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| Velma La Velma |
| 02.28.05 (2:05 am) [edit] |
The name of a drag queen in a play called "Drag" I saw years ago was the title of this blog. It was written by a man who has since died from HIV stuff. He was a local to Ann Arbor and went to Community High School in the seventies with an old friend of mine and the first person I knew of who had died from AIDS. I was reminded of him tonight when I stopped at The F Stop and had a vist with Delores, one of my Castro/SF favorite bartenders. Delores showed me some pictures of the recent show she was in. She was thrilled to tell me that almost all of her friends from the past 10 years of shows were still around to celebrate this one.
Delores is a ghost. Inexplicably, she has escaped HIV and has lived to watch most of her friends die. She is a beautiful woman and a very handsome man all at once. What sixty year old could have more? She has few peer friends who survived the 80's and 90's along with her however, but, with them, one of tightest knit communities is fortified daily. They live 'now' because 'now' might not ever come to them again. They live 'now', carefully.
Several of my friends died from HIV related bullshit, but I cannot begin to imagine the angst of living daily knowing the disease had not touched me, but not knowing when or how it could, unlike Delores. For this, I am grateful. I have known how to avoid contracting HIV since the information has been relevant. I knew my friends who were sick had led very promiscuous unsafe lives prior to my acquaintance with them and during our friendship. I suspected at the ripe old age of 22 that my friends were killing themselves with ignorace but you can't budge the immortal. I assumed everyone knew a virus could kill them. Oops.
There was a house in Ypsilanti where 5 of my friends lived. It was a big four bedroom deal and the living room was turned into another bedroom. M. was the first to find out he had HIV. It was 1993. After the announcement, two of the other guys let it be known they were also positive and a bit of a community was formed. My closest friend in that house told me one day that there were other people living in the house who were sick also, but didn't say who. (50/50 guess...) I pieced together that they were all sick after a bit of sleuthing. All of these men were from very religious families and never let on what was happening to them. They avoided doctors out of shame. One of them was buried without us ever knowing. The obit described a brief and fatal struggle with kidney disease. One was hidden from us by his mother and cremated by his sisters,(per his wishes). We found out two months later our friend had gone. One died of high fever/pneumonia that would have been survivable if he wouldn't have been so stubborn about going to the hospital when he was ill. One died from a stomach illness caused by some bad shellfish. One bumped into me one night years after the Ypsi house (98). He asked about each of his former roommates and fell a bit lower into his chair as I frankly told him that M was dead, M was dead, S was dead, T was dead. C openly wept and cursed me for being alive and uninfected. He died later that year.
Verlaine is on a different road tonight...
I'm lucky to have known these men. Luckier still to have met men who have lost far more than I can comprehend. Delores is a ghost in her generation. I am just in a generation with ghosts.
Be they dead or alive, "to the living!"
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| Cycling Again |
| 02.23.05 (3:32 pm) [edit] |
Riding a bicycle in SF is exhilerating and sometimes incredibly frightening. After months of riding fearlessly, suddenly I was big chicken little when it came to riding my bike in the city. I've decided to get over that because the good outweighs the bad. The fear is squished by the intense discipline necessary to climb impossibly steep hills and the excitement of being rewarded with beautiful views and 40 mph trips back down. In other words, I haven't fallen yet.
K just recently moved to Potrero Hill from her/our old home in the land of no timely busses. I called her this morning when I got up to see if she wanted to catch some lunch before we each had to go to work. I wanted to see her new apartment, also. There was plenty of sun earlier this afternoon, but the coolish air betrays more rain sneaking into the bay area. So off I went to the new hood to visit K. I briefly studied my SF city map and took on my chosen route and had an easy time of it, speeding down from my neighborhood across Market. Somewhere around Harrison and sixth, there was a construction delay so I veered of my planned route, got a little turned around and ended up not skirting the base of Potrero Hill as planned, but heading straight up the side of the thing. Not the plan, YO! I trudged along for a few incredibly steep blocks, felt that funny numb leg feeling indicating that my next two or three pushes on the pedals were going to result in me rolling backwards so I promptly dismounted.
There are many problem with pushing your legs this hard and then trying to switch to walking. Number one being the hill as a conquest has not ceased to exist because you have switched your plan of attack. Why this is such a shock is not easily explained, but it is a shock, nonetheless. Additionally, the legs, accustomed to pedaling in toe clips don't want to move in any orderly fashion such as is required to walk, they just want to shake. I managed to sort of walk/vibrate up the hill with a bit of style much the same way Katharine Hepburn would have managed to sing, "The Star Spangled Banner" while on a tilt-a-whirl.
Eventually, the road became less steep and I pedaled on. I found a fun little park, some fantastic views, one of those incredibly steep streets that carves a serpentine path like the famous, "Lombard St" and otherwise became completely lost. I bumped into 25th street which is half of the intersection for which I was searching and immediately pedaled the wrong way down the hill. Back up and over, (grunt-grunt-wheeze) I found K's new house, we had a nice chat, or, more accurately, she pointed out the wonderful features of her new home while I tried not to cough up a lung or drown the cat in a pool of my sweat.
K and I had lunch at the St. Francis Cafe which is the oldest ice cream parlor/cafe in the city and for six bucks I ordered "the side sampler". A cup of vegetarian chili, a bowl of mac and cheese, and a fantastic salad with really great perks like stinky bleu cheese, thinly shaved cucumbers and shredded beets. Ah!
