July 24, 2006
Screak: a screeching squeak
Two nights ago I slept face to face with the stars for the first time. After a long day splashing around in the east's 106 degree temperature, the night cooled off to a manageable 100 or so and I slept out in the hammock with the Lad nearby on a pallisse of pool mats. He gave me a swing to tuck me in and the hammock emitted a cacophonous screak; never one to be overcome by life's rude mechanicals, he was in the garage for the oil can and back out to silence the hammock in no time. I spent the half hour before falling asleep wrapped in the pleasantly metallic scent of WD-40, the smell of being loved by the Lad.
My dreamscape has changed considerably since the Lad and I re-started this car of ours; WD-40 is just part of it. Whole thought processes now walk straight-and-true paths across sturdy plywood, ideas are built into conclusions with the aid of concrete blocks. In just a couple of months we will have been together (this time, this time) four years in a row. I recently read somewhere that four years often marks the death of a relationship -- the author theorized this is because it takes four years to wean our young. (Sidenote: WHAT?) Of course I can't be sure until the September anniversary rolls around, but I feel like we're probably going to make it past the four year death knell. I no longer snicker when he suggests building something we could easily buy at Target for $3, and the other day I actually proposed we have deli sandwiches for dinner. Maybe it's alarming that I've been so transformed by the Lad's philosophy, but if this is the dark side I don't wanna be light.
Posted by didofoot at 10:12 AM
July 21, 2006
In search of Wallace
Last night the Lad and I attended the 48 Hour Film Project in Dolores Park. I love that park at night: the lambent lights on the tennis courts, the anile palms rustling their gossipy heads together, and Ursa Major overhead eating the rest of the stars. The weather was as good as the park and the films were as good as the weather. There should be more activities that involve a gathering of my peers without involving loud IDM or excessively sugary mixed drinks.
In other news, if you have my copy of A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, can you let me know?
Posted by didofoot at 10:33 AM
July 13, 2006
Sucker-punched by fried fish
San Francisco is warm warm warm today and odors are hanging in the still air long past their expiration dates. Walking around I get sucker-punched by the smell of fried fish, jasmine, coffee, old clothes, cologne.
This poor city is aging and she knows it. Every summer she runs to furious menopause: hot flashes, tantrums. By the end of June she's slamming the cupboard doors and demanding to know why she has to be the one to cook dinner every night. We all eat out until November. In the fall she starts crying and we spend the next six months trying to calm her down.
She has good days too. She puts on purple eyeshadow, vamps the indie kids who thought they hated her -- that no-good bitch, with her high rents and her sad-faced homeless men -- and suddenly they're in bed with her, having the time of their lives and no idea how they got there. She might be sweet for a week before she turns on them, blasts them with a hot central valley breath or heaps clouds of fog on their black-dyed heads.
Still, you can find traces of her ingenue past if you look: her heart-of-gold-rush days as a high-kicking dancing girl, coarse faced full skirted, showing the miners a time. Little jeweled gardens filled with little jeweled birds, a sparkling harbor -- every year, everything a little more besmirched, a little more overshadowed by another highrise. You can't help loving her for the idiot kid she was, wearing a flowered garter and singing folk songs; you can't help loving her for the flawed, gorgeous broad she turned into, foul-mouthed, tired, sarcastic and perfect, perfect, perfect.
But beautiful women should not have to get old, and me either. This morning I found three new lines under my left eye, so faint you can barely see them, parallel and evenly-spaced. I look like I got in a fight with a tiny, pissed-off cat. I hope to god I age like this city. She's angry about the whole thing and so am I. You all run off to whatever you think the new scene is. In fifty years San Francisco and I will still be sitting at the kitchen table chain-smoking and cackling, telling each other dirty stories about all your bad little habits. You can cover me in crow's feet and cat scratch wrinkles, bald shiny heat waves and bus exhaust, and I will still be sexy as hell.
In conclusion, here is me battling Captain Hook on our recent trip.
Posted by didofoot at 09:57 AM
July 07, 2006
They play the tennis
I don't know if any of my readers like watching women's tennis, or any tennis, or if they like pulling their own hair out or keying their own cars, but I'm going to assume no.
Yesterday while bumming around the parental castle I found myself listening to the announcers for a lady-game my dad was watching. What struck me was not their frequent mispronunciation of words but rather their focus. These women, they play the tennis. They play it tough and well. But the announcers seemed really concerned with the players' mental states.
Announcer 1: You know, Bob*, I'm not seeing a lot of enthusiasm from Anna** today.
A2: She's never been what you'd call stoked, Jim. Whoa, what a hit!
A1: That was a fantastic hit from Anna, Bob!
A2: Now you would think she'd be jumping up and down there.
A1: Just doesn't seem real excited by things.
A2: Not a rewarding player to watch, Jim.
A1: I've seen more excited players.
A2: Now Venus, she's a good time.
A1: Anna, really a so-so player in terms of jumping around after a good play.
A2: Jim, I couldn't agree more.
I like to think of these guys following me around in my job.
A1: Now, Bob, even after she successfully fixes the copier, you'll notice she seems pretty tepid.
A2: True, though, Jim, let's not forget she has copier ink all over her new skirt.
A1: It's irrelevant, Bob. I'd like to see more enthusiasm from a secretary of her caliber.
Or maybe they could follow me around my current job.
A1: Bob, do you think she seems really pumped about sitting around on the couch all day?
A2: Why the hell would she be, Jim?
*Unlike Sean, I am not a big enough sports fan to note the actual names of announcers.
**Ditto for the tennis players.
Posted by didofoot at 11:06 AM
