This week I started taking the Metro to work. Initially the thought of having to wake up earlier and get home later seemed a bit daunting, but having done it this week it really isn’t so bad. In fact I’ve been getting home at around the same time I would have been getting home by driving which is great.

My only complaint was that the final train I take to work, the Blue Line, was pretty jam packed on Monday. Like not just standing-room only, but I got someone’s head underneath my armpit type of packed. But I’m only on it for four stops, so I suppose it could be worse. And the rest of the week it hasn’t been nearly that bad.

On the plus side, I’m going up a lot of stairs so I feel like I’m doing actual exercise during the day. And I’m getting a lot of reading done which is much better than staring at the car in front of me and hoping I can make it through the light before it turns red.

I guess you can say I am now living a dream since I dreamed of taking the Metro to work while I was at Hulu.

I woke up still not believing that we have a President Trump. During this whole campaign I insisted that the innate goodness of the American people would not allow this to happen. I don’t know why I dropped my normal veil of cynicism about this, but trust me, I will never do this again.

No one knows what the next four years will look like. No one knows if we will be living under the Fourth Reich, be a satellite state of Russia or be status quo. Looking past all the hyperbole from the campaign that never seemed to end, we just have no idea.

I’m pretty sure the poor are going to get screwed since that’s what usually happens during Republican administrations. And I’m hoping that music and the arts in general will be great since that also is usually what happens under Republican administrations. Although since Trump is more liberal than most republicans who have taken office over the last century, who knows?

I think that’s what really bothers me today. After Bush won, we knew which way he was going to go. After Obama won, we knew. With Trump, the uncertainty is growing this unease like flies to manure.

A thing that bothers me among a lot of my friends is this empty threat of moving out of the country, a chickenshit act of running away when things get a little tough. First of all, most of you won’t leave — you’re just talking shit. Besides I’m more about shouting and fighting for what I believe in. When they start setting up the concentration camps, I’ll leave then. But until then, I’ll fight for my home.

I guess despite my desire to be a completely cynical asshole, I still have a stray bit of optimism left in me.

Well fuck. Boy did I completely misjudge my fellow Amerikkkans.

Here I am at a respectable job yet again. I posted about it on Facebook on Friday, and there were quite a few people congratulated me and “liked” the status update. I wish I could be as enthusiastic about it as they are.

I mean, there are worse things out there. I’m employed. I’m around people. I’m not homeless. I’ll have income so I won’t be dirt poor anymore. So I suppose that’s good. But all of that avoids the real problem of the situation: I don’t like accounting. It’s boring, tedious and quite frustrating at times. And not frustrating as in it’s hard. It’s more akin to wanting to strangle a bitch for doing something stupid, a mistake that gets compounded the further down the line it goes.

This means that I need to get my ass in gear and get the writing part of me all set. Hopefully my distaste and depression for this job will get me to jump start that, and then I’ll be trolling press boxes once again. Well, I guess that’s the hope.

Today was actually quite grotesque, the fact I had to wake up at 6:45 am so I could poop, shower and leave the house so I could make it by 8:15 am. It’s weird to have a set start time at a job. I haven’t had a desk job since around 2013, so waking up that early is foreign to me. And even when I had a desk job there was no set time to be in, especially at Hulu.

It’s a Korean-owned clothing manufacturing company right on the border of Huntington Park and Vernon, I guess where the really horrible second season of True Detective was set (I didn’t watch it apart from 30 minutes of the first episode.) Yes, my uncle hooked me up with the job, but I don’t think they’re supposed to know that. I doubt any of them would read this, but if so, oops. People speak mostly Korean around here, so I suppose my Korean is going to get better just by osmosis.

Another good thing about the place is that clock-out time is 5:45 pm, so there is no pressure to look busy for a long period of time and skip dinner and waste your life away at a desk far far away from home. They also provide lunch which is nice. Naturally it’s Korean food, and the owner asked me if that was okay. Ha!

Oh, and there is a Blue Line stop just a block away from the office. So I can Metro to work!!!!! You don’t know how stoked I am about this.

One of the first things I’m doing is creating some financial reports for a bank audit that they’re going through. I’m trying to figure out where some the numbers they’re giving me is coming from, and it’s really confusing. It appears that they just come out of thin air. Just poof! It really is an accounting nightmare.

And I guess this goes back to the heart of my ambivalence about this job: that I still remember the accounting shit and can do it quite easily. I’ve also had to remember some of my old Excel tricks which I haven’t used since my last stint at Hulu. It really is horrific.

