The Oracle of Apollo
Snippets from the life of Apollo Lee

Kate called me, begging for me to take her with to Staple, which I did. Tonight was Staple’s anniversary party and their goodbye bash. “We’re glad to be able to end Staple while it is still riding high,” the e-mail said. “Still turning people on, and still full of familiar faces.” There was no possible way in hell I was going to miss the last hurrah.

I arrived to pick up kate behind schedule, having followed some fucking dimrod in a mustang going 15 down the 1 (Kate lives near Half Moon Bay). American car manufacturers need to start building surface-to-surface missile arrays in some models, I swear. We arrived at the Rawhide at 9:15, just in time to help Erin put up her photo collages. I also had the opportunity to meet Fabulizz. That was very cool.

Tonight was all about the residents of Staple, who happen to be, in my opinion, the best house crew in the country. Their music is always superb, sometimes overshadowing some guests. This anniversary party was no exception. The music just fucking blew me away. Damn, kids. Damn.

The wildlife at the Rawhide tonight was breathtaking. I danced for a while next to some incredibly beautiful regular, and some other very tantalizing strangers. Saw Annie, Leika, Mina, and Miumi for the first time in a while. And I had such a blast I didn’t want it to end.

The San Francisco scene is now very much less than it was, with the end of Staple, but hopefully this crew will throw numerous parties in the area very often. Staple has pushed the bar much higher for other house weeklies in the city and whomever attempts to fill those shoes had damn well better have some goliath feet.

Fil, Mike, Tony: if you guys EVER need help setting up any of your future parties, contact me and I’ll be there with bells on. Seriously.

The after party was cool, happening at someone’s apartment nearby. This apartment was a marvel in decorating, including a DJ stand in the living room and a missile sticking down from the roof in the hallway. I would have liked to have stayed longer and partied more with the Staple residents (who hadn’t arrived yet when I split), but I was more tired than I thought. I took Kate back to Half Moon Bay about 3:30 (2:30 with the time change) and was in my bed 45 minutes later. What a weekend.

At 10:33 this morning, half a mile past the Marsh Road/Atherton exit on US 101 northbound, my odometer rolled through 99999.9 and added a digit. Such things carry special meaning for me—primarily because I stop to reflect on any such milestones in life, motoring, or whatever—so I took a couple of pictures, having pulled over to watch the official rollaround to 100000.0. My car is now, officially, old.

I was considering going to Liquid, but while I was at work, Momerath hooked me up with inforama regarding a private party going on tonight, under the name of Phantasmagoria (I haven’t lived around San Francisco long enough for that to carry any significant meaning, if any is implied in the “Phantasmagoria lives!” e-mail). I decided to check it out and party down with some Spacebarians in a true underground shindig. It was located in the SOMA district of San Francisco.

Gigi and Patrick were supposed to show, but they didn’t. Momerath and Creggg did, though. It was cool to see them. Downstairs in the main area, the DJs were playing a pretty standard set of goa at 150+ beats per minute and upstairs, the music was a little more ambient, a little slower, and a little more manageable.

I danced for a while with myself and various delectable treats, but by about 2:30, the vibe—as well as the ever-present aroma of pot—was starting to wear on my nerves, so it was time to go. I finally ended up leaving at about 3:30, going to Mel’s, and wandering home.

On my handy little Visor, which I bought a week ago, had a number of items to remember to buy. So, I headed to the store for pants and various other needful things. I needed more cargo pants, but I knew damn sure that, since they’re currently trendy, some “department” store would charge me seven thousand dollars for a pair. I bought three pair and paid a hundred clams. Where? The surplus store. The brand name? Trousers, Combat was the name in the tags. Government issue fatigue britches. I got khaki, blue, and black. I look like a riot cop now. Whee!

I was originally planning on picking up Melissa for an evening of dancing while her son is with her ex, but she didn’t feel much like going out. I’d have loved to have taken her, but I was a little relieved about eliminating the 40 mile drive to the East Bay. Maybe next time, Melissa.

