask. Thanks! PS: While I'm articulate, I generally don't talk as much as I write unless I've eatten some kiddie cocaine AKA sugar; which would make me a lot like Chrissy from "Pecker"

Neener-neener

I noticed on my sales receipt from Pac Sun that I purchased a $19 T-shirt and never received it. There was a two T-shirt deal for $25 that I was taking advantage of. However of the two shirts I picked out, one was not on sale and it was $19. So the counter person rang it up, told me about the price and asked if I wanted to pick out a new shirt. I said yes, thinking he was going to take the shirt off my bill… It took me 10 days to get back down to Pac Sun and when I explained my situation to the manager, who was younger than me, she said, “I’ll do this for you this once.” All I could do was smile and think, “You’ll do this for me every time I ask. I’m the customer and you HAVE to make me happy. Neener-neener.”

I’ll take part of what I wrote yesterday back

I’ll take part of what I wrote yesterday back. Walking to the Mission can be as interesting as listening to the junkies on the bus. Amazingly at 8:30 this morning above the BART station at 16th Street, the Mission had its very own cantor. Wide wild eyes, she was belting out the crazy at the top of her lungs. Heavy pendulous breast hung down her rather plump front side. Her breasts parted as she sucked in the air for her next bar of verse. She started stomping to her incantation and people on the pedestrian portion of their commutes tried to stay at a comfortable distance. I however am not like other people and I proceeded right up next to her at the corner. She threw her head towards me, her eyes a big as moons, “Don’t you know! Don’t you know! Don’t you know!” she wailed as the chorus. Looking into those eyes I said, “I do.” She stomped her feet five times and breathed in a bottomless breath. I however had to cross the street and left her there as she serenaded me with “He knows! He knows! He knows!”

Food Induced Stupor

I woke up this morning in a kind of food induced stupor. Usually stupors are reserved for nights of beved out bliss but not last night as I binged on sushi, teriyaki and miso soup right before bedtime. Jim had kindly purchased the take out and brought it to me as I was finishing up watching Cassie and Stewie. Miso might as well be called mescaline if eaten so close to bedtime. My night was interrupted by out of this world dreams and obviously nightmares (read below.) One of the cats woke me up with a mew. Turning over to get into a more comfortable position on the king sized bed I saw a rather non-descript woman standing before me. I got up (in the dream of course.) She was showing me around a Pacific Heights home. She was trying to persuade me into staying there while she was away in New York City on extended business. While leading me through the living room—her husband came home. I didn’t look at him as he entered the room but felt his presence. When I turned to see him, I was embarrassed because I had been having torrid fuck-fest with this man for the past few weeks. I didn’t know he was married and I didn’t really care to know. He was just an anonymous John—though not that anonymous as in my dream he turned out to be… Gavin Newsom (but better looking.) I said hello and followed his wife to the bedrooms. She had to take a phone call and while I was checking out the master bathroom he walked in and cornered me. He jumped my bones and I let him. I must be hard up. He explained to me how his wife was leaving but he'd be staying. I had to call the whole thing off. Imagine if the papers found out. I didn't need to be a San Francisco version of Monica Lewinsky.

I’ve got to admit

I’ve got to admit— when I don’t ride the bus in the morning I’m kind of sad. Walking to work lacks color. Today I counted how many people I saw driving while talking on cellular phones. The total count: 46 in 15 blocks. Listening to the junkies is a lot more fun. One of the other drags of walking to work is all the human shit I come across. Especially on the street I work on. I guess Capp really is one of the Mission's toilets. The corner of 17th and Capp with its piles of shit, Burger King® wrappers sticking out of ‘em, a hoard of flies, is one of the worse locations. If you haven’t read Fast Food Nation, then the site of a shit burger with flies is enough to keep you away from any fast food joint.

Out On A Jog

The fog was extremely thick this morning. I got a leash on Stewie and decided that we should go out for a jog. I’m currently fighting an extra 17 pounds of winter weight that I’m positive is one of the reasons my back has been aching recently. We started out by the golf course in the neighborhood I’m house-sitting in. It seems no one leashes their dogs. While heading down one street a cocker spaniel started to run after us. When we rounded the corner a German shepherd bounded out of his drive way. Stewie froze while I started sprinting, dragging his little ass behind me. When I rounded the corner the German shepherd handed the baton off to a mutt. It was like a doggie relay race. I finally out ran the dogs— Stewie was beside himself. I guess I’ll jog alone tomorrow.