Coming home, I took a much longer route avoiding the nosebleed section and found my way quite nicely. What's weird is how much fun it was to be back on the bike and how fearless I felt. I'm also surprised at how little of my endurance I lost (ignoring unsightly lung removal). I have days off in between shifts at the hotel and look forward to some trips down the Pacific coast as the weather continues to improve.
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| Sun, finally, and all kinds of fun |
| 02.22.05 (10:15 pm) [edit] |
This post is not presented with the intention of pissing off the midwesterners who are stuck in the utter nastiness of February, but I have to say, it was fucking gorgeous here today! San Francisco has seen an unusual amount of rain this year and I get a bit tired of being wet for days on end. Or cabin fever sets in because I decided that nasty weather equals staying in the house for too many days in a row. (Leaving only to go see large hammocks full of hair)
Today I walked to the beach. I even got some sunburn and it feels WONDERFUL! From my house to the Pacific is about 8 miles. The first bit of the walk isn't very much fun, just the usual bitches and ho's, so I called Kalmat to pass the time and end a game of phone tag we've been playing. She related a story to me that had me laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face and I was drawing stares from even the nastiest of the nasty. After one of my biggest spasms of laughter, I passed a man who looked very familiar and I realized he is one of my co-workers. (I wouldn't have recognized him without the fussy hotel uniform except for his brilliant smile. That boy has some teeth!) I managed to say hello to him without being rude and not losing my giggle fit from Karpad. I won't tell the story K told me but I will offer a word of advice to anyone who cares to heed. If you feel a little something funny going on in your intestines while shopping at the fancy new yuppie grocery store that has a nice, clean bathroom, take care of your business then and there or end up nearly passing out in a Burger King bathroom after a 20 minute agonizing drive.
So after my laughing fit, my hike and the sunshine. I was buzzing around on some major endorphin madness and feeling really good. I checked out a park in which I've never been called something, "Sutro Heights Park", maybe. It's the one that overlooks Ocean Beach and the Pacific. I went to the edge of the cliff and made the mistake of looking down over the three foot tall fence. My legs disolved from vertigo as I imagined my body smacking into the rocks 75 feet below and promptly, gracelessly, and rather painfully fell on my ass. This made me laugh again. I must have seemed drunk. I kinda walk/crawled to a nearby park bench and found it to be a much more pleasant viewing venue.
Later, I found a street to walk down, passed a man who looked alarmingly like Hunter S. Thompson smoking a pipe and walking four New Foundlands. I couldn't help but think the look was cultivated from years of being told of his resemblance to the late writer. A mile later I was on Noriega street and eating a giant burrito with some of the best hot sauce I've ever tasted. (Alexei and used to eat here)
I bought a ginger ale to accompany my tortilla wrapped bucket of yum and plopped it on the counter next to the napkin dispenser and hot sauce bottle. While staring out the window and absentmindedly munching, I blindly reached for my soda and missed. As I dumped a giant glob of hot sauce into my throat, I immediately began choking, which eventually disolved into yet more laughter with a very 'coughing' quality. My throat still burns and hot going in is hot coming out so pray for me if you're inclined.
My Spanish is really bad, and the girl working the counter didn't do so well with non-menu English so I had to mime what I had done so that she would know to wash the big, squeezable, hot sauce bottle. She had all her co-workers snickering at me before I could finish my grub and leave.
I met a super cute young couple from London while I was waiting for a streetcar. I was planning on going to Ghirardelli for an ice cream sundae, but I changed my mind and had a piece of cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory which is walking distance from both where I was waiting and my home. I gave my bus transfer to the young couple because I heard them talking about how they were running low on cash. It was a good one too, still had three hours left on it. It felt really good to give such a small gift and see the immediate and genuine appreciation.
I rented "Napoleon Dynamite" and it's calling my name.
I may tell a tale about France, a woman, several ham and brie baguettes and two hotel rooms tomorrow if I get permission.
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| Hair Homos |
| 02.18.05 (11:42 pm) [edit] |
P and I met up in the Mission tonight to go to a gallery showing of pieces relevant to the hirsute male. I'm still absorbing most of what I saw. In one corner of the room there was a big hammock hanging from the ceiling filled with the sweepings from several local hair salons. (gross) There was a dusting of hair on the ground under the hammock and I quietly listened as men rattled off their ideas of what the Rorschach pile of hair symbolized. I listened to suggestions about it being the shadow of a man, to a bear masturbating, and so on. I can be a bit shy in large groups of "The GAY", but I could hold my tongue no longer. "I think it looks like some asshole made a mess and didn't clean up!", I said to the men standing around me, one of whom introduced himself as a friend of the artist. (oops) I flushed at the thought of having offended someone, but I think I was admired for my candor. At least I was by one of the guys.
There was a silent movie playing to some really weird music and featured large men floating in a pool. "The unbearable Lightness of.....something" that was called. The music was good. The men had no faces and that objectifies the body in my mind and makes me a bit uncomfortable There were four photos displaying strange piercings which I thought were really cool because I liked the jewelery and the photography was exemplary. There was another photograph, a close up of a man's neck split into three frames, I liked. Again, odd subject matter, but really well developed photography.
Someone hung a gray fuzzy blanket on the wall and named it thereby creating art. (?) I made fun of that openly.