Kate told me she was coming to Staple, and Mo said he’d come, too. I headed up to the city in my new duds and arrived at the Rawhide about 9:45. There were a few people when I arrived. I went upstairs to see if the Canadians were there and, boink, I run virtually headlong into Kate. She was hanging with her son’s father (whose name escapes me for the moment), Nicholas (a regular), and Darnell (who was sleeping).

I hung with them for a bit, before heading downstairs to dance. I turned my head and there was Dana and Erin, who wore an excessively eye-catching camouflage tank top. Good lord, girl. I turned my head and there was Mo. We headed up and hung out with Kate and crew for a while, and then it was time to start bouncing around on the dancefloor.

Mo came down and climbed up onto the dancefloor as Pal Joey took the decks, spinning a very mellow downtempo and deep house set, including alot of treats from the disco 70s. Mo was busily working the dancefloor, inducing every female jaw to drop in astonishment. Heh. Hi, Mo!

While the music was very mellow, almost relaxing, it was still terrific. What a great night. A sparse, but sufficient crowd, plenty of people to look at, mellow disco-tinged music, and enough dancefloor space to avoid feeling cramped. Can’t wait for Staple’s anniversary party next week. Woo.

Well, Friday rolled around again, almost without warning. I thought about what to do and decided on Into the Sound, arriving in the city after a hard day of doing nothing at about ten.

When I got there, nobody else was there, except the DJs who were substituting for the usual guys. Apparently, the crew split and was replaced by a bunch of Irish ex-patriates. I was prepared to jump ship and zip down to Liquid, but I ran into a couple of people and just ended up sticking around. The crowd started to arrive about 11:30 (yes, I’m patient). The Irishmen started spinning some deep house and eventually, it morphed into a roudy set of progressive house, edging trance. I got quite sweaty, having torn up the floor for a bit.

The music was still going when I left at 2. I was hungry. It was time for Denny’s. The DJs were good. I wonder if that’s the end of Into the Sound at the Rawhide. If this Irish crew can attract a decent number of people (the crowd, at its peak, numbered maybe 40), it could be a fun crew to catch on Fridays. I guess we’ll see.

I got up about 12:30, having promised myself, yet again, to set up my music studio, the gear of which is still in boxes at the end of my bed even after my trip to Idaho to get it all. Shame on me. Maybe next weekend.

I wandered forth, looking for food. I got my car serviced for the first time in 15000 miles (oops) and noticed an immediate increase in horsepower. Woo! Ended up at a music store in Santa Clara, where I replaced my Hohner Chrometta 8. I played the hell out of my old one until the draw reeds started coming off.

I had some half-assed Indian food (you guys have no right to call what you served me “hot”) in Cupertino and decided it was time to catch a flick. I really wanted to see X-Men (2000), but it was playing at 9:15, and my Visor said it was just about 7:10. So, I caught The Original Kings of Comedy (2000). Kings featured performances by Steve Harvey (former host of Showtime at the Apollo), D.L. Hughley (former host of BET’s Comic View), Cedric the Entertainer (former host of Def Comedy Jam or something), and Bernie Mac (the self-hating “I hate Whoopi Goldberg’s lips” cop in Don’t be a Menace to South Central … (1996)). It was funny as hell, but struck me as a long HBO special that probably could have just as easily gone to video instead of the theatres. I enjoyed it, particularly with the $3.50 member price at Oak Village, but it would probably have been better as an HBO special.

X-Men was really incredible, though. If you still haven’t seen it, you should, especially if you ever liked the comic books. The acting was well done, Rogue was too pretty, and the movie flowed nicely. I think I might go see this again tomorrow night. Whee! What a day.

Today, I joined the masses of people carting around computers everywhere they go with a brand new Visor, into which I spent dinnertime entering addresses. It’ll be so nifty to have one repository for the eight billion scraps of paper and phoneno.txt files around various computers. After deplorable kung pao tofu in Burlingame, I headed up to the city and arrived at the Rawhide about 9:40.

Fil and Inhuman were trading off at the decks when I arrived. I was followed closely by Patrick and Gigi. Jori Hulkkonen of Finland began spinning at midnight. Rarely does a DJ compel me so much that I don’t even leave the dancefloor more than once for water. Jori was fucking unbelievable. His garage and deep house style was so incredible that I didn’t even think two hours had gone by when the lights came up. Somehow, I scored a CD, which is astonishing. If you see this DJ on a marquee within a hundred miles, go. He’ll blow your socks off.

