Why is it that I am totally incapable of conducting an astute and cogent interview? I’ve done dozens of them by now, but each time I feel like some blathering idiot that’s wasting both my time and the time of the interviewee…

I wish we could all just admit that the whole hiring process is, in most cases, a crapshoot when I’m involved. I am hopeless trying to screen via resumes. I’m more impressed by a PDF resume and neat formatting (and good prose) than actual experiences. The truth is, I’m more likely to want to just play with the boss’s money and let it be trial by fire. The bottom line: if I’m interviewing you, just nod, smile, and take it for granted that, more likely than not, I’m dumber than you and a roll of the dice is as likely to determine your fate as my interview is…

That said, the weather has been much more pleasant lately than usual. Chilly foggy mornings all week long, but these damn hot weekends are getting on my nerves… It’s like the City is saying “you can’t go to work and take refuge in the air-conditioned office, so I’m gonna make you sweat sweat sweat…”

And why is it that I can only seem to update on Thursdays lately?

Not that anyone is actually reading this anymore, but I just wanted to advertize my upcoming birthday. #27 on the list.

You should definitely go here if you’re feeling generous. Of course, cash is always acceptable as well.

Those who have nothing better to do with their Friday night (the 25th) should crash my get-together at the Tonga Room. Feel free to show up fashionably late for mixers, just in case the dining room is crowded for the coming Pride Weekend/Month/Year. My actual birthday will not be until the 30th, but that night is already taken by my hubby.

I admit that I dabbled in drugs, and was a bit of an alcoholic during an especially low part of my life a few years back (it’s anyone’s guess whether the alcohol led to the low point or vice-versa).

Throughout my teens, and again these days, I’ve tended to be rather critical of those who use drugs or (excessive amounts of) alcohol recreationally. I’ve often felt that the legal stuff like alcohol was OK in moderation, and that these days I could enjoy a drink without feeling it a contradiction.

However, I have noticed that in the past couple weeks I’ve been drinking more than usual. Not excessively, at least not to the point where I’m swaying and incoherent from it. But I’ve been having a drink or two every night for more than a couple weeks. It wasn’t a conscious decision, and I couldn’t tell you exactly why it started.

This particular contradiction needs to be removed from my life. I’m not saying I’m going to suddenly become a ‘recoverer’ or a campaigner to ban or villify drug and alcohol use. I’m just saying that I’m done hacking my brain.

I woke up from my first post-apocalyptic dream. It was the 11th of sometime, and by nightfall, the bombs had started falling. Everyone around me was from work or casual acquaintance, and none of the people that mattered could be found. The City had fractured into warring clans, each trying to proclaim itself the foreign offices of France (the Transamerica clan), Germany (the Marriott clan), Zaire (the Gap clan), or any other socialist dictatorship on the menu.

I stayed at work until the morning, wishing I had my husband to hold, hovering over the techies hoping someone could find a way to connect to something - to get news, to communicate with the outside. By morning, the chance that I had anything left in the City to stay for was dwindling, and all I wanted to do was see my family, my husband or someone I loved. The second volley of bombs had fallen before daybreak.

The dawn was hot, windy and unexpectedly sunny. I woke up before I had the chance to escape.

Gay Pride is, at its root, an attempt to portray a routinely oppressed population as free and capable of defending its interest. What it is in fact, is a grotesque display of insecurity and a totally soiling influence upon the quality and substantiveness of sex.

Sexual Liberation has resulted not in sex as a fact of life becoming more safe, open and understood, but in sex the act becoming cheap, easy and disconnected from those vital things it was meant, in humans, to provide: emotional satisfaction, intimate contact and personal spiritual-intellectual gratification. The result is a culture which is desensitized to sex, incapable of enjoying intimacy, and profoundly critical of meaningful contact.

I prefer a warm cuddle on a cold foggy morning to any given quantity of anonymous orifices. I want intelligent conversation, shared aesthetic tastes, and a sense of personal achievement as part of the whole package deal of snuggling and listening to another beating heart, without fear or pain or guilt. Assimilating oneself to a standardized rip-off sense of fashion, whether it’s the abercrombie drag, bear drag, biker drag, muscle drag, circuit-clone drag or dyke drag, erodes one’s sense of self. What is there to liberate if I’m no longer me?

A hint to the dimwit at Starbucks this morning (and any of you other fast-service impaired): during rush hour (roughly 6am-9am), do not start your order, then go to browse for a bag of coffee, maybe an overpriced trinket, then start drilling the cashier on what’s in the drinks, what certain pastries taste like, how his kids are doing, whether or not he got his goiter removed, etc. Rush hour at Starbucks is about one thing: caffine. If you’re really close to passing out, you can add some high-carb pastry to the order, but fergawdsakes, make it fast. This is downtown San Francisco, where those of us who aren’t trying to maintain the Meth high from last night are at least trying to make it into work before lunch…

</rant>

Just a reminder - My birthday is tomorrow - last chance to help me celebrate!