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| Lost a Day |
| 03.31.05 (1:24 pm) [edit] |
Hey, so I guess today is Thursday from what this here computer is telling me. I worked on Monday, which I don't normally do, then I went out with my usual Monday night crew on Tuesday and just got myself completely confused. I did, however, finally commit to a tattoo artist who can fix a botched tattoo on my arm. He was very encouraging about it being a good piece of celtic knottery once we were done. Originally, I wanted the entire piece covered over with another bit of art, but we talked it out and it just can't be that way. So....I'll use it as that beginning of any other work I have done there. It's been years since I've considered spending money to get inked. I'm excited.
And it's glorious out and I overslept so me and, "The Poisonwood Bible" are going up the hill to the park before I have to be a bar-slut.
Just thought you might like to know.
Oh! And, I'm planning a helicopter tour of the city with a couple of friends. That will be next month. I ain't never been in heleeecopter baferr!
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| Denny's |
| 03.29.05 (3:31 am) [edit] |
I just ate a Denny's and it brought back so many memories. Some good, some bad, some just kinda there. I was out on a fling with a boy tonight and after a very late movie, little old me was starving my pants off and about the only thing open near us was the Denbo's.
Cheese fries with bacon, and ranch with onion rings.
I already took some tums.
Kinda liked the guy too, but.....we'll see. He's done some very interesting work on a few large publications one of the most famous being about our nations obsession with food that comes in cardboard boxes with a side of fries, regular or extra crispy. (deliberately vague)
I thought it was funny to be talking about the work he's done while eating fried fat topped with fat and dipped in fat.
When's the last time you ate at a Denny's?
It's the middle of the night and I'm losing consciousness......zzzzz
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| full moon |
| 03.26.05 (1:07 am) [edit] |
Whaddya think about em, the full moons, I mean. Do they make anyone a little wacky? I get so moody and crack-pipe tempermental and then I see the big white thing up there in the sky and I'm like, "oh, well no wonder!"
Today was a day of whiny people. I just got serious about my latest detox diet and exercise routine and that is always a head trip. I ate salad and lean meat and beans. None of which was really that good. I found a cute place to get some light fare and they don't serve french fries. French Fries are my downfall. And bread and butter.
I'm sleepy and have to open up the bar in the morning. The ever late M called in sick today and I was asked to come in at 3 pm to open. I opened with a full bar, and lots of martinis and a really drifty beverage server. It was harder work than it needed to be. Pay was good, however, I'm simply not used to standing from 3 pm to 1;45 am and hike up the nob hill on my way to home.
Yeah, I broke glassware, too. Ooops.
I'm going to color easter eggs on Sunday and then eat egg salad until it smells like yuck everywhere I go.
Say "good night, Gracie"
Good night, Gracie...
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| Some People just be Pissy |
| 03.25.05 (1:06 am) [edit] |
Late in my shift tonight, my attention was equally divided between a Japanese man who was telling me in his incredibly broken English more than I've ever heard anyone know about single malt Scotch Whisky and one guy sitting across the room on a couch with his feet up on the table who occasionally yelled, "Stella" a la Marlon Brando in "Streetcar" indicating his want of another "Stella Artois". I was enjoying both of these men immensely. (we'll ignore that double entendre, please) This is where bartender's folly kicks in and it's possible to say something too relaxedly to the next guest, who for all I know just got fucked by a 747 in a dirty pool hall while having his fingernails yanked from his hands. The fingernails yanked part leaves visible evidence but I can't speak to the 747 stuff.
So I say to the man with the carry-on bag on the floor by his feet, "Did you just get in? I love arriving in San Francisco in the late evening, less traffic." He growls, "Too many migrants taking up all the space we natives deserve, delaying my flight with their travel"
If I didn't work in a four star hotel, I would have introduced myself to this grump and then to Mr. Takeshi who was seated right next to him. I would have acknowledged his dislike of migrants by pointing out that Mr.Takeshi is here from Japan because his company could find no one suitable in the US to take the position they relocated him for, against his wishes. I would have mentioned that nearly everyone in the hotel, concierge aside, are not local and, in part, is why we're employed there. Because, as a staff of over 250 we speak as many languages, easily, we offer better service. Clearly, we ain't all from California. I might have gone further to express my concern about his ordering a Californian wine, made from grapes almost certainly picked by the hands of migrant workers.