There was some odd tunnel you could walk through but in order to walk through it you had to put on this disgusting "hair hat" which coverd your eyes and was complete with ears and additionally you had to carry a fake tarantula on a poof of hair, (I think they were all made from angora, just a guess.) The hat looked like something Bjork would wear to the Grammy award show to accessorize her python thong and palmetto bug flip flops. Everyone who went into this odd little hairy haunted house came out looking flat and unimpressed. My friend and I were betting dinner on what was behind that curtain. Every once in a while, some smoke rose from the top of the curtains. Fucking ridiculous...If I had been more confident today, I would have gone in with the costume on and then screamed at the top of my lungs, thrashed about and fallen on the floor just outside the exhibit. I was too shy, however and fearful I might find pigeons in there. Plus I was flirting with a boy. Don't want to give away all of my weirdness on the first meeting, do I?
When P and I left to go get dinner, the really agitated woman who was pacing in front of the Burger King and dollar store I shopped in before I went to the gallery was nodding off and being supported by her pimp/dealer. "The fish today, she is not so good, but the Heroin, ah c'est si bon!" The Dollar Store had in it a bunch of plastic Basset Hounds molded so their heads were tipped back as if caught in mid howl. These were being sold as ashtrays. I almost bought one because I simply couldn't believe the tackiness. They're only a dollar, maybe I'll go back and buy everyone a belated Christmas present.
We went to Oscar Wilde's for dinner and I had Fish and Chips and, additionally, Curry and Chips because today I am a bottomless pit of hunger. I could eat curry chips all day long and never tire. (ok, not true, they make your fingers stinky but damn! They are good!) There's an Irish thing called a "chip buddy". I'm told one eats it when very drunk. It's a sandwich roll stuffed with french fries, topped with cheese, broiled and then smeared with mayonnaise. You can dip it in malt vinegar if you like. It's on the menu at Kate's and I saw something similar listed on the menu at Oscar's. And I thought chili cheese fries were bad for you.
Anyone ever had a chip buddy? I still think it's a hoax to get drunk Americans to eat gross food. Lynne, I know you can't get enough mayonnaise with your french fries and melted cheese. Mom, I know you love mayo and malt vinegar. Maybe I'll send the recipe to Dad and he can make this for you.....(oh I'm so mean!) "No I won't eat your chip buddy because it's slathered in mayonnaise and MAYONNAISE MAKES ME GAG!"
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| Musical Moodswing |
| 02.17.05 (8:22 pm) [edit] |
I was just visiting Chicaloo's blog and got all giddy thinking about some of the fun we've had together surrounded by music. Memories prompted me to get out a case of my mixed cd's and stick one in for a listen. I had to hear Jennifer Holiday scream about her will. That led to thinking about another friend, Kandis, who lives for music and just sings it out like she doesn't care. That brought to another night when Kandis and I were on a mad search to find a recording of the old Levis jingle where the cowboy is sitting on fence yodeling about his jeans. (Good Morning! world, Good morning to you!) We searched a gazillion "70's trivia" web sites and finally found the song. The result was like taking a deep breath of air after swimming the length of a thousand pools. Isn't a discovery after a long search like that? We were instantly children again wearing our "Lee Hee he hee he he vi's" (Kandango! I've lost that site, do you still know it? I could put up a link)
Oh! New song!
(Turn around) every now and then I get a little bit lonley
and you never come around
(Turn around) every now and then I get a little bit tired of
listening to the sound of my tears
(Turn around) every now and then I get a little bit nervous
that the best of all the years have gone by
(Turn around) every now and then I get a little bit terrified
but then I see the look in your eyes
The total eclipse of a mood that music can cause for me is magnified when the same cheesy 70's song hits Kandis' ears. (even if it happens to be a cheesy 80's tune) I've seen it happen to others, but none so spectacularly as Kan. I played this cd I'm listening to right now one night when we had a cleaning party at Arbor Brew Co. and I can now picture Sarah lip synching to the words with a bottle of window cleaner in her hand and a nasty, nicotine covered rag in the other as she fell to her knees, mouthing out the words to, "A Total Eclipse of the Heart". Coral did her little tight butt dance to some of the songs.
Years before, another Arbor friend had me for her wedding. Her song to the groom was, "Nobody Does it Better" by Carly Simon. Just a beautiful song! I was talking about that song and how much I loved it when one of the waitrons I was working with barked that she didn't know who Carly Simon was. I sang a bar of "You're So Vain" and she got crazy mad. "'I bet you think this song is about you, don't you? Don't you?", well fuck yeah it is about him, she just said it is' and I laughed. Oh Carly, just who was that song about?
Next on is from "The Commitments" soundtrack. "Treat Her Right" is and old soul tune, (um, who?). Slim used to sit at the bar near the service window because he liked the opportunity to stare at one of my co-worker's breasts as she scooped ice. He was a lot of fun to talk to in spite of his distraction. Both he and I LOVE the movie, "The Commitments" (as do Matt and Rene, just ask em.) While you're at it, ask them if they remember the line about, "Dubliners being the niggers of Ireland". Both Slim and I agree that this was the line that gave this film an edge and caught each of our attention. For me it was one of the first times I'd heard "nigger" used and it didn't make me suspect its use was gratuitous. I can't speak for anyone else, but I think nigger used in this glowingly white movie gave validity to The Commitments' struggle about which the movie is based. When Slim and I each nearly simultaneously viewed our newly purchased home dvds of this movie, we were shocked to discover that nigger was replaced with black people, or person as applicable. I think "The Commitments" were only the niggers of Ireland on VHS. Does anyone else remember this about "The Commitments"?