Claire just about blew my socks off. I concentrated hard not to get too into her vibe, lest I violate my chastity vow. She was very sexy, a great dancer, and just kept coming back over and singing with me. It was great. Apparently, I should start going to The End Up to dance with her and her friends wherever possible. I might just have to do that.

What an spectacular evening of great music. Wow.

I noticed, upon arriving at work today, that my direct deposit had started. I called my bank to confirm. “Your account balance is:” The voice said, monotonously. “Forty-seven dollars and ninety-three cents.” Fuck. Direct deposit receipt on desk is supposed to mean money in bank.

We had a little party at work to celebrate. A year ago, we launched something wonderful—something that keeps all of us coming back to work every day, buzzing with excitement. It has been an exciting year of hard work. I have never before been involved in anything with such an impact. I really lucked out in getting my job.

Owing to the lack of funds, however, I started playing Civilization - Call to Power and didn’t even notice the time. At 2:45, I left my cubicle and headed to Lyon’s for some grub, noticing a new account balance as I was leaving. Right on.

Last week, Fabulizz wrote to me and told me that my July 8 entry misidentified the DJ at Staple, so I fixed it. She wrote back that she was putting on a free party at the Bohemia Lounge on Thursday, so I thought it would be worth checking out.

Emmett heard of my plans of going out on a Thursday night and decided he wanted to hang out, too, so we headed to mountain view (so I could launder my hair and get some non-grubby clothes for such an outing) and then zipped up to the city, arriving at the club around 9:30. We chatted with the bouncers, Gabriel and the other guy, and went inside, spotting Ivan from work. The club is not horribly big, but it’s bigger than Liquid in terms of dancefloor space. There really wasn’t much of a crowd, though, but the big vats of peanuts lying around rocked. The waitstaff was friendly, particularly the tall blonde Swede (whose name escapes me for the moment).

I didn’t get to see Liz spin there, though. Perhaps another time. By 12:30, it was obvious that there would be no crowd and no real dancing. The DJ was able, but noone showed up. After 12:30, Emmett and I headed to Mel’s for some chow. Cool club. Off night. Maybe next week.

Another outing with the Spacebarians, suggested by Booty. She invited me up to the city to a Vietnamese place at 6th and Mission (Tra Lan?), so I picked her up at work and we went. At some point, CodeZero, was supposed to join us, which he did. I had some tofu and vegetable dish and it wasn’t too bad. The plan, ultimately, was to go bowling in Daly City.

After chow, the three of us jumped in my purple car and headed off toward Daly City. We hung out at her place, gabbing about computers (we are geeks, after all) and telling various “I almost flunked out of high school” stories (CodeZero’s were the best). Soon, Est and Momerath arrived. We all headed to Serra Bowl in Daly City.

Bowling was fun, although I scored 62, which is horrible (but 20 points above my previous best). I dropped off CodeZero and Momerath at the Bart station and Booty at her house, having worn out my voice yelling and carrying on in a Scottish brogue and making all sorts of loud evil jokes. Oh, yeah…and turning left onto a two-way street on a red light. Oops. We shall all have to get together and do this again. Minus the red light thing, of course.

A week’s absence from Staple is like a year. I was so ready to hit the dancefloor at the old Rawhide tonight, particularly after last night’s washcloth-sized dancefloor over at Liquid. I was all ready to hit it and make it up there around 10, but my roommate put in Reds (1981) shortly before 7:30, so I ended up getting a late start, arriving just before 11.

Found Patrick and his girl, and talked to Inhuman and Peter and Tony and Fil eventually, relating tales of Idaho. Kit Clayton took over at midnight, starting his set with a noisy beat set that eventually morphed itself (after a few impatient fucks went up to him. “Shut up,” I heard him yell. “I’m not gonna do what you say!”) into a nice tech-house groove that kept giving. Every once in a while, he’d switch back into the avant garde techno feel. It kicked ass. Toward the end of the evening, he played some old school funk and soul tracks—Graham Central Station (I think), and a few other old gems.

