Skip this entry if you’re looking for sex; I’ve been on a work binge sans orgasms. This soon shall pass. My weekend was a work weekend: wrote Friday night till late, then woke up Saturday at one. Wrote all day and night to try and finish one of the four books I have on my plate right now; I didn’t eat all day and missed a lovely day — but got ahead on my book. Around midnight I gave up and started cooking a can of soup, when the doorbell rang. On my doorstep were two notorious hackers dressed to the nines, with a new friend in tow. "Where’s the party?" they asked. I was in my PJ’s and bunny slippers, with my glasses and no makeup on. So of course I invited them in and offered them some wine, but they didn’t want any, seeing as how they were already pretty stoned on something interesting. They were very entertaining company nonetheless; one had renounced shoes after a psychedelic experience a few days previously, another laughed at my jokes when I discovered that a programmer friend of ours was going to a fetish party that evening at the wrong location — in dangerous Hunter’s Point. No, no, I told them, the rubber party is in SOMA — poor Freddy, in his rubber tutu looking for the ponygirls on the waterfront in ‘Da Hood. They eventually wandered off into the night, one sans shoes, all looking for some barbecue with lots of strippers that may or may not have existed, and I ate some soup and went to bed.
Sunday I went to the beach and spied on nude bathers with my binoculars, poked at sea anemones and terrorized starfish. Monday I had dinner with Carol and Robert — shamless plug now for their upcoming Masturbate-A-Thon. I returned to work this week to find out that the web department wants to cut my magazine publishing schedule in half because posting articles is "too much work." Really. I’ve heard this from them before whenever I’ve tried to ask for any changes. Hard to believe I’m in San Francisco. I’ve been in an amazed daze since then — I mean, if posting two text articles a week is too much work, then something is wrong. I founded that magazine against all odds, and made it a (hopefully) cool and interesting thing that brings readers to our site — I feel like my job is being disemboweled. I already have no say about the layout, design and am not allowed to touch it or even fix typos. It’s surreal in contrast to my professional life outside of work. I have a stable of talented and faithful writers who deliver excellent sex content. Why should my resources go to waste? Anyone need a web zine editor? Meanwhile, I have been in a steady, silent, excited panic about my upcoming Playboy TV gig. It’s a long segment, too — I hope that the people I deal with are cool and nice or at least really really weird; I think it could be a lot of fun. I’m also buzzing about the new issue of AVN Online, featuring a huge article of mine about why porn music still sucks — it’s amazing that a porn industry magazine ran a piece that leveled my kind of criticism at the industry. I’m writing more for them, and I’m really inspired to write about sex and technology — being in both worlds, it feels right.
Aw, fuck it. I’m going to renounce my day job and do this.
