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For Posterity, Warts and All

Inspired by seeing Joe Orton’s obsessive diary keeping as depicted in the film Prick Up Your Ears, I began to record my own life events—both mundane and salacious—from late 1987 until mid 2002.

Lately I’ve been going through those old journals, attempting to convert them from  their original ancient Word and WordPerfect formats into something readable on today’s equipment. Word 2016 won’t open any native document prior to the 97-04 format, but Apple’s Preview application has no trouble (go figure), allowing a rather painless cut-and-paste into the new format. But nothing I own will open the old WordPerfect documents save for Apple’s own TextEdit—which unfortunately also displays all the garbage that WordPerfect threw into those documents in addition to the actual text. It’s a very time consuming process to weed that crap out and get it in a usable format. And the very few files that I for some reason password protected—even if was able to recall passwords from 20 years ago—are lost completely.

As I’ve written about before, the Mark who existed prior to the 2003 cancer diagnosis is very different from the one who came out of that ordeal, and nothing has brought that into sharper focus than going over those old entries.

It’s worth noting that while my own obsessive journaling started sputtering out a few months prior, it came to an abrupt end at the time of my diagnosis for two reasons. Firstly, I really didn’t want any written record of the thoughts and feelings I was experiencing at the time because I couldn’t come up with words to describe any of it without sounding full of self-pity, and I was just not that kind of person—knowing full well even then that I was going to come out of it okay. Secondly, only a few months after completing treatment and on my way to a full recovery, I discovered blogging, and while I couldn’t be quite as open and unfettered with my words being published for anyone to see as I could when writing only for myself, blogging did scratch the itch that journaling had ignited.

While I’m not proud of a lot of the things that are recorded in my journals (much of it is embarrassingly cringe-worthy at this point), they do accurately represent one gay man’s journey through his thirties while looking for love and living in San Francisco in the late 80s and 90s. In spite of the AIDS specter constantly looming, there was sex; lots of it. There are many names in those journals of men with whom I was obsessed but am now unable to conjure a face for. There were broken hearts and hearts broken.

San Francisco was even then an extremely expensive place to live, and while I generally made enough to get by (if only barely), angst about money was a recurrent theme. (Some things never change, even now.) But there were also reflections on the magic that existed in that city, whether it was catching sight of the fog spilling over Twin Peaks on an August afternoon, or the way the sun glinted off the bay, or the first evening after daylight savings kicked in and you found yourself walking home from work in the crisp dark air, or something as simple as a smile exchanged with a handsome stranger on the train.

My growing love for technology—and the horrific amount of time and money spent acquiring it—is spelled out in excruciating detail. Trips to computer fairs and installing hardware or software are so obsessively documented that I want to reach back in time and slap the shit out of that Mark, telling him to get the fuck away from that glowing screen and go to the beach!

There were also many a rumination about spirituality and attempting to find meaning and my place in the universe; pondering alien life and reincarnation—oftentimes punctuated in the same entry with a description of an unexpected orgasmic encounter with a total stranger in some public venue.

I knew even as I was recording those encounters for posterity that some day, with older and wiser eyes, I’d recoil in horror, and ask, “What were you thinking?! You were such a fucking asshole!” And sure enough, I now find myself doing exactly that. Really, Mark…you’re damn lucky you didn’t get yourself killed or arrested. ANY NUMBER OF TIMES.

Ah, the innocence of youth.

And yet I am reminded of two quotes from a onetime favorite book, Illusions, the Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah, that I always kept in mind when recording my adventures:

“You are lead through your lifetime by the inner learning creature, the playful spiritual being that is your real self. Don’t turn away from possible futures before you’re certain you don’t have anything to learn from them.”

and

“Live never to be ashamed of anything you do or say is published around the world—even if what is published is not true.”

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The Google Has Been of No Help

Sometime in the late 60s or early 70s, I remember looking at one of my mom’s architectural/decorating magazines and seeing an absolutely amazing home that was basically a glass cylinder laid on its side nestled among a wooded lot that overlooked an open field or stream. The glass part of the cylinder was a series of curved skylights between structural rings that stretched from floor level to slightly a bit past overhead where they butted against a solid structure.

