The things I do for my friends.

Okay, so my friend Jon just called me from interstate 65 in Alabama, just south of Birmingham or Montgomery or some place like that. All I know is he was in Alabama, on his way to a client's house.

You see, Jon is an escort, a pretty high-paid one, and he had a question for me. As it turns out, the client was into being humilated and overpowered, and once restrained, told what a loser piece of shit he was. Now, Jon is by nature a really nice guy, and he needed a little guidance on how to be a dominating asshole, and also some advice on what exactly to do to the guy once he got to his house.

So Jon called me, saying if there was anyone with a sick, twisted mind who could come up with good ideas, it was me. I'm flattered, I guess.

After talking with each other for a few minutes, we decided on this. He is going to pose as an undercover Alabama state trooper after hanging out in the guy's house (he's already been paid for this scenario) and "arrest" him. Tie him up after making him take off all his clothes. Then he's gonna put him on the phone with me by holding it up to his ear.

I am going to be detective Todd Marcus from the Montgomery County sherriff's department, telling him he's been very bad, very very bad, and what exactly is going to happen to him in the state pokey. I will describe it in lurid, sexual detail, then I'm going to call him a naughty little sissycunt pussybitch, and to fucking put Jon back on the phone.

After that, Jon is going to help himself to everything in the refrigerator and eat it in front of this tied-up guy, throwing empty cans on the rug, not using a plate, leaving crumbs everywhere (actually, this scenario has already been played out with other escorts...my old roommate used to do that). Then he'll go into the spitting, watersports, light spanking (the guy said no blood, bruises, or scat), and eventually bunkie penetration.

For those of you who don't know what that is, click here.

I also suggested he give him a Dirty Sanchez against his will and yelling, "¡Olé!" but we decided not to do that. I mean, I do have a sense of decency.

He so owes me.

I like being alive.

My friend Chris Adams and I had an online conversation about death today...and how if I were to die tonight, tomorrow the world would pretty much be exactly the same as it was when I was around. The text of my e-mail read:

If I were to die tonight, tomorrow, the sun will still rise. The fog will still roll in the Golden Gate. Cargo ships will continue to dock in Oakland. The Chronicle will still be printed and delivered. Traffic will still be backed up on the 101. The N-Judah and Caltrain will be filled with grouchy commuters. Tourists will flock to Fisherman's Wharf, where the sea lions will be barking. People will still have rent due. Bills will still have to be paid. Payrolls will need to be made. The world will largely be unchanged and will soldier on as it did the day before. I just hope that I've made a difference in my friends' lives.

He responded with a poem by Dylan Thomas, written in 1951 or 52. It's a villanelle, a 19-line poem consisting of five tercets and a final quatrain on two rhymes, with the first and third lines of the first tercet repeated alternately as a refrain closing the succeeding stanzas and joined as the final couplet of the quatrain. Now before you think I'm all smart and shit, I just copied and pasted that last part from his e-mail to me. Chris is a fucking genius. Anyway, here is the poem:

Do not go gentle into that good night [A Villanelle]

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Basically, live your life as intensely and passionately as you possibly can every single day. That's why I have no time for grouchy, energy-sapping people with bad attitudes. Life is so short and precious, and I savor every waking moment.

Intruder in my home?

Okay, so I finally caved in and got cable television. Not because I want to watch it all the time, mind you, but because I wanted high-speed internet access in my apartment. Now, in order to do that, you have to either have a landline from SBC or cable television from Comcast. Of course, there is always satellite high-speed internet but the roof of my building is so crowded with dishes it's starting to look like a goddamn kitchen cabinet up there. Besides, I'd hate to be downloading something when some fool up on the roof drunkenly, tweakingly, or stonily bumps my dish and knocks me offline.

That would make me mad, but I digress.

Anyway, I decided since I would never use a landline anyway but would occasionally watch television (besides, I get horrible reception in North Beach) I opted for Comcast high-speed. Besides, they were running a special where it's $40 cheaper to have cable and internet combined instead of just internet. I did the math, and now I can get NBC again, which was completely dead to me. "Conan O'-who? And what is this Will & Grace thing I keep hearing about?"