Instead, I asked where he had flown from. "LA. I was late getting to the airport from bad traffic on the freeways." I thought, "asshole, it's Good Friday tomorrow, everyone is off work traveling by car to visit with their families for Easter." I said, "I hate bad traffic when I have to fly. Would you like another wine, sir?" He grumbled something and signed his bill to his room and left.
Asshole had a bad day because he was late. Sounds preventable, to me, "migrants" or not.
Mr. Takeshi said, "I enjoy scotch, WHeeezkeee, next, only if can now, is not too late (?) you have Tareezker?" (Talisker) We do and as I poured his fourth Scotch, I heard a voice call, "Stella!"
Much better
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| T'ai Chi and the art of sneezing |
| 03.23.05 (9:13 pm) [edit] |
There was some clear sky to be enjoyed today and I went for a walk to Fillmore to people watch and read the second "Tales of the City" book. When the books were written, I don't think Fillmore was trendy, because it's never mentioned in the books. I moved to Lafayette Park later in the afternoon and read for another hour or two. I ended up in the park across the street from Grace Cathedral, which is a mere two blocks from my house. Huntington park, it's called.
There was a tiny ancient Asian woman practicing T'ai Chi in the grass near where I was sitting in the sun. Her exageratedly slow movements were very soothing to be near as I read the last few chapters of the book which, eerily, were set at the cathedral across from me, and the very bench on which I was sitting. That was super cool! Suddenly, the tiny dancer walked directly at me and stopped in what I consider to be my "personal space" and sneezed. She sneezed for ten minutes. She sneezed for ten minutes directly in front of me.
It shall be reported that it has been observed that Asian women have a habit of walking directly into me in a seemingly purposeful way. I can be standing completly still and an Asian woman will walk smack into me and then scream a slew of vowel heavy words before slumping away. This pisses me off in a way that anyone who is well over six feet tall might empathize. Do they not see the giant, bald, glow-in-the-dark white faggot directly in front of them? Is it a power trip to make me move out of the way? I think I will never know.
Author Kim Wong Keltner wrote about this in "The Dim Sum of Everything" stating that she, a Chinese woman herself, cannot navigate the crowds of Chinese grandmothers in San Francisco. Amy Tan also noted that the Chinese women in her life had larger than life physical presence in that book she wrote that wasn't "Joy Luck" So it isn't just me that has to wear Chinese lady bumpers. I just must wear them more often.
Walking on the streets of SF with my friend, Belinda G, I was validated to have him notice a woman see me, turn her head the other way and then change her trajectory and proceed to collide with me. This has happened in his presence enough times that he is convinced it is something particular to me, this east-west collision. It's completely annoying.
Huntington Sq. was virtually empty today. There were thousands of square feet on which ChinHa-choo could have chosen to stand and have her histrionic sneezing episode. She simply chose to do it 18 inches in front of me because????
Cathedral or not, I didn't bless her, and even though I wanted dim-sum for din-ner, I ate a burrito.
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| Courdoroy |
| 03.21.05 (12:36 pm) [edit] |
I wore a brown courdoroy jacket yesterday and went to dinner and a Karoke bar in the Castro with a couple of friends. It was a lot of fun and I ate the worlds best mac and cheese! (except my mom's) I was completely exhausted but had funny fitful sleep. I dreamed in color with odd plot twists.
I dreamed my apartment was a building in the middle of the street and traffic had to travel around it. There was a lot of honking in that part. The walls of my apartment were brown courdoroy and had pockets, like on my jacket. Wild animals, maybe like guinea pigs, lived in the pockets. One of my co-workers came out of my refrigerator and asked me if Mrs. Rabbit was having any candy with her cocktail and then went into the oven. I didn't answer but I looked for him in the oven but it was empty. I looked for candy in one of the pockets and I found a bus transfer. I put on my coat and went out of the aparment and was in the parking lot of a hardware store. I went into the store and bought some plain white wallpaper, screws and drain opener. I paid with the bus transfer.