I don’t know if it was House & Garden, or House Beautiful, or some other magazine, but numerous online word/image searches using any combination of tubular, glass, cylindrical, skylight, house, forest, stream, 60s, and 70s has come up with absolutely nothing. Since I can’t narrow the time frame down to anything more concrete than prior to 1972 but later than 1968 maybe—and even that may be in question—even locating the original magazine at a library may an endeavor.

So I thought I’d throw it out into the blogosphere and see if this jogs anyone’s memories (because I have such a huge readership) before I resign myself to spending a weekend at the library…

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Must See

But you’re a far bigger person than I if you can make it through the entire five and three quarter minutes. I lasted until about 3:30 and had to turn it off…

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Texas GOP Lifer Quits Party and BURNS Them With This Amazing FUCK YOU Letter

From democraticreview.com:

It’s no secret that the Republican Party is in self-destruct mode. No less prominent Republicans than former President George W. Bush (who almost looks honorable compared to Trump) have stated that he (Bush) is probably “the last Republican President.” Many within the party are disgusted that their party has become entirely co-opted by The Donald and is now effectively the Party of Trump.

One such person is Texas Republican Chris Ladd who runs the website goplifer.com, whose tagline is “Because leaving isn’t actually an option.” well, guess what? Chris Ladd, the “GOP Lifer,” just left. He just released this AWESOME resignation letter from the party. Check it out:

The Iraq War, the financial meltdown, the utter failure of supply-side theory, climate denial, and our strange pursuit of theocratic legislation have all been troubling. Yet it seemed that America’s party of commerce, trade, and pragmatism might still have time to sober up. Remaining engaged in the party implied a contribution to that renaissance, an investment in hope. Donald Trump has put an end to that hope.

From his fairy-tale wall to his schoolyard bullying and his flirtation with violent racists, Donald Trump offers America a singular narrative—a tale of cowards. Fearful people, convinced of our inadequacy, trembling before a world alight with imaginary threats, crave a demagogue. Neither party has ever elevated to this level a more toxic figure, one that calls forth the darkest elements of our national character.

With three decades invested in the Republican Party, there is a powerful temptation to shrug and soldier on. Despite the bold rhetoric, we all know Trump will lose. Why throw away a great personal investment over one bad nominee? Trump is not merely a poor candidate, but an indictment of our character. Preserving a party is not a morally defensible goal if that party has lost its legitimacy.

Ouch! Ladd wasn’t through. He continued:

Fast-forward to our present leadership and the nature of our dilemma is clear. I watched Paul Ryan speak at Donald Trump’s convention the way a young child watches his father march off to prison. Thousands of Republican figures that loathe Donald Trump, understand the danger he represents, and privately hope he loses, are publicly declaring their support for him. In Illinois our local and state GOP organizations, faced with a choice, have decided on complicity.

Our leaders’ compromise preserves their personal capital at our collective cost. Their refusal to dissent robs all Republicans of moral cover. Evasion and cowardice has prevailed over conscience. We are now, and shall indefinitely remain, the Party of Donald Trump.

I will not contribute my name, my work, or my character to an utterly indefensible cause. No sensible adult demands moral purity from a political party, but conscience is meaningless without constraints. A party willing to lend its collective capital to Donald Trump has entered a compromise beyond any credible threshold of legitimacy. There is no redemption in being one of the “good Nazis.”

I hereby resign my position as a York Township Republican committeeman. My thirty-year tenure as a Republican is over.

The rats are fleeing the sinking ship!

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Quote of the Day

“You will never win a fight savaging the parents of a dead soldier. So it’s a fight you simply don’t engage in. A smart terrible person would get this and say something along the lines of (assuming you wanted to maintain the policies blocking Muslim immigration): ‘I grieve for the Khans’ loss and I very much respect their opinion and their courage. But I believe the policy I have outlined is necessary for our national security for the following reasons …’ Trump doesn’t seem terribly bright. But this isn’t about intelligence as we test it with logic puzzles. Realizing that this would be the only way to respond requires a level of self-awareness a narcissist lacks and a degree of impulse control Trump simply does not have.” ~ Josh Marshall

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Preach!