Another Staple and yet another week of pining for next weekend. Sweet. Now: time to hit Denny’s for some bellyfiller. Cheers!

I wanted to do something different tonight, something I haven’t done before, and I needed to dance, so upon advice given from the source, I decided to check out Liquid on the Mission. I arrived about eleven, having parked my little purple ride in a very interesting section of San Francisco. The club was very very tiny, but the music was stellar. I have no idea whatsoever who was on the turntables tonight, but the craziest deep house music was coming from the little steel-post-reinforced table.

There were two bones of contention that I had with Liquid. First, its size. there were WAY too many people for such a miniscule venue, particularly with so many people wanting to stand on the dancefloor and gab. But, the music was nearly orgiastic.

Booty told me there were plenty of ugly people there, but I think she was meaning that facetiously. There were, in fact, no ugly people there. Damn. Being around so many excruciatingly pretty people wears down on my virtue. I ended up dancing with some pretty people purely because we were all so close together that I could feel other people’s seams. Literally.

Overall, a great time—especially given the miniscule entry fee—which I will almost certainly not have any reservations repeating in the future.

On September 22, 2000, Derek threw a Birthday Party for his brainchild. His brainchild, of course, is one of the most wonderful story-telling websites, creating a community of far-flung and tight-knit storytellers and (in my case) storyreaders. The Fray is a place of experiences, of emotions, of sharing. I think that the Fray makes it possible for some of us to know that, maybe, we’re not so unusual or forsaken as we might be inclined to think—that some things that we all have in common and things that make each of us an interesting read.

I attended Fray Day 4, which I had been planning to do for some time, but never quite got around to doing (much in the same manner that I’m actually writing this piece two weeks after the event…oops), partially because I didn’t live in California during most of that time, and partially because when I did, I was working on launching a big project at a start-up and working a lot. Excuses, excuses. This time, however, I would not allow an excuse. I was determined to go and meet all these people who were in my daily reading list—people who had written stories that moved me.

It takes a special gift to be able and willing to write about yourself in such a way that people are entertained and, perhaps, learn something about you and themselves. When asked for my stories, I am frequently at a loss, insisting that my life is boring and that I have no good stories. What is boring to one, however, is extremely interesting to others. So it was that I headed up to San Francisco to commune with people with whom I felt a connection, despite none of them having any idea who I am.

I arrived and caught John Halcyon Styn telling a story about being on the early 90s TV show, “Studs“. It was so funny. His storytelling is engaging and full of expressions, physical and vocal. “It became clear to me that I was about to get rejected by three women on national television…,” he said. “And the most glorious thing happened — my life didn’t end.” This hilarious tale imparted the wisdom that nothing is so bad as it seems and all things are temporary. Thanks for the story, John.

Lance Arthur got up about half an hour later and started reading a story that he had written on his Palm Pilot on the plane on the way to San Francisco. It started out slow, very like a story read, instead of a story delivered from notes. It was a story of his childhood and it seemed like any other innocent story like everyone has of five-year-olds at play. But, then, “She [mama] says, ‘Daddy is not coming home ever again.’ She says that Daddy is dead, that Daddy died.” Everyone listened in stunned silence as Lance’s voice broke, “‘I wish your father had lived long enough to see this [his first day of school],’ she says. … I wonder what my life would have been like if my father hadn’t died.” What an incredibly moving story, especially for me. My father died when I was in high school and my sister died when she was three weeks from high school graduation. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to share that with so many strangers.

Other storytellers included Dinah, who opened a bookstore in San José, Tom, who always has a lot of Craic, Rory, an Aussie who found wealth and fame cashing in traveller’s checks in Africa, and many others. There were so many wonderful stories and songs that I listened to the webcast a few times. Wow.

I met many wonderful people, including Melissa, whose ear I talked off, The Phil, who was once a missionary in Moscow, Idaho, Jish, a Canadian web designer, Maggie, who plays guitar and graciously didn’t yell about the junk in my car, Isaac, who drove in from the Central Valley, and, of course, Derek, who is one of the most genuinely nice people I’ve ever met.