There was more, but you know how dreams slip away once you wake up. I like dreams like that one
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| St. Pat's |
| 03.18.05 (2:46 am) [edit] |
I'm leaving out the bar stories, today, in spite of it being the dreaded St. Pat's. I want to talk a bit about 1997. I was 27 years old and living in New York and treading water, so to speak, socially, financially and emotionally. I left my roommate in early February and moved back to Michigan. I am still close with my roommate from that time and seeing her always brings me back to myself. Part of myself that I treasure is that I come from a family which is accepting, caring and devoted. My grandmother, who died last year, took care of her mother, my great grandmother, in her home until she died in 1997 at the fine age of 94. March 17th is Carol Alberta's birthday. She would have been 102 today.
My parents are devoted visitors of their elders, a trait that I sadly do not seem to possess. I remember getting in the car to go and visit my Grandparents or Great-Grandparents on most weekends. My father was particularly close to his mother's side of the family and I treasured sitting in the close front room of Ggma's house and listening to her tell her stories about Detroit in the old days and what it was like to be a woman who worked for a living while raising a family.
As was the custom for us, my brother would sit in the back "sewing room" and watch football on TV and my dad would sit on what my G-grandmother called "the davenport" and talk with my G-grandfather, a man who was essentially a father to him. My mom and I would listen as Gramma would tell story after story. Carol loved to talk and loved to sew.
In the late forties there was need in the family for Carol to get a job to make ends meet. She told a story about her first experience with Sears. She went in looking for a job as a seamstress. She met with a boss or two, I was young when I first heard this story and don't remember all of the details, but I remember being told about the interviewer asking a question. "If a woman comes in and says she'd like to buy this fur coat but she has to have the sleeves shortened and the hem taken up in the next half hour, what do you say?" My grandmother answered, "I'll try". She worked for Sears for years to come, wrecking her hands with tough leather work, and was proud to earn a pension from that company.
G-Grandma was one to dote on her men. She made homemade egg nog if her husband was ill. She always had a jar of cookies for granchildren and made wonderful roasts for dinner. She liked to laugh. A favorite memory of mine is of my paternal aunts, my grandmother and my great grandmother all catching a laugh at the same thing at the same time. I used to tell my brother it was like listening to a swarm of low voiced bees.
My favorite cookie recipe is hers. Oatmeal, raisin, peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies made with real butter! They come out thick and crispy and melt in your mouth delicious. I think she called them "Dump Cookies". (you just dump it in...)
In the mid seventies, she suffered a great fall and a bit of bad doctoring. I suspect that this was the beginning of her end, but she was never a woman to hurry. Her hip was broken and I remember going to see her in the hospital in Detroit. She almost shouted at me, "Can you see my big band-aid?", referring to the cast on her leg/hip. I know now that she was embarrassed to be laid up in a bed and to have me see her like that. This was the first time I'd seen a person in a hospital bed and it was frightening. Rakestraw women do not express pain and she laughed in that bed the same way she laughed in her favorite chair. Neither my great-grandmother nor my grandmother seemed distressed by any of their injuries or illnesses. They always wanted to make sure everyone was OK. I wish for this grace if I ever need it.
I'll always be proud knowing that my Great-Grandmother was an unconventional-convention al woman.
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| Car and Driver |
| 03.13.05 (9:27 pm) [edit] |
Tomorrow morning I'm getting up early to snatch a convertible for the day. I'll be driving up the coast to do some outlet shopping, (prom season is upon us and I won't be caught dead in last year's rag). I plan to see Shannon and family and go to the beach. Hopefully, somewhere in there, I'll stop and get some salmon to bring home and make gravlax with. Or a nice firm whitefish for some ceviche with oodles of fresh cilantro. (Yes, Andaloo, I'm always eating, or thinking about it, anyway.) I may take advantage of my hotel perk and stay in Santa Rosa overnight and do some swimming and sunburning for next to nothing. I don't have to be back to work until Thursday. I hate bartending on St. Pat's Day. I might keep the car for a day or two just to have special giggles to think about while being yelled at by drunks. Although I frequently take the commuter rail south to see the ladies of San Jose, I haven't been north out of the city to the country since Christmas. I'm looking forward to lounging on the beach with one of my latest book finds. (more Augusten Burroughs) I'll take pics of wherever I am and stick em up somewhere for y'all to see.
Pardon the shortness of the post. In fact, the posts may be a bit tight for the next few weeks. I've stumbled onto a subject about which I care not to share, but also about which I cannot stop writing.
I could use a trip to IKEA and Target, too......maybe I'll keep the car for three days! Oh what fun!