From Margaret and Helen, a couple of wonderfully erudite, supposedly old ladies I’ve been following since the Bush nightmare. They don’t post all that often, but when they do, they slam it out of the park:

helen-mug1FROM HELEN:

Margaret, I watched that jackass in Cleveland and lost my voice.  I saw a Presidential nominee paint a picture of an America I don’t know and have never known. I tried to respond but I couldn’t find the words. I watched his wife lie to a reporter saying that she had written every word of her speech.  When she hadn’t, I watched the media say it wasn’t her fault. I tried to respond but couldn’t find the words.  I listened to children who have known only life’s riches praise a father who had made his riches by cheating others.  I tried to respond but I couldn’t find the words.  I watched an audience shout down a Senator when he told them to vote their conscience.  I tried to respond but I couldn’t find the words.  I watched amazed as Trump got more popular rather than less and truly I couldn’t find the words.   But last night, I watched a battle-worn President who had been unjustly treated and unfairly maligned rise above it all.  I watched Barack Obama, my President, paint a different picture, a beautiful picture of hope, kindness, forgiveness and humility.  And now I am going to respond because I have indeed found my words.  Screw you, Mr. Trump.  You better give your heart to Jesus because your butt is mine and I plan to kick your ass from the bottom floor to the top floor of Trump Tower and then down again.   As I live and breathe, you will never be President.  Never.

I have always said that even when I watch my P’s and Q’s, I can still spell bullshit.  Eight years ago, Sarah Palin walked onto the world stage and American politics hit a new low.   I saw a bitch and I called her a bitch.  She spewed hatred, fear and ignorance better than any hillbilly I had ever known. I have no regrets for calling her a bitch.  Palin was a joke.  Trump, however, is no joke.  He is the real deal.  He is the bitch to rule all bitches.   Trump has an ego the size of my ass (and trust me when I tell you that is one yuuuuuuuuge ass).  Everything he does is for selfish reasons, fueled by greed and motivated by power.

Salty language and a strong opinion don’t bother me.  Saying what’s on your mind is usually a good thing.  Usually.  But what’s on Trumps mind isn’t fit for human consumption. It’s just hatred, fear and plain old racism.  He put together a carnival in Cleveland to make the case that America has become a horrible place that no longer has time for political correctness.  But I am here to tell you that speaking your mind and being politically correct are not mutually exclusive.  Political correctness is having the emotional intelligence and decency not to use language, evoke images or take actions that marginalize, offend or otherwise insult people who are socially disadvantaged or discriminated against.  Kind of sounds like something Jesus would support if you ask me.

The America he described is not the America I know.  In fact, it’s not the America anyone knows.  The rest of us know an America of hard-working, compassionate people who no longer have time to hate and who don’t aspire to harass and humiliate their fellow countrymen.  The America we know wants to end poverty, end war, educate our children and take care of our elderly. We welcome diversity because we are and always have been the world’s great melting pot. Our America has been and always will be great.  Trump sees America as some ugly girl just waiting for him to take her to the prom.  It’s bullshit and we all know it.

Trump takes offense that President Obama and Secretary Clinton don’t use the expression Extreme Islamic Terrorist,  suggesting, I guess, that all Islamic people are terrorist but some are just more extreme.  Funny.  Whenever another old, white man blows up an abortion clinic, I don’t hear anyone calling him an Extreme Christian Terrorist.  Why?  Because you don’t attribute the bad actions of a few Christians to the entire Christian faith any more than you should attribute terrorism to the entire religion of Islam.  You don’t, of course, unless you are trying to stir up a bunch of ignorant mouth breathers that have been drawn to the talk radio/Fox News/Sarah Palin/Michelle Bachman brand of Republicanism that is today’s Republican base. Trump’s America seems to be one filled with roaming bands of brown gypsies raping and pillaging at will. I guess the view from Trump Towers is somewhat skewed when you watch Fox News and listen to talk radio all day. To him, there is evil in anyone who doesn’t bow to his perceived greatness.

