Saturday, October 29, 2005

" hiraku sulu is gay "



george takei is gay!!! yay!

Virus effect on Sulu

and isn't it about time? even in the best star trek movie (star trek IV: The Voyage Home), who can ever forget when they're entering orbit around the greater bay area, and sulu waxes poetic about san francisco being his hometown. that's so rad.

George Takei

i always thought that sulu had a whimsical smirk on his face. it's because he knew he was so hot on the series, and he most likely was james-t-kirk-ing all of the space mens on all of the intergalactic worlds. which is fine.

George Takei

and so what if he's gay. it just goes to prove that intergalactic space love is just as diverse as terran love, and that ain't bad.

Sulu on the Bridge

so let's put in the dvd special edition of ST:IV, and let our memories frolic down to the castro.


Tuesday, October 25, 2005

" blog spam?? "


i mean, i know that my blog isn't the greatest thing to ever hit the blogsphere, but c'mon you crazy people!!!

it takes a bold sort of uberdork with more than absolutely nothing to do whatsoever, to find out my blog's addy, and then post a fake comment advertising some sort of crappier blog within my already not-readership-prone.

this rampant and recent turn of events has both wasted my time and added another level of blah to the already threadbare commentry.

so hey, strangers and anonymous-ers, please stop making my small corner of online sanity worse by posting links to your blog on cowbells and nasal hair clippers. i just don't have the time, sir.

if for some reason, you do feel the inclination to comment, make it personal, or pertinent, or valid, and leave your name so i know who to blogspam later on if you're just a heartless bot trying to make me crazy; the fact that i blogged this entry in of itself being the keystone to my eventual downward spiral into technological madness.


Sunday, October 23, 2005

" please do not steal my random scene "




The couple is hanging out in his apt. lazing the afternoon away.


Can you feel this?




What do you think about it?




What do you mean normal?


What do you mean, “what do you mean normal?”


I mean, what do you feel? Is it soft, is it strange, is it odd, is it nice, is it real to you?


It’s real. And it’s nice. And it feels, pleasant. Like flipping through pages of a book, or breathing deeply inside an open space; fresh, constant, delivering.


Delivering what?


Delivering you, to me, now, here.




Yeah. It feels private, and intimate.

The sunlight hits the floor and grazes their feet.


I wish every moment of every day could be this defined.



I know what we can do today; we can give you a manicure.



We need hobbies.


Sunday, October 09, 2005

" essence of albany "


fits of momentary nostalgia:

choosing gordo's or zachary's

is it albany or berkeley, this part of solano ave?

neighbors and how it's possible to have them without distinct neighborhoods

do i hate this place or miss it, from 4000+ miles away?

becca's kitchen with beer and jazz; her parents smiling and passive-aggressively arguing over a spread of delicious foods

jamming with dylan even though it was in berkeley and getting sandwiches half-way through or hitting up the thai temple and then the ashby flea market for gold posing as choice junk

the shitty construct that is the new high school, and hating it still, even though i'm well out of high school now and shouldn't care but still do because it's ugly as shit

seeing my house on google earth, and wondering where my car's gone/been

those soccer uniforms of blue and yellow mesh back in the day which were interchangable; orange slices at halftime

playing my guitar even though i suck

my basement makeshift rad super darkroom

the constant groupings of pubescent snots at the seb-leb (7-11)

free movies at the albany twin

zarry's sandwiches with extra pickles

east bay trail behind the train tracks and through the costco entrance to point richmond

friends that understand why we love albany

if you pronounce it "all-bany" or "al-bany," and what that means in terms of location of origin

policeman trading cards

the humid smelly indoor public swimming pool

mary and joe's sporting goods

children center day-care

the village

making plans to go to tilden park for a hike, but ending up drunk at cougar field

not big enough for a BART stop, but not small enough to be considered a boon-dock rural town due to geographic location even when taking into account the square-mile aspect

the border of albany and berkeley at safeway's and how nobody cares except the berkeley half

asian mall and how it's somehow considered richmond (???)

the dive bars and when did they become hip...i.e.-ivy room, hotsy totsy, and club mallard, and why does everyone want to drink on san pablo when they can get a guiness and play chess at THE PUB?

knowing the difference between the old cool albany library and the ugly salmon-pink vomit posing as art deco architecture

dance nights at montero's and world music at ashkenahs

magnificent marin, corny cornell, and how no one really cared about the kids from vista

home, and where the heart is, no matter how fleeting or (inter)national

big up tiny town; the list goes ever on...


Monday, October 03, 2005

" makeshift boats "


the night beat its worn fists against the billowing skies as the open humidity permeated below; the thought of puncturing a sack came to mind.

tonight, there was a thrashing; a shower like none other, the low clouds hung heavy with the weight of meteorological arrivals.

the sounding of thunder rang and resonated throughout, like the vibrant clanging of bells from a high tower.

thin flexing shared hopes of remaining dry were lost amidst the guests at dinner; a wet and shared satisfaction of consuming foods while being consumed slowly by weather.

the waters lapped against the sides of out taxi; the machinery confused, as it meandered through the odd tides in the streets.

tiny boys and various people stood on stools against the walls of the buildings; these walls barely covered by the hanging eaves with wide slits in the spread cloth.

in the middle of the intersection, i saw a traffic officer in an orange raincoat; it shimmered bright and elegant against the surrounding vehicles' collective high-beams.

with a whistle clasped tight, his pants were cuffed in a high pleat well above his calves, and his feet were bare in the shallow waters.