One more subject change,
At K-Mart shopping with Kate. We were new friends and shopping for make-up and false eyelashes so I could transform myself into my mother for Halloween. (I never intended this, but she might swear it was my goal although I'm quite sure my mother never stuffed her bra or wore false eyelashes. And I'm certain that she never wore six inch heels....Lie to me if you did, Momma! I've got 70 more days until my insurance kicks in and I ain't as young as I used to be!) Kate inadvertantly discovered her inner drag queen that day, (and, I believe, her inner ghettho bitch. Do I have the right year?) Suddenly, in front of the Bonne Bell, we were busting a move to, "Islands in the Stream" and having a blast singing along to Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers. As we checked out the apethetic cashier glowered at Kate and I and she said, flatly, with more than a hint of d'TroIT dialect, "I SAaw you dAncin'". We were as good as mullet wearing parents of thalidamide babies in arms covered in acid washed jeans holding a pregnancy test, a six pack of Pabst and a quad of Champale in that cashier's eyes.
ok, 2
DANG! Now it's Nina Simone, "I Wish I Knew How it Would Feel to Be Free" And here I am with Kate again, crammed into a seat in Hill Auditorium to watch the now late Nina sing and dance. What an honor to have been in her sapphire sequined presence with all of its musical genious and lyrical bravery. The first time I heard this rather obscure song was with Kelley. She loved it as a 10 year old and it opened my world up to Nina after having forgot ever having heard her on the radio.
I'll have a stroke if this keeps up...
Pat Benetar, and I'm off to run reconnaisance with a friend who is stalking a guy at the 500 in the Mission.
Running With the Shadows of the Night
K, K, and K,
"your love is like a shadow on me all of the time"
Lady Marmalade
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| Mind Numb |
| 02.16.05 (11:44 am) [edit] |
With the non-stop rain that has been falling here for the last two days keeping me stuck in the house or drenched in rain everywhere I go, you'd think I'd have written a couple of words by now. I had Monday and Tuesday free from work and had a wonderful time off. It was the first days off I'd had since starting my new job and having a couple of bucks free to spend was wonderful.
Monday I went to visit the Kate's crew and ate dinner/lunch. After that I saw "The Aviator" and had a blast. Some guy sitting right behind me kept crying and it was crackin' me up. I bounced through Union Square feeling on top of the world and stopped by to visit the Puccini and Pinetti's crew. That was as good an excuse as any to stuff my face again. There was an annoying violinist playing right behind me as I tried to talk with my friend who bartends there. I thought to request a bit of silence from fiddlesticks and throw him a fiver. I decided to be nice instead. I guess it was like Valentine's Day or something?
I stopped by a couple of my favorite neighborhood places and met some new acquaintances. After a long night of laughing and having one guy try really hard to get me as I acted particularly hard to get, I walked home in the rain and started reading, "The Dim Sum of Everything". Fun book. I was stuck with my face in that for the next 24 hours with a couple of sleep breaks.
I am stalling from studying the wine list I need to be tested on tomorrow. Wine bugs me and reading detail about it is just mind numbing to me. I don't know why I'm so adverse to it. The only thing that keeps me focused is knowing that selling a glass of wine is a helluva lot faster, more expensive, and much easier than making a Mojito. So I'll learn.....back to that chore.
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| New Kid in the Hotel |
| 02.13.05 (2:26 am) [edit] |
Ooohwee! I had a spastic day full of new experiences. I went to my first day of being the solo bartender/server this afternoon utterly vibrating with anxiety. I don't know why I do this to myself, but I do. I got all dressed in my polyester finery and walked out of the locker room, remembered to go down the very long hallway to the timeclock and swipe my i.d. card. It made two cheerful little beeps as a reply letting me know that I'm being paid. Back down the same hallway I go to the giant wall of safes that contains all of the keys to the hotel. It's an automated system. I punch in my id number, my pin, then scroll around to tell the machine that I intend to remove two different key rings, it tells me the keys I've specified are in door 2. A click and a beep later I pull out my keys and shut the door to go jangling down the hall to the elevator. That was weird new thing number one I did today. It turned out to be pointless because the senior security guy issued me clearance for all the wrong keys. I didn't have keys to the cash box, so I had to run with cash hidden behind the register, or go to the front desk everytime someone paid with cash. I was told that no one pays with cash and to not worry about it. (bullshit, first four transactions were cash) Being completely uncomfortable about what's ok to do and what will get me in trouble, I was really worried about handling cash improperly. There are set guidelines about how it has to be done. One of the key points is that no cash should be left visible on the back bar, and all cash transactions are to be settled immediately and the cash is to be locked in the drawer.
We were busy for a little while this evening, but Saturdays and Sundays are usually pretty slow and once I got through the nervousness, I felt like I was slightly better than incompetent. Glassware seemed to be breaking everywhere I turned. I was not handling any of the pieces that were broken, as they were breaking, to my credit. All the same, the crash of glass behind the bar halts all conversations for a long two seconds. A red wine glass literally fell from nowhere and crashed all over the backbar where I store the red wines. At least none got on the front bar.