Trump is partly right.  Evil is indeed alive and well in America. It’s just not as widespread as he would like to scare us into believing. It seems to be alive and well in about 4% of the population –  roughly equal to the number of votes cast for Trump during the primaries.   Coincidence?  I think not. And funny enough, the worst of them all decided to travel to Cleveland last week.

Donald.  You sir are no Reagan. You are no Kennedy. No Clinton. You are no Obama.  You aren’t even a Bush. You are a self-aggrandizing, hatred-spewing, lying sack of shit.  And yes, I realize that my name- calling is just as bad as yours.  But I am not running for President.  You are.   So be a man and act like it.  Sadly, I sincerely doubt you can.

The Republican Party, the party that likes to think it has a monopoly on god, family values and patriotism, owes America an enormous apology.  Palin was bad enough, but Trump is inexcusable.  I mean it.  Really.

maFROM MARGARET:

Helen, you had better sit down for this. I have news. It’s happened and we’ve both lived to see it. After watching three nights of the Democratic convention, my Howard woke up this morning and told me that he, a dyed in the wool Republican, will be voting for Hillary Clinton in November.

Helen, dear, I have now seen it all and I am planning to wear my Sunday best everyday because I could now drop dead at any given moment. He’s with her. I couldn’t be happier. You should be too. Have some pie. We’ve got this.

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Sociopath

Having lived—and blog-bitched my way through—eight long years of Bush/Cheney fucking this country over, none of that ever prepared me for the absolute sociopathic evil I’m seeing spew from Donald Trump and his cloven-hooved—I can’t think of a better word (and apologies to the cute little yellow guys everywhere)—minions.

Just when you think Hair Fuhrer can’t sink any lower, can’t say one more outrageous thing that leaves anyone sane asking “Da FUCK did I just hear?” he does. Today it was the very treasonous pronouncement from the orange one: “Russia, if you’re listening, I hope you’re able to find the 30,000 emails that are missing. I think you will probably be rewarded mightily by our press.”

Of course he and his bobble-head spokespeople and followers now claim that no such thing was ever said; that in no way was he advocating a foreign power interfere in the U.S. political process by spying on his opponent. Even though it’s recorded right there for everyone to see.

To be clear, as an Atheist, I no more believe in the AntiChrist than I do in the rest of the Christian mythology, but damn if Trump isn’t looking more and more exactly like how followers of it say he’ll manifest. That doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the absolutely fascist turn the republican party—led by Trump—has taken, and how if he and his cronies somehow manage to gain control of this country it’s GAME OVER, not only for people of color, immigrants, progressives, LGBT, and pretty much anyone the human Cheeto doesn’t like, but also I dare say any part of what this country has always stood for.

We don’t need supernatural entities or extraterrestrial lizards wearing human skin suits to bring evil to this world; man is quite capable of manifesting it himself without any outside assistance.

Bush/Cheney scared me, but it now seems benign in comparison to the thought of a Trump presidency. That absolutely terrifies me—as it should for any person who has an ounce of compassion and empathy for his fellow man. This pathological liar and obvious sociopath with control of the nuclear codes? The ability to potentially appoint three supreme court justices? And with Mike Pence as Vice President, who would potentially step up in case Trump is removed from office?

We cannot allow this to happen. The results at the voting booth in November must be decisive and without question. As much as I would’ve preferred Bernie Sanders to receive the Democratic nomination, I am a realist and know that Hillary—with all her flaws, shortcomings, and baggage—must be elected president. Trump—and the resurrected Nazi Party he’s spawning—must be stomped into the ground.

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THIS.

At this point I don’t really give a shit about what “the left” wants this election. All this “Hillary isn’t doing exactly what I want her to do so I’m gonna be sad and angry man and I’m not gonna vote cause THE SYSTEM IS SO CORRUPT MAN” shit is so insanely juvenile.