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| Absent and Sunburned |
| 03.10.05 (1:25 pm) [edit] |
I am a sunbunny. My mood flies through the roof when the sun returns from its holiday behind drippy yucky clouds. That will suffice to be the explanation of why I haven't had a thought come out of my fingers in the last few days. I've had a blast, however.
Tuesday, my new friend from work played tourist with me. We walked in an out of a bunch of galleries, she showing me her favorites, me showing off mine. We discovered that we both like to sing with the beggars on Geary St. instead of giving them money. We rode the cable cars to Ghirardelli Sq. and had GIANT ice cream sundaes. We shopped in the tacky stores on the wharf, ate clam chowder and hitched a free ride up Russian hill after gawking at the incredible nighttime view from the top of the curvy part of Lombard. J moved here four months ago after never having been to the City. I moved to New York sight unseen and made it my home for long enough to know I was in the wrong place.
Yadda, yadda. Yesterday, I did the tourist thing all day again. I walked the hills this time and skipped public transport all day. I ate at one of my favorite cafes, hung out at Aquatic Park and talked to Chicaloo on the phone for nearly an hour. I had a virgin Irish Coffe at Buena Vista Cafe and listened in on conversations around me. I snooped in big fancy looking churches and reveled in the beautiful light shining through stained glass windows.
I sat on top of Telegraph Hill and read The Sun Magazine. I started talking with a bunch of stoned College of Art kids and ended up doing a cartwheel or two with them. (ouch.) We laughed a lot about how funny laughing is. I watched the sun set and I went home. On my way I stuck up conversation with a very tattooed guy and ended up having pizza with him while we talked tattoos and other nonsense. I've seen him in my neighborhood before and was curious as to whether or not he's cool and eccentric, or insane. Um, that would be insane, but the pizza was good. I believe Diet Coke was present.
So yeah, nothing cohesive here, just me having some fun in the sun. I'm out to have some more of it before I have to don the bronze polyester and serve the $20 hamburgers with $15 martinis. Oh yeah, I was invited to attend a flight attendant cattle call in Oakland. What's crap about that is that the letter I was mailed is as good as a ticket to ride, but I live so close it doesn't matter. No free travel for me! I don't think I can swing flying all over the country and my full schedule at the hotel anyway.
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| Hula-Hoop |
| 03.05.05 (9:35 pm) [edit] |
Growing up in Michigan, my brother and I spent a lot of time indoors. As young children we had a lot in common. We were both the youngest in the house. We both wore plaid bell bottomed pants with alarming frequency. We both had really big hair and goofy grins on our faces much of the time. (school pictures) We both could turn our different interests into something in common. We still can.
My brother liked to play the board game, "Risk". Being the sort that would rather a tooth be removed without the bliss of anesthesia than to sit down and roll dice and oh soooo slowly..... What exactly happens while playing Risk? I will never understand the charm even if you tell me, so don't bother. My brother's game playing time was for me a time when I could try my best to distract him by being weird enough to make him lose his concentration either with laughter or irritation.
Unlike me, Dennis has an amazing ability to be engrossed by several subjects simultaneously and pay them all equal attention. He would, while playing against himself as four different opponents, make some appropriate grunts and quiet remarks in my direction as I cracked dumb jokes or threw other Marsha Brady-isms his way but mostly he would ignore me unless he wanted to terrorize me in the way that only older brothers can.
He liked to play Monopoly against himself and frequently had to because I could not be bothered to think monetarily. (I've learned to be bothered, finally) Thankfully, we had a snappy mom who would set us up outside on a card table in the summer days and the neighborhood kids would play with us. Dennis and the boys playing board games; me and the girls giggling about nothing all that funny and harrassing the boys. I suspect Dennis has never found an opponent quite as able as himself, and I've never bored of giggling with girls and being a distraction. I don't like 'risk' or "Risk".
When a friend called me and said she is thinking about moving from Michigan to the west for the second time in less than a year, I listened and tried to be gently discouraging. The first move was by herself to rendent-ils avec un homme and was to a strange city which left her wanting a lot more from her surroundings, including a more passionate man. She returned to her familiar ground with her family and friends nearby. I failed to ask about her happiness with her current situation before I gave my opinion.