A very oddly colored woman tried to pay with foreign money (it was blue, maybe Canadian?) and she was ready to get angry at me for telling her, "I'm sorry, US dollars is the only currency for which I can make change." She then told me she'd just like to charge it to her room, so I asked her to fill in her room number and sign the slip. She drew a squiggly line on the paper and left before I could tell what she had written. We have signature cards for all of the guests and my manager took the blurry slip over to the guest reception desk to figure out where this woman was staying. It wasn't until I said that this woman was kind of orangey brown colored with very bleachy hair that a glimmer of recognition sprang onto the face of the concierge. Apparently she was out for the evening, but will be in the hotel for two more days.
J, the woman who was cocktailing with me tonight was a delight to work with and oh so much fun. She has a very similar restaurant background to me and is pleasantly direct when telling me what I'm doing wrong. She helped me clean up tonight and we took off to go to a bar in North Beach and I bought her a couple of drinks to thank her for being nice to the new kid. I'm so timid when I begin work somewhere. I like to watch everyone do their thing and then try it for myself using what lines sounded good coming from the mouths of my co-workers. (I didn't get much training here) J says things like, "Have you learned how to say, 'please make yourself comfortable at a table and we'll bring your drink out to you' when guests are hovering around the bar? It will become your mantra" She then adds, that it gets them out of my hair and it simply makes the lounge look loungier. She lives a couple of blocks away from me so we shared a taxi home. I can now afford to take a taxi, finally!
I sold about $500 bucks worth of stuff at the bar tonight, got tipped out by the server (who sold a grand) and walked with about as much as I'd make in a week at Kate's. It was very similar to a night at the pub, in a lot of ways. I understand that most of my nights won't be this lucrative, but I get paychecks to make up for it. I'm looking forward to not being stressed out about rent getting paid.
While J and I were at the bar in NB, our manager walked in and sat with us. He was very encouraging about how hard it is to relocate, and in particular, how hard it is to relocate to San Francisco. The price of life here is steep, but the rewards are amazing. I'm hopeful that I don't have any cash discrepancies in the next 90 days. I understand that these, and losing your keys are the only two things you can do to get yourself fired very quickly. The job is pretty easy as far as bar gigs go, and I think I like my co-workers. They're closer to my age and very good at what they do and they don't seem to try to get with slacking off. Nice change from schlepping Guinness pints and fish and chips.
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| Financial District at night |
| 02.11.05 (1:15 am) [edit] |
One of my favorite parts about my new job is the neighborhood in which I work. Having lived in New York once upon an surprisingly long time ago, I get a little nostalgic when I'm surrounded by tall builidings. There's something about the quality of the light in the midst of the enormity that I just love. In San Francisco, most of the buildings aren't as tall as some of the shorter buildings in NY, but with the hills and the views, they are so impressive. I'm in an approximaetly 40 story tall building. (It has an odd shape and some of the staff elevators don't go all the way to the highest parts.)
Next to us is a huge complex of tall buildings, restaurants and movie theatres, around the corner is the TransAmerica Pyramid. As a very tall man, I like walking into the financial district and being dwarfed by the huge structures that surround me. I find it calming. Having written so many posts where I pick on myself for being a hyper, easily startled nellie, I feel it is about time to send along a note about one of one of the quieter aspects of my day. Walking home from work.
In the midst of the lights and flicker of SF's financial district, there is a disarming lack of car traffic or busses after about 8 pm. Everyone has simply gone home, (or into a hotel). It is unusual for me to pass anyone else on the street and if I do, it is probably a group of business types talking .com stuff. (I don't really listen) I'm into watching. The sky is incredibly black here as I'm on the bay side of the hill but hidden from the bay glow by Embarcadero center. Whatever lights are shining are as glowing as a full moon but so geometrically arranged as to form the outlines of the neighborhood buildings. I like to walk fast and at this time, I can book along at my favorite speed, take in the twinkles and begin to unwind from a day of shaking martinis into existance without bumping into anyone with a Starbucks cup welded to their hand. (never forget; making and serving drinks is not the same as drinking drinks. This concludes today's 'tips from backstage') By the time I start bumping into my neighborhood bums, I almost have the patience to be pleasant with them.
Alrighty, I'm all dreamy from being up so early this a.m. That concludes this Verlaine chat.
Please make yourselves comfortable and I'll serve you at your table.
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| Oh sleep, where are you |
| 02.10.05 (10:35 am) [edit] |
I don't know what the hell is up with me but I keep waking up ridiculously early for my lifestyle. Today I woke at 6 am and was unable to get back to sleep. Not too bad in some ways, but I have to work until two am for the next four nights. Sucks to start out groggy.
Work is weird and fancy and formal and soooo corporate. They have us fill out forms for everything we need. From paper supplies to soda backstock, you write it in and it's stuffed in a huge rolling locked box. I pick that up on my way in and put it away noting any discrepancies and filling out another form regarding them. I guess it will seem second nature soon enough.
I haven't been lost in the subterranean madness backstage again.
I went to San Jose to see friends last Sunday and watch the Superbowl commecials. I like the Fed Ex one with Burt Reynolds. He is so cheesy it cracks me up. Like a little botoxed cartoon from the seventies. He's starting to remind me of Elvis, somehow. C got me started laughing while we were out on a verticle hike (steep hills, great view!). She told a story about three women on Alcatraz one of whom got bombed on the hairdo by a big ole pooh and there was shit shrapnel that flew onto the other two. To make it more disgusting, they only had one tissue between the three of them to clean up. NASTY! "Oh look, this is me at Alcatraz with a big blob of Seagull shit on my head. Isn't that view something?" "Heres Nancy with her shit-stained shirt in front of Al Capone's old cell." Of course this was utterly hilarious to me after surviving last week's pigeon attack.
