Veggie scramble across the street and Illy in a hipflask

Been enjoying the graffiti in the streetcar tunnels like no tomorrow. You barely see it as you whizz by, and even when you’re stopped on a not infrequent MUNI delay you can’t understand what the letters say. Except someone understands them. It’s a whole network of communication that I’ve grown slightly obsessed with, much the way that the bike messenger subculture obsesses me. I like this subterranean world under my feet. And how, how, how do they get so far into the tunnel to paint these elaborate cave scratchings?

It’s not the haphazard stuff you see on bridges and such either. These are incredibly detailed, colorful paintings, complete with pictures of hook-nosed faces and hooded figures next to the letters. And when you slide by in your brightly lit bubble it looks like these figures in the pictures are the artists.

I scowled through a confusing math class, I went out to breakfast, I bought some Illy coffee for my freezer, I bought a garbage can. Life, you have stayed me in a happy hour.

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Saturday Night Social

If you read my blog, you probably read Ian’s also (though sadly the reverse is not true), but just in case:

Saturday, Hills Have Eyes (comma The), Stork Club (which is good and gives free coffee if you look all starry-eyed at the lady bartender), we there, it’s on. May I point out, there is a neglige-draped dummy? Practically a puppet, people.

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P.S.

Last night I dreamt I was milking my pet goat, sometimes using my hands.

I don’t know why I feel the need to humiliate myself for the entertainment of you all folks. Yet I do.

Please feel free to once again start in on how hot my mother is, and then my discomfort will be complete.

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It was write this or write my essay.

After canoeing yesterday I managed to leave my shoes in The Lad’s car, so when Jacob’s car dropped me off at my intersection I got to walk across Market and Castro followed by a trail of amazed comments re: my barefootedness. The best was from two apparent tourists, one of whom, breathlessly solemn, told her friend “This is San Francisco, they have all kinds of hippie people here.”

Canoeing was a cracking good time. I would be paddling and I’d work up some momentum and pretty soon we’d be flying along, and then inexplicably the momentum would vanish, and I would realize it was because Pants had stopped paddling in order to steer us away from some ominous tree branch I had been blithely shooting straight towards. Then he’d start paddling again and I’d once again be able to lie to myself about my own abilities. My biceps are barking today, but not nearly as much as they would have been if I hadn’t been partnered with what felt like the entire Olympic crew team of the Czech Republic.

Friday night at the Odeon with KTV, Pants, Kim J and The Lad was also good clean fun (except for the margarita fizz I kept sloshing drunkenly on the floor). I recommend a repeat with interesting variations. Saturday night, anyone want to? I want to check out the Philosopher’s Club on West Portal, which I am inexplicably fascinated by despite never having seen the inside.

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Gotta create a demand curve and read the Constitution

Today at school I learned how to do “yoga sleep.” That is just like regular sleep, but you do it in yoga class. Luckily I don’t snore during yoga sleep, at least (worried Satchel frown) I hope not. For twenty minutes today everyone practiced their yoga sleep; any class with a naptime included is okay in my book. (My book has large print and lots of colorful pictures.)

I still like my gov’t class, although I’ve now identified the Annoying Girl who will raise her hand several times in a discussion and make the same point that was just made, as if it was brand new. I’m still looking for her car so I can key it.

Tonight, some of my fun friends are going out to the Beta Lounge or somewhere circusy to fuck shit up. Me, I’m staying in to write an essay and do math homework. I am happier than I have been in three years.

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Knock knock I’m a doorknob

I got another place, six blocks away from my last place. Any of you who were too lazy/occupied/abroad to help me move LAST sunday will doubtless be lining up THIS sunday to help me do it again.

Those of you who did help (Gene and parents) are off the guilt hook.

Those of you who volunteered but were proven unnecessary (Max and KT) are totally welcome to throw in another oar.

The rest of you – I can’t offer much, but if you move me in then you’ll have someplace to crash after you party all night at the Castro Halloween bash. Please please help me, please help, please!

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Oh they’re taking him to prison for the color of his hair

The good news is, I’ll be updating this a lot more frequently than I have been lately.

The bad news is, I got evicted and am moving back to PHill for the nonce.

Here is how the story goes, and feel free to interrupt with piteous noises at any time: Four days ago, I moved in. This morning, I left a cheerful card thanking my landlady for the bottle of wine she left me, and casually mentioning that I would be setting off a bug bomb on the following morning to kill the spiders all over the place. I said this would not affect her, but wanted to let her know. I went off to school with a merry heart.

Later, arriving home after classes and a brief traipse about my shiny new neighborhood, there was a knocking without. When I opened the door, there stood my landlady in a choler. Immediately she demanded to see these fictious spiders I had been inventing to fill my lonely hours. Well, I began to show her of course, but her dander was clearly up and she grew more and more angry, yelling (yelling, seriously) “Show me the spiders, then! Show me!”

“I AM showing you, look here.”

“Twenty-five years I’ve had tenants and not one has ever mentioned spiders to me,” she hollered, forcing me to what in retrospect was probably an unwise remark, regarding What The Neighbors Have Been Saying about the short duration of stay for these tenants. Well, that pushed her over the edge. She turned an attractive purple shade not unlike her eye makeup, called me a busybody several times, sputtered and stormed out.

Fifteen minutes later there was another knocking without. I opened the door and she handed me my original check for first, last and deposit and asked me to be gone within a week. Then harranged me for another ten minutes re: my busybodying nature and slammed out in high dugeon, if that’s how I spell that.

Well, the place was a shithole really, so I guess it’s no loss. I just feel like such a maroon. I really wanted to embark on a new career of non-flakiness, but moving twice in a week is surpassing even my previous acts of irresponsibility.

Speaking of which, if you have a strong back and no plans on Sunday, y’all feel free to e-mail/call me before then and let me know if you’re interested in a little bit o’box hefting. I’ll absolutely understand if you don’t want to, and if you do want to then I’ll be eternally grateful and stand you a beer afterwards, or a fizzy beverage of your choice.

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Home for a pig

I got the place! That one in the picture I posted, with the garden? I got it!

Not that it was tough mind you. I showed up in a skirt to my knees with charming father in tow, looking like an All-American Ms. Auto Fair Festival 1956 Queen type, and the opera-singin’, cake-makeup wearin’ landlady just about fell over in glee.

So it’s little. The ceilings are not all that they could be. And I’ll be sharing it with a couple of somnolent daddy longlegs. But it’s in Upper Market, within walking distance to the Castro and all the good food that entails; plus, no one will hassle me when I’m walking around at night, because ew girls.

I can’t have a housewarming party – like pretty much all of my studios before this one, it’s big enough for me and a petite friend and that’s all about it. But we should go eat at the awesome Greek place again soon, as it is just blocks away, and I can show y’all my garden.

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Last one today, I promise.

Hotmail started threatening to delete my inbox stuff, so I took all the messages I’d been saving from my Allen and KTV and Maggie correspondences and set up new hotmail accounts and sent them there to be dealt with at a later date.

Hotmail deleted them.

These three are brilliant writers of letters, and so am I, occasionally, when writing to them. That’s a year or so of really good reading, gone. Why do I keep trusting computers and the WWW not to eat my soul?

Goddammit. I’m going to go bark at the dog for a while until I calm down some.

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Orrrr…this one!

garden.jpg

The landlady just spent ten minutes asking me what classes I’m taking and telling me about every closet in the place, “in case you have a shoe collection like mine.” I think we will get along fine. Provided she likes me, and what’s not to like, eh?

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