The evening ended without my having worked up the nerve to introduce myself to Kottke, Meg, or Brig. I also didn’t present a story at the open-mic portion of the event, so I volunteered afterwards to help clean up the space. I swept and mopped the main room and had a pretty good time doing it, while talking to The Phil and a couple of others. At the end of the evening, a bunch of us ended up going to Orphan Andy’s on the Castro for food. It was a wonderful evening.

I think I made a few friends, with whom I have corresponded in e-mail. I have, for some time, made an effort to keep to myself and do things anonymously, but Derek’s brainchild and the people who love her make me want to be part of this community that I’ve admired from a distance for two years. Thanks, Derek. Thank you ever so much. And I wear the T-shirts proudly.

A few of my coworkers left and will no longer be brightening my day every day. I can’t really talk knowledgeably about where or why they’re going, but suffice it to say that I’ll miss them. Take care of yourself, Ian, Robin, and Justin. It was cool working with you and I hope I get to hang out with you in the city some time. Stay in touch, take care of yourselves, and drink eight glasses of water every day.

I got an invite from Booty to get an opportunity, for the fourth or fifth time, to meet some fellow Spacebarians, which I finally decided to do. The venue: An Sibin, a DJ bar in San Francisco. Sounded nifty and I could think of no really good excuses against going, so I headed on up to the city.

I got there about 9:30, after spending a while trying to find the place (the source said it was on Polk). I found it, hung out for a while, and just listened to the music, which was some progressive house stuff. It wasn’t bad.

Booty arrived with her entourage around 11:30. I noticed her, but wanted to be sure it was her, before I went bouncing up like a monkey. Stranger girls tend to take offense when referred to as “Booty”. So, eventually, I met Booty, Lea, and Mo, who had stories of Germany and Greece. I probably talked too much, but it was very cool to meet more Spacebarians.

My flight from Boise was scheduled to depart at 8:30, so I had about ten hours with my children, minus a short scheduled storage box visit to retrieve some materials I wanted to carry back to California with me.

Spaghetti for lunch about four o’clock as I was finishing the work on the laptop was a hit. More wrestling and playing and some pictures and cartoons and talk about San Francisco and Disney World and Pokémon. What a blast.

Pretty soon, my ex arrived and it was time to take me back to the airport. An hour later, kisses and hugs and goodbyes in the loading zone. What a good visit.

I checked my duffel at 7:30, an hour before my flight, and paced around the Boise Terminal, looking for interesting things to do. It occured to me that I didn’t have a baseball cap from my home state to remind people that my facade is a surly mean redneck hillbilly asshole, so I headed for the gift shop. There was a shirt, a hilarious one, that caught my eye. It was black and had a cartoon of a potato with a black helmet and face mask. “DARTH TATER“, it read. “Long, long ago in a potato field far, far away. SPUD WARS.” I had to have one.

Suprisingly, neither of the United flights I took from SFO to Boise and back were delayed much. From boise, I had a row to myself and a 45 minute wait at the Millbrae Caltrain. Next visit: Thanksgiving, I hope. Walking from the Caltrain station to my house, I realized that I’m really a Californian. It is so good to be back, but I had an excellent visit with my family.

I had forgotten about one little thing about my kids. They get up very very early. I didn’t get much sleep at night, on account of my penchant for going to bed late, but I managed to take a nap a couple of times durig the day.

I volunteered to get some things for Grandma, so I got to take my kids grocery shopping. They, of course, wanted more pizza, so we ate the second most disgusting pizza ever created, and then headed to the grocery store. Saw my ex briefly and cleaned off the laptop for her use (removing my mail and passwords and bookmark files) and ran into a couple of other former classmates at Wal-Mart. I am feeling so very very attractive now.

Very few of the people with whom I graduated from high school ever left the town we went to school in. While I could never have been voted “best looking” in high school, had I gone to my 10-year reunion in 1999, I certainly would have been. It turns out that middle age in Southwestern Idaho starts around age 22. I can’t even relate how many scrawny guys in wifebeaters and Ore-Ida ballcaps I saw running around and how many of the former cheerleaders are now frumpy housewives with no plans for the future other than watching television. I am so glad I escaped.

I conversed quite a bit with my children, played with them, then put them to bed at 9:00, as usual. I was so exhausted by the end of the day that I went to bed quite early (2:30 or so). Whew.