This ain’t 1968, man. The Democratic Party’s platform is the most liberal that it has ever been but I guess the actual substance is too “boring” for some. Some so-called “liberals” are taking this election and this moment in time for granted. Damn shame. Real damn shame. Yeah, you don’t like Hillary because she’s too “detached” and Tim Kaine because he’s “boring.” God, it reminds of the 2004 election when people were like “Yeah, John Kerry is a smart guy but he’s so boring.” Get over it. Why do some of ya’ll need to be constantly cuddled and cajoled into voting? Voting is a civic duty. People marched and died and bled for the right to vote and so many “progressives” are so quick to piss it all away because the Democratic ticket isn’t “exciting” enough for them. It’s all style and no substance for some. DAMN. SHAME.

(Source)

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“It Just Works!”

No it doesn’t, Apple. NO. IT. FUCKING. DOESN’T.

I got the bright idea to do some desk cleaning last night, and I ran across three file folders worth of pictures, floor plans, and miscellaneous documents that I wanted to scan. My plan was to do that first thing this morning and then move on to normal my Saturday chores.

So much for those plans.

It has been a day of Apple/Adobe/Canon ROBO-PSYCHOSIS.

I knew that Photoshop had supposedly lost the ability to use a TWAIN scanner driver somewhere between CS6 and the first iteration of CC. (Even with CS6 it required a bit of finagling to get working, but by and large it worked fine.)

I haven’t thought much about it since the arrival of CC, since all the scanning I’ve had to do since that time has been document or line-drawing based. Not exactly rocket science. Apple’s own built-in image capture worked fine for that.

So when I went to scan some magazine photos today, imagine my horror when they came out looking like crap. Apple’s built-in software has no ability to “de-screen,” so everything came out with horrible Moire patterns and no way to get rid of them. FUCK ME SIDEWAYS IN TRAFFIC.

So after doing some Googling, I discovered that there is a fix for even the latest version of Photoshop CC: a TWAIN driver supplied by Adobe themselves! Downloaded, installed where it was supposed to be and…Photoshop immediately crashed when invoking scanning directly from our Canon printer.

GODDAMNIT!

Further Googling suggested a clean reinstall of the printer/scanner drivers. But Apple, being Apple, doesn’t provide ANY mechanism for actually removing old printer drivers. (Just making them disappear from the Scanners and Printers preferences list doesn’t actually delete any files, so you’re left having to go digging all over the hard drive to to rip them out.)

Well, apparently I deleted something I shouldn’t have, because even after reinstallation, not only did TWAIN still cause Photoshop to immediately crash—the scanner option itself was only showing up in the printer configuration when it was physically connected to the laptop via USB—not while it was wireless.

I wasted a good three hours this morning trying to fix this and finally said fuck it and wiped the hard drive, knowing full well that this time I couldn’t just grab my Time Machine to do a full restore; the files had already changed on the latest capture. I could restore my profile, but all my applications would have to be manually reloaded and I was now looking at spending the entire day at this desk and not getting much of anything else accomplished.

THIS IS THE EXACT REASON I GAVE UP ON WINDOWS; THIS SORT OF ROBO-PSYCHOTIC-FUCK-YOUR-ENTIRE-DAY BULLSHIT!

And you know what? When all was said and done and I finally got everything loaded from scratch—the fucking TWAIN still didn’t work with Photoshop. Oh yeah, it worked with Canon’s own proprietary scanning software—a piece of psychedelic-colored crap that looks like it was designed by a six-year old.

And unfortunately, that is what I’m stuck using if I want to get decent scans from magazine or newspaper photos.

At least the scanning option is once again showing on both the wireless and USB versions of the printer, and I have a “clean” install of everything else on my Mac now. BUT GODDAMNIT ALL TO HELL, Apple. THIS is NOT supposed to be how APPLE works!

 

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It’s Hot Out There

I’d be lying if I said that after only one year I’d fully reacclimated to the Phoenix summertime heat, because I haven’t. It’s damn hot out there.

It doesn’t help that it’s currently about ten degrees F hotter than it was a year ago on this date. Or the year before that. Or the year before that. Or pretty much any time as far back in my lifetime as I want to go.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Mother Earth was tired of our shit and is running a fever, hoping to rid herself of the human virus…

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