C told another story while we were hiking about how mountain lions tend to attack from behind. Just a note to anyone hiking in mountain lion territory; don't talk about them while you're hiking. It tends to make one a bit jumpy when a bicyclist approaches from behind and can make you scream like a girl. That was a fun day.
I borrowed "A Band of Brothers" from S and C and am totally addicted to it. The voices are really quiet so I turn the volume up loud to hear, and then the damn Germans start dropping bombs and I throw my popcorn in the air! Why do they do this on home dvd's?
Oh, I yawned, time to try a nap
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| Ho' heels day 2 |
| 02.06.05 (1:23 am) [edit] |
Walking up the hill to get to my apartment about 10 minutes ago, I passed by the neighborhood dance club (doesn't everyone have one of those across the street?) just in time to see 5 young, very drunk girls stumble out onto the sidewalk. I might not have noticed them except that two of them were screaming something unintelligible about their "fucking feet". Just in case the aural assault didn't grab my attention, these girls had the foresight to set out for what must have been an attempt to dress like the trannys night by dressing as assorted flavors of Sweet Tarts candy.
Jacked up on impossibly high pastel shoes, in desperate need of outriggers, the two who were cursing their feet were presumably unhappy with their choice of elevation, both liquid and leather. All five were poured into pastel colored tube tops. All five could have made better choices about exactly how they should cover their upper bodies. Vaguely covering the middle of their torsos were skirts about the size of a dinner napkin, and white as snow. I crossed the street so I could watch what I was sure would be a hilarious balancing act as the 5 inch heels met the 10% grade. Of course everyone knows that walking up a hill in high heeled shoes is rather manageable, (rather) walking down a hill on jacks can be about as graceful as walking on the tops of your feet.
It is amazing that none fell as they started down, each of them throwing a major wobble every few feet only to catch herself on a wall or one of the other napkin covered candies. I watched them walk the entire block, laughing out loud as the two "fucking feet" girls kept yelling "fucking" every few feet. As I stood there watching, a young guy dressed like a basketball court knocked me on the arm and said, "Nice, huh?" and pointed at the tottering hoo-ha's. Not wanting to burst any bubble, I simply agreed, "yes, nice." and finished my trip home.
Just having completed my second training shift behind the bar, I wonder what I'll be like in three months of reserved serving. Two of my trainers are transplants from other Hotels in the world. One from Italy, and oh so not smooth up front, and one New Zealander. Never having worked in this sort off environment, I find it odd that the two of them can switch on and off with the guest personality/backstage personality. It's called backstage for a reason. All of the unpleasant things that you deal with in your daily life are hidden away behind tens of locked doors in the hotel. Who knew? The same you do with your personal life and the guest, friendly but not familiar. The backstage is painted a cold blanched almond color with harsh lighting and bad air, possibly as a reminder of this relationship. After spending 20 minutes lost backstage between the fourth level basement and the third floor bar looking for a way out, I finally realized that all "stage" doors are colored to represent the area into which they open. (so they don't distract from the room onto which they open) The Front is all deliciously warm, copper tones and rich granite and wood fixtures. The illusion of perfection is impressive. In a month, I'm sure I'll automatically shift between back and front and never miss a beat, but for now, I'm front all the time.
The difference outside versus inside the hotel is barely noticable because of the neighborhood it is in. Once I walk out of the financial district to my 'hood is the difference in worlds so distinct. Complete with hooker heels and candy colored tube tops. I think I like it
I wouldacouldashoulda made this more cohesive, but I'm going all sleepy
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| 2:57 fire alarm |
| 02.03.05 (2:11 am) [edit] |
I was dreaming a very strange dream that wasn't very pleasant. No masses of flying pigeons, or anything like that, just some odd nocturnal goofiness. I heard a weird noise that I took at first to be the street cleaners but it's too early. Seconds after that first noise, what sounds like the world's biggest electric shaver is buzzing in the builiding next to mine. (I think) It's one of the Academy of Art's dorm facilities. Sleep is completely shot until the alarm is turned off, so I think I'll go check it out and go for an early morning walk.
There are many joys associated with living in a densely populated part of town. The neighbor's 8 story apartment being evacuated to the street just below my apartment is not one of them.
The second round of fire trucks just arrived....More later
Oh, now the beginnings of silence, plus two fire trucks, 150 people in the street and only one alarm that sounds like a school bell. Its almost angelic in its simplicity!
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| My sister is a serial killer |
| 02.02.05 (6:59 pm) [edit] |
I work in bar in a part of town most frequented by business folk during the day, and in the evenings full of kids meeting up on their way to nearby club. It is very common that man will come in and tell me that he's waiting for a friend/meeting someone at 2/just going to sit and make a phone call. For whatever reason, women don't do this. Women either show up with their party, or they are one expecting 14_by the way it's my bosses birthday and this is all we could think of to do at last minute. Yeah, well it happens anyway.
Another common happening is actually a recurring scam. There is a guy somewhere in San Francisco who gets drunk in bars all over the city and tells people that he owns Kate O'Briens. The real owners of Kate's are currently in South America drinking in bars all over some city there.
