Tuesday. An alright day. Nothing special. Bill was at his folks once again, his dad needing to go to some physical therapy at the Veteran’s Administration hospital once again. I just hung out at home solo, Juan at school, and watched a documentary on Eleanor Roosevelt on PBS. It was good, but not good enough to hold my attention after 11:00. I knew how it ended anyway. She seemed great and so many idiots hated her for doing the things that she did. She was no Hillary Clinton I’ll tell you, though the animosity towards Eleanor is probably on par with Hillary phobia.
No jazz in this apartment last night which of course led to some rather intense dreams. I won’t get into it, but they aren’t the relaxing type of dreaming. Usually punctuated by me sitting upright in bed saying, ‘What the fuck was that?” That happened a few times last night. I woke up at 5:00, then 5:30, then 6:00. I wasn’t distressed since I knew all I would have to do is close my eyes again and I’d be back asleep. That worked until 6:30, when I knew I really had to get out of bed and start my day. That meant making my own coffee since Bill wasn’t around to do it.
That was no problem since I have been making my own coffee since I was 10 years old. And it wasn’t Martinson’s coffee. I used Goya Espresso coffee. Rocket fuel. I’ve been using that for years ever since I lost my jumper cables. I walked up to Washington Street after doing the routine, coffee, cereal, showering. I wore my black Sean John suit since I had plans after work and I wanted to look relatively good. White French cuff shirt, silver Pierre Cardin tie. I did look good. Almost bangin’.
Work was boring once again. And no fish were biting on the resume lines I threw out the past couple of days. Everyone in the office continued wrestling with the new program that all the databases had migrated to. I hadn’t been involved with that so I just surfed the net all day which was relatively fun for the first hour, but there are only so many things you can look up in wikipedia, and reading the International Herald Tribune can wear you down sometimes. SFGate was ok too. I listened to River Deep Mountain High by Ike and Tina Turner and three Todd Rundgren songs among others.
After work I walked down to Chelsea, puffing on a Padron. I was headed to G Lounge in Chelsea. An online friend, Tim has been after me to attend a gathering of men in suits and ties, hence my wanting to look as good as possible. I wandered around Chelsea not wanting to be the first one there. I wasn’t when I walked in at 7:10. I met some guys that I had chatted with years ago and it was nice to meet them and it seemed they were glad to meet me. But after three Heinekens it was time to go after an hour. I had to come home and write this.
The company was nice but of course the music sucked. Oh that house music. How I hate it so. Now I’m home, Bill is in bed at 9:30 since he sleeps on a sofa bed and didn’t really sleep last night, but he was having difficulty sleeping tonight. I plan to go back to Tim’s gathering again. It was fun to be socializing. I have learned though that as much as I enjoy seeing a guy dressed in a suit and tie, it really doesn’t do anything for me otherwise.