Anyway.

So while I was out of town, the nice people from Comcast sent a well-meaning, albeit mouthbreathing and knuckledragging, "tech" person out to my house to install the cables, since I tore them out when I had the floor redone. Well, let's just say the Comcast person must have tried their best. However, they came up short on a few different points...let me explain.

My computer is supposed to be sitting on my desk in my dressing room. This is approximately 35 feet from the front door of my apartment. However, when I returned home, the cable modem was sitting on my dining table near the front door, coaxial cable was strung along the trim around the front and kitchen doors (directly against my wishes), plus cable thrown loosely on the floor behind the bar and sofa, and there were no cables anywhere near my desk where my computer was.

Um, okay.

As it turns out, the Comcast guy looked at my OLD computer (when I say old, I mean it originally ran Windows 3.1 ten years ago) instead of my NEW computer which was sitting next to it. He saw my computer didn't have a USB port, so he couldn't hook it up. Well, no shit. Besides, the only reason why I keep it is because it has some cool MP3's and an Atari 2600 emulator that only runs on Windows 98.

So here is where I am confused...why did the Comcast guy think my table needed internet access? I mean, there isn't a power switch or USB port anywhere to be found, or even a keyboard. There isn't even a floppy drive. It's a fucking table. I mean, it's doing a good job HOLDING my keyboard and monitor right now since I had to drag my tower into the living room in order to check my e-mail, but asthetically it's rather unpleasing and I'd rather be doing this in my dressing room where my computer stuff and built-in desk are. It took 3 phone calls to Comcast and my annoyed and firm, yet not unpleasant voice to get another appointment for them to come out and fix their fuckup.

Okay, enough about Comcast and their roving band of tards. /rant

So last night I got home after a long trip from LA and was delighted to find out I now have like, 80 channels on basic cable. CNN, MSNBC, MTV, VH1, BET, Discovery, all sorts of channels plus all my locals...I have 'em all. In fact, last night Chris and I watched Conan O'Brien's opening monologue for the first time EVER in this apartment after watching Letterman on KPIX-5 for the first time without lines across his face and a strange bar on the left side of the screen (the hills of SF do strange things to your TV reception sometimes). Anyway...anyway...back to yesterday afternoon...I was lying there on my bed, sipping a cocktail, doing bong hits (give me a break...I had just driven from LAX), looking at my clear and sharp picture, marveling at all the shows, when I looked over at my night stand.

There are a stack of books there that I've been reading...I've had a lot of time to do that since I didn't watch TV all that much. They seemed to say to me, "Chad...don't forget about us." I then looked back at the TV, with its bright colors and cheery jingles and products I had no idea I needed being offered to me in rapid-fire succession, fueling my already somewhat-annoying adult ADD, when I suddenly felt like I had just done a nice, fat rail of crystal (something else I avoid at all costs...I should never have tried that crap, I swear).

Maybe it was a stoner revelation, but damn...that TV set felt like an unwelcome intruder that particular second. To be honest, I didn't even want cable, just high-speed internet access so I could continue my unamerican mp3-swapping at an even faster rate and get my photography business off the ground. So I'm actually tempted to simply disconnect the cable, hook the rabbit ears back up, and still enjoy the internet at the lower rate.

But you all know that's not gonna happen. Comcast has given me a bump of something...and I can start to feel the addiction growing. The nice, clear, sharp picture is so pretty...I can actually read text on the screen now instead of guessing what it might say. When my neighbor runs her blender it no longer scrambles every channel. Plus, I get the community access channel which in itself is absolutely brilliant. But still...it makes me uneasy. After flipping through channels for a few hours I've come to realize about 99% of what's on is utter crap, especially Fox News. What a load of shit that channel is. I almost whipped my lighter at Bill O'Reilly's face last night, but at the last second I realized that 1) Bill wasn't really there with me in my bedroom and 2)I needed it to do another hit after listening to him prattle on for a few minutes.

Okay, that's all. Enough typing for now.