Misty

Misty the dog peeked into the TV room while I was winding down this evening. She spends almost every moment in the office closet. I gather she’s around 8 years old. Originally from Costa Rica where the locales used to shoot her full of bullets as a sort of sport, my friends Alex and Charles rescued her when they lived there. One ear is cocked crooked. Her eyes dart back and forth—treading out of the safety space is a big deal. She looked over at me, but I was told not to stare because it makes her nervous. I kicked back on the sofa and flipped the television channels. She took a few steps into the room and then turned around and left. Progress. Five minutes later she was back at the door. By this time I had curled up with some pillows. She checked behind her and then walked up to the couch. She jumped up and walked over—never making eye contact and put her front paws on my lap. I extended my hand slowly. She sniffed it, her eyes darting back and forth to see who or what if anything was in the room. I placed my hand on her head, slowly petting her. She adjusted herself. I traced her scars with my fingers. All I could think is how unbelievably cruel people can be. I spoke tenderly, “You’re such a good girl Misty. Good girl.” Misty began to soften although her hypersensitivity was still full on. She licked her lips a bit and edged herself even closer to me. Looking across the room to the door she decided to lay down. I ran my hand down the length of her body. Upon reaching her back thigh she lifted it up for me to pet her belly. I felt honored.

The Holy Shrine of OD Trick

Picture it: (A la Sophia Petrillo from Golden Girls) Several lit Catholic votive pillar candles adding a soft glow to the bathroom. Surrounding them are little stuffed animals tied with ribbons, vases of flowers and a hand drawn card in crayon made by me. All of this in the bathroom where the trick had OD’d. The bathroom is now a shrine! Feel free to come over and weep there to annoy the fuck out of my unemployed roommate!

On the 33

We all know or have seen this type of person. He wakes up in the morning and has a cigarette before even getting out of bed. On the way to the bathroom she has another cigarette before peeing. He smokes a cig in the shower. She smokes while doing her hair. He smokes while eating cereal. She smokes while drinking orange juice. By the time he or she gets on the bus, they’ve had three thousand morning cigarettes. The stench of smoke actually flakes off these people. Well this morning, she got on the bus. A junkie from the rehab place (no judgments—seriously.) She proceeded to shut all the windows as she ambled to the back to stake her seat claim. She approached the four seat area I was in and stopped to shut my window. Her smoke detritus crumbled onto my shoes. “Stop.” She looked at me with a don’t-talk-to-me glare. “Don’t shut that window,” I said. “I’m cold.” I added “and you stink.” She went to close the window. “Stop.” She glared again at me. “Go sit in the front where you already shut the windows.” “Don’t tell me where to sit.” “Don’t shut the window.” These bus battles are so silly. “Don’t tell me what to do.” “If I were to tell you what to do, I say ‘jump off a bridge.’ Just don’t shut the window.” She acquiesced. I’m an asshole before I have any caffeine in the morning.

Two-Thumbs Up Sign™

Strolling up the street to take care of the green boogered Cassie (she’s got a respiratory infection) this guy gave me the Two-Thumbs Up Sign™. I was confused. Was he commenting on my choice of clothing: boot cut jeans, my trademark Hurley® sweatshirt, and sweat stained baseball cap? Could he hear the music I was listening to on my mp3 player? I didn’t know Lucia Pamela was well known. Did he know that I went and saw Saved! Tuesday evening? I guess I’ll never know. *** Cassie thought it would be cool to rub her flo-green boogies on me. It was pretty vile. She had green stained legs from where it had dripped. Dogs with infections are not pretty. She definitely was not having a Pretty Princess Day. I decided that I should give her some percussion so I tapped her back all the while she coughed up phlegm. I felt just like Donna Reed, only I have a penis. (It’s true, I do, I do.) After awhile I put Cassie to bed and then washed Jim’s dishes which obviously had been piling up for two weeks. There was mold in some dishes. Ewww. But I jumped head first into the chore, basically rewarding myself with eating a half package of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough.

Lunch With BOS

Steve (BOS) from Boston met up with me for lunch. I took him to Pancho Villas on 16th Street for a burrito. He was quite lucky to visit on such a day as all my favorite cracked out peeps were on the street. We sat and I pointed out the guy behind BOS had dined at the pizza sliciery with me the other day when the dancing Juniata performed. Coincidentally one of my coworkers was sitting behind him as well. I waved to Charls who waved back at us and BOS did a few double takes which I feared might have made Charls feel like we were chatting about him. But we weren’t. Look what I’m doing now: Charls you’re in a blog entry! Anyway, two Mariachis were performing and we wanted to inquire as to whether or not they knew some Titney Spears. I wanted BOS to feel at home and one of his co-workers listens to Titney often. They did not know any pop music, their loss. After their performance one walked around with his hat looking for tips. These situations can be awkward. However having been to both Little League games and Churches where money is collected in the same way, I’m quite comfortable with not giving. Does this make me a bad person? Most certainly it does. But if they don’t know any Titney Spears—no tip for them! :P Lunch was good and BOS walked me back to my office building. Fortunately for us, when we turned the corner of 17th Street onto Capp, kneeling in the gutter a cracked out chick was curling her eyelashes in the side view mirror of a trashed out coupe. These moments are priceless.

