I saw a commercial this weekend for an E-Z Bake Oven CD-ROM. Two girls sat side by side giggling in anticipation over the rising cake… on their monitor.

GAHHHH! First they take away candy cigarettes, then toys that spark, and now this? Excuse me, Orwellian Overlords? The whole point of the E-Z Bake oven is to mix the tap water and pseudo-chocolate powder, spill most of the “batter” on the floor while you’re pouring it into tiny pans, and let it bake for three hours under the scorching heat of a 60-watt lightbulb. Now that’s entertainment. The day I catch my child watching an animated cake and clapping her hands in glee, I’m unplugging the Telescreen and sitting down to wait for the Thought Police to take me away.

3:30 p.m.

Walking me to work this morning, Fred kept nudging me into the parking meters. I finally asked if I could switch sides with him. He seemed frustrated and said, “I know I’m supposed to walk on the curb side, but in San Francisco all the bums are on the inside.” Good point.

10:06 a.m.

Ladies’ night was at the Rolladium last night, and someone passed around body glitter while we were lacing our skates. I�ve showered twice since then, and I’m still finding glitter in some inconvenient places. Like under my contacts.

3:47 p.m.

This morning’s commute was eventful. I was sitting next to this kid who was booming hard-core gansta rap in the back seat of the bus. Needless to say, the mostly 35-and-over crowd was none too pleased that the music was so loud, or that every other word was an expletive. Finally, someone near the middle of the bus yelled, “Turn that thing off!” The kid turned his boom box up and yelled, “Who said that?” No one answered, so he laughed and turned it up louder. Meanwhile, all of his friends were slumping lower in the kind of perfect embarassment you can only experience when you�re 15. A big, red-faced guy in his mid-50s stood up and charged through the packed aisle screaming “I SAID IT! NOW TURN THAT F—-ING THING OFF!” Whereupon the kid made some rather threatening gestures in return. The older guy yelled, “Stop the bus!” and got off. The kid grinned and turned the radio up louder so all of us could enjoy the full impact of the word “niggah” reapeated 15 times per minute on a bus that had suddenly become rife with racial tension. The kid was black, the older guy was white, and let’s just say the anger was a little disproportionate on both sides. Fab.

The music fan obviously felt big about having dominated the bus. Apparently, there’s a real sense of power in being the gangsta king of public transportation. Right. What he failed to notice was that his actions just reinforced every racist attitude that anyone on that bus ever had about black people. All his friends, who seemed like decent kids, were lumped in with him because they happened to be sitting next to him. I wanted to smack him upside the head and have a discussion about greater responsibility. However, I’m the whitest white girl that ever walked, and he didn’t seem like much of a listener, so I kept my mouth shut. Now I’m stewing about it instead.

10:41 a.m.

Say you’re at a costume party trying to hit on a girl dressed as a Girl Scout. You think, “I know, I’ll ask about her cookies! Girl Scouts sell cookies, don’t they? I shall win her with my witty repartee, my sly double entendre.” Unfortunately, your cookie joke is not the first she’s heard. She nods vaguely and lumps you with the forty other Cookie Guys she’s met this evening. Some of the better lines I heard:

  • Pure in word thought, and deed?
  • (From the guy dressed as an environmentalist.) It’s not easy being green.
  • I�ll bet you’re prepared for anything.
  • I don’t have much to offer, but I’m totally willing to be your good deed for tonight.

10:38 a.m.

Last night I went to an ’80s bar where they had two rooms. One was for the Madonna-Prince boppers, one for the Morrisey-Cure ghoulies. Anyway, I was headed past the bar when I got shoved into this guy. We looked at each other for a second, and he grabbed my shoulder:

Guy: Do I know you?

Me: Yep.

Guy: From where?

Me: Sacramento.

Guy: Yeah! Where did we meet?

Me: You were the stripper at my birthday party.

Guy: Ha! Right!

Me: What are you doing in the city?

Guy: I’m an investment banker.

Of course.

9:29 a.m.