clap trap

Another discussion at work — this time about movies — which made me think about pet peeves. Of them:

• I dislike people talking in movies. Sorry, we're getting a world given to us with no breaks. Grant us the time to get it (see: case study 2046 where friends were giggling about the entire thing while I was trying to watch an awesome movie. Almost ruined the thing for me, although I still haven't seen it fresh.).
  
• Clapping in movies. Yes, I have no problem with this if the actual people involved are there, but a round of applause or standing ovation makes about as much sense as clapping at the end of a book. It's self-congratulatory bullshit.
  
• Exclamation points. Most of you know this.
  
• Taxes.

Okay, so this really is just for me to point out that I still haven't finished my taxes, although that may even change today. But really, does it matter that much?

* * *

Most recently on the facebooks I've been getting ads for Match.com. I'm not sure quite why this is happening, mainly because while yes, I am single, I'm not looking and have a history with dating sites:

So a few years back, I was reading an article in The Atlantic (I think) about the modern pseudo-science of the contemporary romantic enabler. Virtual Yenta, as it were. I figure what the fuck, for shits and giggles (take a drink), I'll try it, what me being perpetually and habitually single and with pretty much no luck by default in the SF genetic wasing pool.

I jump on one of them, put in the hour or so to fill out the psychological exam or whatever, filling question after ridiculous question just to see what type of response I would get. What the machine would say about me. I think it believed I was a cylon. It's actual response: "Sorry, but we can't do anything with your makeup, you neurotic, psychotic loser/douchebag. Get a sex change, find a mortgage broker." I think that was it.

And now, I guess I get ads from them. I should tell them I still have a codpiece.

post. it.

I need to rush this post, as I'm sitting in my bath towel and have to run to work. But it's very near official -- I'm leaving. SF. Gone like a distant memory (please grant me the cliche — again, I'm rushing).

The transfer to New York finally came through, and as of mid-June, I'll be packed and absconded.

I've been spending the last few nights looking at apartments in NY. Big, scary move, but at least I have the job so all I need now is a place to live, less I'll be spending nights at Grand Central sans shower. And I've realized how pointless that is at this time.

More to the point, though — I want to remember San Fran in a good light. Yesterday I took a walk past the Contemporary Jewish Museum, and the view from there was refreshing at worst. My history here has been spotted at best, and I'd pretty much tired of it five years ago, but there was something here when I first showed. And I want to spend the next two plus months finding it again.

First — (and this is going off a suggestion from Rik) the Tonga Room will have to be in the offing. It's closing, I'm leaving, so this makes sense. In my nine-plus years, I've never been there, so might as well end with a piece of history, as it was one of the last tiki lounges in the city and apparently worth every bit of the notoriety and repute it got.

As for everything else, well the explorer's cap is coming back. We'll see where it takes me.