Send some love.

Right now, a fellow blogger is undergoing a hellish tonsillectomy, which is a pain in the ass when you're 8, but absolutely awful when you're 30. As I type this, he's under the knife, gassed out of his brain, and probably not feeling any pain...yet. However, I suspect this afternoon he's going to be wishing he was either dead or drugged up so much he'd make Stephen Hawking look like a tweaker running through the Tenderloin.

Here's a picture of Ryan showing us his tonsils:

I'm not sure why the tongue is blue, but it works on him. Maybe he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, got into some lady's purse and ate her eye shadow.

Hey, it's a possibility.

At any rate, if you can, pop over to his place and send him some love. He's going to be extra rotten for the next few days and will probably need all the warm fuzzies he can get.

At any rate, I'm headed to the San Francisco DMV right now to re-take my driving test...apparently, if you let your license expire (like me) they make you not only retake your written test, you have to take the driving test over again. Hey...I don't have a car and haven't been behind the steering wheel of one in almost a year (except the time I tried to back my mom's car up their driveway a few weeks ago but quickly gave up because of the 6 glasses of wine in my system...damn house kept getting dangerously close to the driver's side mirror). At least I get to use the Gaguar (Chris's gay Jaguar) for the driving portion.

Wish me luck. And tell poor Rotten Ryan to hang in there. These New Orleans women love him:


I just got back from the DMV. I'm now once again a licensed California driver. Turns out I didn't have to take ANY tests...I just forked over $26, reregistered to vote (changed political parties), filled out a form, gave them a thumbprint, and posed for the camera. I saw my picture on the monitor before I left...AWFUL. I have a double chin, dark circles under my eyes, and I look like I'm missing a tooth. Damn those DMV cameras! Also, for some reason, the usual gang of freaks that have to get their licenses the same time you do were conspicuously absent. I counted no less than 10 hotties in there this morning...quite refreshing. Last time I had to stand in line at the DMV a woman with dreadlocks was in line in front of me. She had (and I'm not kidding) a pork chop and a chicken leg in the back pocket of her shorts. Wrapped in plastic, of course. Every few minutes she'd take one of her meat snacks out of her pocket, unwrap them, gnaw on them a bit, then rewrap them and stick them right back in her pocket.

I had to endure this for 2 hours. Every time she did that I couldn't help but stare as if I had just witnessed a car accident or train wreck. Add the woman behind me screaming into her cellphone in Tagalog, and you get a genuine San Francisco DMV experience.

To any San Franciscans who read this thing: MAKE AN APPOINTMENT AT THE DMV BEFORE GOING IN THERE. It's worth it. For me, in and out...29 minutes. Not to mention they remodeled the place...it's no longer that green and pink nightmare with the filthy carpeting. The walls and floor are now a calming powder blue, and instead of standing in line, you sit on a plastic chair and wait for an electronic voice to call you to a certain window. It sounds like the woman who gives you "MUNI Security Reminders" on the 38 Geary and 22 Fillmore. Bleh.



Kill your television.

Apparently, someone didn't like their Comcastic programming. I had the "KILL YOUR TELEVISION" bumper sticker on my car 12 years ago, but I never thought I'd see a television impaled on a fire hydrant. It was pretty remarkable to look at, though.

Captured by my cellphone somewhere in the Mission.


Thanks to Mark for being my Ego-Boost of the Day.

But trust me...you don't want to see me sans clothing. Not cute.



Sick to my stomach.

I just found out that a friend of mine, who I thought had died an accidental death, was actually a victim of a murder/suicide.

I'm stunned.

I'm beyond angry; I can't describe how I feel because I don't think a word exists that could possibly begin to express the emotions I have inside me.

I want to cry.

I want to scream.

I feel numb.

I want to run as far away from here as I can, yet I have no idea in which direction to flee.

I want to kill someone who is already dead.

How dare you take my friend with you down your dysfuntional pit of self-destructive despair.

You motherfucker.

© 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008 by Chad Fox. All rights reserved.