Is It Ready?

While eating lunch at one of my favorite pizza-sliceries a woman, plump as Violet Beauregarde after eating the “by gum it’s gum” meal, rolled in. She ordered up her slice and then paced back and forth down the narrow room. She leaned up against the counter and in a jovial tone asked, “Is it done yet?” “No,” was the reply. She smiled and pace back and forth again only to lean up against the counter and ask, “Is it done yet?” “No,” was the reply. She didn’t seem to get discouraged. Up and down the room she went five times. Pausing at the counter she said, “Is it done yet?” “No,” was the reply. “Can you cut it up into small pieces” she beamed. “OK.” Again she returned to pacing, this time humming softly to herself. It was an obviously made up little ditty having to do with cheese and sauce. She skipped, or rather, moved oddly back up to the counter and sang, “I’m here to pick up a slice for me, Juanita! Is it ready?” “No,” was the reply. She turned around smiling and did a little dance. One-two-three-shake-that-bootie-one-two-three-shake-that-bootie-one-two-three. She stopped at the open door and threw an arm up to one side and then the other. While bending her knees she wiggled her butt. The performance was amazing—something one would have seen a tight rope walker do on “Circus of the Stars.” She obviously had been practicing. She did a back flip. Ok she really didn’t do a back flip but if her desire was great enough—I’m sure she could have pulled it off. Back to the counter she went. “I ordered a slice for me, Juanita! Cut up real small. Is it ready?” “Yessss” the counterman hissed. “Yay!” She was overjoyed and started clapping. I started clapping too. She got her slice and danced out the door. I kept clapping.

He Jumped :^(

My boss left in a hurry. A call from his dog walker prompted him to rush home. It seems his dog Jackson was no where to be found in the house. Jackson the Akita mix was missing. There are very few times I’ve ever heard my boss’ voice shaken, but this was one of them. He often referred to Jackson as his “boy”, more a confidant than an animal. His dog definitely meant the world to him. I did not hear back from my boss today. Instead the vice-president stood in the doorway of his office with a look of complete consternation. I took off my headphones. “What’s the matter?” “Jackson’s dead.” “How?” “He jumped out the window.” This did not surprise me. Jackson was a bit neurotic and had precariously balanced himself on the window ledge a few months earlier. It’s easy to joke his dog was suicidal, but I would have never thought this would have happened.

While at Burger King

I broke down went to Burger King. Fast food is a horrible institution but I had the jones for a Whopper® with cheese. It’s one of those unmistakable cravings, like when you want to go out and stab someone (kiddin’!) Anyway, I ordered up my slab of meet and cheese (no onions) with little drama. Sitting at the counter that faces 16th Street I stared out at the droves of people. A voice rang out in the “restaurant.” “Do yo’ think I’m not intelligent?” I looked over my right shoulder and saw a woman. She had on a t-shirt and jeans and some faux looking fur boots. Fur boots on a warm spring day—no doubt a fashion statement. “I don’t wanna know what yo’re selling” she said looking out the door. “Do yo’ think I’m not intelligent?” Usually when someone has to say that it does indeed mean they aren’t intelligent. Regardless I was amused by this woman and continued to watch. A homeless man walked in. “I don’t give money to peoples. I’m not saying yo’ gots a habit, but I don’t give money to no ones. I’m not saying yo’ gots a habit, but I don’t give money to no ones” she kept repeating herself. “I’ll buy yo’re food but I won’t give yo’ no money. I’m here to feed people’s souls, not der habits. I’m not saying yo’ gots a habit. I just feed people’s souls.” It was the way she said it, with such conviction like Burger King® was Holy Communion™. The Whopper® was the key to restoring this person’s life. Was Coke® the Blood of Christ™? “Nows tell da lady what yo’ want.” The man began to speak and the woman cut him off “she don’t wanna here your story. Just tell her what you want!” “Number One. No onions.” Obviously a man after my own jones.