After finding a well spoken man sitting near him, this unknown man who has been called Steve O'Reilly, Russell McMahon, and a few other names, will start to lure the unsuspecting man into a little greed trap. The fake bar owner talks of having staff issues and needing to fire every body in the house. He almost always makes a job offer to work on Saturday and Sunday for an exhorbitant amount of hourly wage as well as a profit share of the days takings. The scam is reliant on the unsuspecting victim not knowing that it is incredibly dead on Saturdays and Sundays before evening.
At some point the O'Reilly McMahon will 'discover' that he's fresh out of money and needs to get home, "has anybody got a bit to spare for the cab". Once he has his cash, he makes an appointment to meet the next afternoon at Kate O'Briens. Sometimes he gives out our phone number as his, sometimes it's just a wrong number all together. Probably 3-4 times a month we get a really nice kid in who thinks he's got a great job lined up all for the simple good deed of loaning a twenty. I feel bad for them, because at first, they can't believe that we're not a part of the scam. I usually toss a free beer their way if they want it.
Today a guy came in looking for Steve. I said my usual bit about how they'ain't no Steve here. He looked really confused, but more than the usual. He had a huge sketch pad with him and started to tell me a story about how he's to come here on the weekends and do "glamorous paintings' of our beer drinkers. The paintings-to-be will go up on the walls. After we asked him if Steve asked him for money for anything, it clicked it with Mr. Glamor-Shots. "How many people does that guy send in here?" he asked. I told him it had been at least 10 in the last couple of months. Mr. G didn't seem to let any of this get him down, even though he was ripped for 50 bucks. He just drew a picture of Lara, making her look a bit like teen porn star/Jessica Rabbit rather than the Wild Irish Rose she is. It wasn't that bad, actually, just a charicature. Then he drew Bobby, one of our regular iron workers/beer drinkers. While sketching Bobby, I heard Mr. G say, "yeah,my sister and I were talking the other day, she's a serial killer you know, and she just loves marshmallows..."
I'm looking around for the springboard this guy just bounced his brain from but continued listening. Mr. G furthered his story with a subtale about a time when he was thinking about his sister and was eating a bowl of lucky charms. "I love some Lucky Charms, but you know those lucky charms in the cereal are made of marshmallow, so I made extra careful not to eat any of em. I know I'm alright like that."
I really wanted to get into a more involved conversation about the Marshmallow/Serial Killer Connection, like when it began, how many were dead, were marshmallows used in each of the crimes.....? Did his sister start by killing yard animals with marshmallows? But I though that a; he might actually think I might like his sister and want me to meet her b; he and his sister are one in the same. In this town a sister of his could be any drag queen with a bag of Sta-Puf. When I thought it through, however, I decided a burrito from the Mission was a much better idea. Now, I have forever changed the way you'll see a bag of marshmallows.
Now who's got stuff to make s'smores?
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| Kewora Moc |
| 02.01.05 (6:38 pm) [edit] |
Oh we are in for it now. A story about she who has so many names we can't ever stop making them up. Kendra is what her mother intended she be called but Kelpan and I share an amazing knack of getting mail with our names misspelled. It is not just random mailings either. What started the whole progression for Kevlar is when she purchased a Volkswagen Cabriolet while grocery shopping. (It could happen and until she yells at me for telling you this, I can't tell you what she was really doing when she suddenly found her self making car payments on a convertible.
I guess when you buy a VW automatic enrollment in the "Volkswagen Car Club of America" is part of the deal. The lucky VW owners get a card with their name on it to carry with them for emergency use as a toothpick, or perhaps to bully open a door for which one has no key. Unlucky car owners get a card with the name Kewora Moc printed on it. Kewora? Where the hell do you have to be from to think that those letters together might form a name? Kewora sounds like it might be something you'd stuff a chair or pillow with, or perhaps a fabric, but most certainly it isn't a name.
This recipe for chicken Korma has an ingredient called "kewora essence" but it doesn't elaborate on what it might be.
http://www.dergah.org/old/pages/recipes/kor ma.html" title="http://www.dergah.org/old/pages/recipes/kor ma.html" target="_blank"http://www.dergah.org/old/pag... Further google-ing suggests that the author of this recipe himself stumbled onto Kewora accidentally, as all other searches ask me, "Did you mean to search for Kewra Essence?" another substance about which I'm not familiar but I'm sure would do chicken right if used appropriately. What makes Kewora so special to me is how far from Kendra it is even to chock it up to a typographical error. The "w" on my keyboard is no where near the "n" key and if you touch type isn't even whacked with the same hand. A same distance/typo logic conundrum is revealed when the placement of the "o" across the keyboard from the "d" is regarded possiby indicating that the person who typed in this "name" must have really believed they were spelling it correctly. Astounding!
It was early on in my friendship with Kendra when I decided that I'd like to buy a digital camera from Best Buy. I did my homework, went shopping, and when asked if I would like to open up a Best Buy charge account and receive 10% off, I jumped at the opportunity and immediately selected a more expensive camera. While filling out paperwork relevant to my new account, my pal ChicalooKate overheard me ask if everything would be spelled correctly when it was sent to me. My salesperson was having a hard time "getting his ducks in a row" that day, or at least that was my impression. Sure enough, at the end of the month, my new Best Buy card arrived with the name Gary Witeelock on it. I called the handy little help number on the back of the card and asked that my name be changed on my account to avoid any possible payment issues and was told the problem was fiixed. It wasn't.