But I suppose there are worse things out there.

This presidential election campaign season has been particularly depressing. So rather than gather people together to watch region-by-region election results and be armchair electoral college experts, I figure why not, as Peaches recommended back in 2000, fuck the pain away?

I started thinking about what it would take to really put together a proper orgy, and a couple of questions came to mind. I posted this on Facebook yesterday, and the lovely Miz Kali noted that Colby Keller once made a video on how to put together an orgy.

1. Naturally, as a good host, I will provide lube and condoms. Since not everyone likes silicone-based lubes, I’ll have water-based lubes. But then the question of if people want to do some fisting, will I also have to provide the J-Lube and Crisco, too? Or should I make that BYOL (bring your own lube?) Colby doesn’t really answer that question.

2. Fortunately, since when my grandmother travelled across the world she would also steal hotel towels, so I have plenty of towels.

3. I suppose I’ll also have to supply some Fleet enemas for the inconsiderate and lazy bottoms who don’t clean out before hand.

4. Depending on the number of people who show up, there can be any number of fetishes that people want to partake in. Do I set up a cross? A sling? A separate pnp room for those who want to slam?

5. Do I provide poppers?

6. Whom do I invite? I know I won’t sleep with anyone who has visible abdominal squares, but maybe some people do? I probably won’t get any cigar queens since I don’t want that shit stinking up my apartment. Oh wait. Do I need to get a hotel room? The cost is really starting to add up.

With the costs starting to climb and many issues unresolved, I guess I won’t be hosting an Election Day Orgy. But if I get invited to one…

I was in Vegas again last week. Me, Wheelchair Cousin and her mother, and my cousin Aaron who went on the Louisiana road trip with me in 2013. A quick little jaunt, we left Wednesday morning and got back Friday afternoon. We went mostly so that Wheelchair Cousin could go. She’s had a rough year with the pressure sore, the subsequent surgery and recuperation. Since she’s going back to pharmacy school at the end of the month, we thought it would be nice to enjoy something.

Most of my problems with Vegas is that there is no queer representation on the Strip. Oh sure, there are the four Sephoras, the stupid water show at Bellagio, every waiter at the restaurants. But for anything queer, you have to travel off the Strip. Because there’s always been at least one heterosexual with me in these trips to Vegas, there has been no gay Vegas for me. Just walking, drinking and staring at what essentially amounts to high-priced malls.

On the Las Vegas Strip, there are four Sephoras all within walking distance of each other. There’s a replica of Paris, of Venice, of New York and inexplicably the Miracle Mile of Los Angeles. As you walk through these simulations (and note that I really had to resist using the word simulacra,) your mind goes into a blur. Didn’t we just go by a Gucci? Why is that midwest couple in overalls going into the Prada store?

It is also so loud that everything is silent. The noise, the lights, the sensory overload just causes my brain to shut down so that I’m not marveling at the spectacle. I’m not noticing where I am. I don’t know that I’m hungry. I don’t realize I’d rather be in a swimming pool. It’s all a blur.

What was really cool was the High Roller “observation wheel” over by the LINQ (nee Imperial Palace.) Rather than a normal ferris wheel, it’s a slow-ride in these big pods that take about 30 minutes to go around. Being sealed in one of the pods was a good way of escaping the noise, to get a moment to think while looking at the vista of the city.

As we left Vegas, we went to the Seven Magic Mountains installation. It was a nice way to end the trip, an explosion of color amid the austerity of the desert.

Is there anything more dreadful than this election? We all know Donald Trump is going to lose, but he’s making sure that Americans all lose by stirring up these deplorables who would love nothing more than just to burn everything down like Sherman’s march to Atlanta.

On Saturday I ended up chugging through Season 2 of You’re the Worst which had one of the best television depictions of depression I’d ever seen. While it’s not exactly what I’m going through right now, I can empathize with it. Watching it really killed me.

I got through most of Zadie Smith’s White Teeth this weekend. I went a little overboard last week, so I have four books coming at me from the library this week. Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer. Skippy Dies by Paul Murray. Crusing Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity by Jose Esteban Munoz. The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead.

In Vegas from Wednesday to Friday.

As I took my normal exit to my apartment Thursday night, Dallas Aunt said, “Welcome home!” I sighed. It was 11:30 pm, and I didn’t have the energy to respond with more than that sigh. There is a depression that hits you when you are forced to return to reality, and with how fucked up I’ve been feeling the last few months, this return provoked dread from me.

But the trip was fun. Despite the blow up I described on Day 2 of our journey in the last post, the rest of the trip was smooth. We continued up PCH through the Northern Californian coast which rivals the Central California coast. Through the redwoods and into Oregon before taking I-5 up to Seattle and then into Vancouver.

We were only in Seattle for a day, and we did the touristy things: Pike Place Market and the Space Needle. But at the Space Needle, we also went through the Chihuly Garden and Glass which blew us both away. Looking at the glass sculptures amid the gardens was emotionally overwhelming. I really wasn’t expecting it.

After Seattle it was onto Vancouver where we spent three days. We visited the Capilano Suspension Bridge, Grouse Mountain, Granville Public Market, Van Dusen Gardens before taking the ferry to Victoria and visiting the Butchart Gardens. Vancouver really surprised me. I thought this would be the boring little milquetoast town, but I ended up really enjoying it. Had Dallas Aunt not been glued to my side the entire trip, I probably would have liked to explore more of the city offerings.

For the second half of the road trip, we went back down into the States through the Palouse of Eastern Washington into Idaho and Montana before heading south on the I-15 through Utah with a stop in Vegas before coming back.

Since Dallas Aunt was dismissive of going through Idaho and Montana, we didn’t spend as much time there as I would have liked. But one thing that really impressed me was how small it felt driving among the mountains and forests. We are mere specks in the grand scheme of things, but here we are destroying the world with seeming impunity. It got me choked up thinking about this while driving, it’s a damn miracle I didn’t drive off the side of the road or a cliff.

Enough with my words! Below here is a slideshow of pictures I took. Enjoy!

One of the things I wanted to do during this road trip is forget about the stupid anxiety and depression I’ve really been under the last few months. On Day 2 of the road trip, circumstances made me confront it head on.

I fell asleep last night pretty damn near paradise, in San Simeon where over the occasional roar of cars driving down Pacific Coast Highway you can hear the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach. A place where there is no air-conditioning in motel rooms because an open window is better.

When I woke up, the first news item I saw: Jose Fernandez killed in a boating accident. Yet again, mortality rears its ugly head in my thoughts. But after breakfast and going to Hearst Castle, things were fine.

Driving up PCH, as I was pulling over to let a car pass me I hear Dallas Aunt yelling that I scraped my car against a shrub. Sure I saw the shrub, but really it was so minor that it didn’t concern me. A little later, I pulled over again to let another car pass me and saw a fallen sign on the road. Again, Dallas Aunt started yelling. I told her I saw it and had completely avoided it and not to worry.

But she was beside herself. A little later, she needed to use the restroom and checked the “damage.” Like I said, minor superficial scrapes that will easily wash away. Nothing big. I told her that since I’m going to use this car until it dies, a minor superficial scrape is of no concern. She called it “damage” and started chewing me out. She’s yelling at me that my apathy towards things drives her crazy, and that I had ruined her vacation.

After miles of silence (which was nice), I pulled over at Bixby Creek Bridge. Before getting out, she kept asking pointed questions until I finally told her about how emotionally fucked I am right now. So instead of trying to ignore all of this, I have to confront this at a time when I don’t want to.

She calmed the fuck down, but I am still raw as hell. We got to Monterey where we are spending the night and walked around Cannery Row. I guess I made it like everything is fine, but I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.

Tomorrow will bring us to San Francisco which we will pass through as quickly as one can possibly do in that awful city.

All in all, things could have gone worse today. Despite my biggest fears, being in a confined space with Dallas Aunt was serene and peaceful.

We left the manse at around 10, stopped off for some lunch in Encino at Itzik Hargadol since I was craving kabobs, got gas in Santa Barbara, got clam chowder in Pismo Beach, pee stop at the Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo and wound up in San Simeon.

Since I have never needed a reservation for a Motel 6 before ever, we thought it would be all right to just drop in. But they had no vacancy! None also at the Seabreeze Inn across the street. We finally wound up at the Silver Surf Motel at what I thought would be a rate of around $60. But alas, since things are still busy we were charged three times that. So once we got in, we made motel reservations the rest of the way up to Seattle.

It is jawdropping to see the ocean crashing on the shore on one side of me and the mountains rising up on my other side. It makes me really happy that I decided to go this route. I really can’t wait until tomorrow when after a visit to Hearst Castle, we drive through Big Sur and see the wonders of the coastline.

A happy note: while walking on the Pismo Beach pier, I saw this kid wearing a sleeveless Bauhaus tee. That really warmed my heart.