Now anybody who happens to posses the surname of "Witeelock" I'm sorry to inform you a typo was made at the hospital shortly after your birth. I'm sure they'll be better equipped to solve your legal name change issue than the staff of Best Buy
A month or so went by and Mr. Witeelock started getting his own junk mail at my address suggesting that Best Buy sells their name list rather quickly to offsett the 18 months same as cash offer of which they are so fond. Mr Witeelock continued to receive a bill from Best Buy for six months. It wasn't until I called to cancel my account that I was assured that the name would be fixed and a week later opened mail addressed to Gary Whitecloud. Whitecloud is in some ways closer to my actual last name but one look at me and you'll be thinking, "Damn, that is the pastiest looking Native American I've ever seen!"
Although the name game was proving fun, I couldn't help being troubled by the thought that if it was so easy for someone in the billing department to goof up and send me two cards with two different wrong names, I probably don't want them handling any of my finances. Besides, the cool coupons in the bill were hardly ever for stuff I wanted to buy and I cancelled my account. It wasn't until after I moved from Michigan to California that I stopped finding mail with Witeelock and Whitecloud where my last name should be. Now I get mail for Adrian Yap whom I'm sure was not a resident in my apartment, but someone's small dog with a giant bank account. This is San Francisco, after all.
These aren't the only two wrong names I know of, but they are the best.
Here's to you, Kewora!!
Chief Gary Whitecloud
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| When Pigeons Attack |
| 02.01.05 (5:15 pm) [edit] |
Good grief! I thought I might have a heart attack on my way home from work today. I was about half a yard behind myself all day long. You know that weird feeling you get when you take cold medicine? (I do!) Anyway, since I wait tables for a living, I try to keep my focus at work enough so that I don't drop hot food on any thousand dollar suits. Today was a day of going through the motions. I earned 25% so I must have done OK....
Part of the problem is the weather today. No, it's not bad, just the opposite. At noon it was about 70 and sunny with hardly any wind. Not exactly the best weather to hang out in a dark bar. Luckily, there's a big patio at Kate O'Briens and it was full of people drinking beer and eating fish and chips and shepherd's pie. (way easier when everyone orders the same stuff!) So, the desire to be sitting by the ocean reading a book versus the reality of schlepping Stella Artois and Guinness pints wasn't helping my floating brain syndrome. I'm done with work at about 3 pm and was able to take off to the bay to relax by the water. Somewhere between 2nd and Howard and the Embarcadero, my mood turned from spacey to jumpy.
While talking on the phone with my bud, Kelpan (not her real name, but no one spells it right anyway, so we just make up new names for her. more on that later) I tripped on something in front of a bunch of sexy gay boys and nearly wiped out while twisting my ankle as an act of recovery. What makes this incident particularly funny to me is that Kezlar is my very own "Bridget Jones". That girl gets into the most unbelievable cicumstances ever! She once went out to buy groceries and came home with a new convertible. So the stumbling incident is passed and I follow it up immediately by walking in front of a streetcar as it begins its trip to tourist hell. Laughing at myself as I make my way to a favorite park bench overlooking the Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena, I arrive to see a man hauling something out of the water with his fishing pole. (Digress again: dragging an animal from the water by its lips is about the most disgusting thing I can think of doing with my spare time) 5 feet away from me on the cement lands a Dungeness crab with a scrape and a slide. I jumped out of my skin and started visualizing this dude kicking the crab over to my park bench and I get up to leave. (not before Mr. McCrabbo starts taking a picture of his dinner, um, weird?) As I turn around I screamed, again, because I almost touched a pigeon with MY FOOT! YUCK!
I know it is a rather obscure phobia, at best, but I am incredibly startled by wild birds. You can never tell what they're going to do, where they might fly, and when. That incessant shitting is beyond vile, and of course I'm absolutely certain some bird's feces are going to land in my mouth as it flies over my head whilst emptying its asshole. What can I say, phobias aren't supposed to be rational, ask my mother, she has a fear that she will throw her purse in an opera house. Add to this that birds have a weird tendency to suddenly and collectively roost in one area and just as suddenly leave it en masse. The clicking sound from pigeon's wings as they flap the feathered rat into the sky can wake me from dead sleep and detroy my dreams for weeks to come. So add to my already jumpy mood and propensity to walk in front of mass transportation vehicles a huge flock of pigeons and seagulls and my relaxing day dream by the bay is kicked in the ass. I was still talking on the phone to Kewora, telling her about how birds freak me out when suddenly all the birds that were sitting on a giant sculpture near me fly directly at my head, clicking wings and all. *shudder* I think I screamed again, but having a tendency to freak out quietly rather than scream loudly, it could be true that I didn't make a sound. I know Kenrap was laughing at me when I said, "I gotta get out of here before I have a heart attack" and I stood up to leave. Incredibly, all gazillion of the birds that just flew into my face from the sclupture must have had a change of wing because there they were, about to defecate in my mouth as they made a second attack. I know I screamed then.
Kewona and I talked for a few more minutes, but it was clear to me that I had to get indoors before all of nature turned against me and shoved me in front of a cable car loaded with dapper gayboys so we said our good byes and I headed up the hill towards home
Here I am safe in my apartment and playing with my computer. Sometimes it is enough to know that the sun is setting and not need to watch it.
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