Since her call the other day, I couldn't stop thinking about things in my life I didn't do because someone had been discouraging. Risks I didn't take because I might lack an audience to distract. I rarely played board games with my brother because I always lost. I was taught to lose gracefully, but transmuted that graceful loss into self-loathing. By not playing I avoided some of that pain and still lost by failing to learn to lose with out hatred. I made frequent excuses to not play games that involved a ball because, unbeknownst to anyone looking at me, I do not have depth perception. I cannot concentrate on the ball because I am physically incapable of knowing where it is. There's a painful irony to the latter because constantly hiding from challenges in one's life is avoiding depth perception and I now know that what is important is whether or not the ball is in my hand or is, at least, coming my way.
I will happily compete against and, invariably lose to, my mother in a game of Scrabble, (she cheats!...) because she is my elder and her great intelligence is just a fact of my life. In the same way, one of the hardest things learned from the Scrabble/Monopoly equation is the importance of sometimes imagining a victory and making an unpopular choice that may or may not benefit anyone.
When my friend called and said she was thinking of moving to my neighborhood again, I wasn't very supportive in part because I was caught mid-nap and, in part, because I was feeling bad about my latest imagined victories. I guess during that call, you could say, I didn't quite know where my ball was. Additionally, I was missing an "R" for my "B, V, A, and E", my opponent owned all of the utilities plus Park Place and Boardwalk, and was driving the little car of my dreams while I was in jail. Self expectation versus self evaluation is a bumpy street on which to speed. Nine months is longer than I had intended to spend barely functioning at my pre-move capacity. Nearly losing at Monopoly is a matter of Risk and simultaneously playing two games about which neither I am overly fond is bad for the brain.
Feeling more grounded a few days later, I called and changed my vote to one of wholehearted encouragement. The woman for whom this is written loves to Hula-Hoop. A game of personal struggle against gravity, of all foes. Successful Hula-Hooping requires strength, grace, perserverance, rhythym, balance and the guts to look just a little goofy while trying to coordinate all of the above. So, when you get out here, girl, bring me a Hula-Hoop My rhythym and my grace are a little out of sync but I'm confident you'll give me a lesson or two and I'll work it out.
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| For Andaloo |
| 03.04.05 (1:22 am) [edit] |
It would only make too much sense to write this next bit in a much more private manner, but at the prompting of one of my favorites in the land of tblog, I'm going to stretch myself way farther than I'm comfortable because it's just good practice. If you don't want to know how the odd brown Woody Allen tried to gain my affections go read "Better Homes and Gardens" now.
When it comes to meeting and flirting with men, I do not like to be objectified. There is no sense in this because I frequently leave the house wearing a kilt and combat boots, a shirt from "Camp Pendelton" proclaiming my name to be "Nadine", a three piece gangster suit in olive with mustard pencil stripes or on a subtle day: burgundy patent leather Kenneth Cole shoes to offset an otherwise plain jeans ensemble. I scream, "Look at ME!" with my clothing, but I'd rather just get the look most of the time.
So when I rather conservatively dressed, left the house and boarded the bus for CalTrain, I did so with some forethought. I knew I was travelling during the commuter hour and I was hoping to catch the attention of a nice "business type". I got Alex instead. He lit onto the taupe jacket I was wearing that day like an old lady onto a big, beige handbag.
After my initial mistake of engaging this man by commenting about the busdriver being an asshole, I proceeded to lay my own trap by sitting on the lower level of the train where the seats are arranged two per row opposed to the single row seating overhead. (In my defense, the lower seats offer more legroom and I've got lots of leg) Alex sat next to me and would intermittently say something non-sexual in a normal tone of voice and then quietly comment about my appearance and it's effect on him or something of that sort.
For example, "IT IS GOOD THE DAY WHEN WORK IS DONE AND IT IS ALSO ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR ME, (I can see how bright is your white ass, this is good! I will make you happy like this). DO YOU LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO (my penis, many tell me, is like a sculpture for museum) WHAT HOTEL IN THE CITY AREA IS NOT UNION (you will have me at your place and be happy, maybe once, maybe twice, maybe... if we both like... maybe many times) I AM DIVORCED (sometimes, is maybe only the first time, usually, I will come quickly because of how beautiful is your white skin. but I will be please to make you happy. I will have viagra, maybe?)
And like this it continued for 30 minutes until the train reached his stop and I was freed to read my book. (Tales of the City) I wish I could remember all of the noise that came out of this man's mouth but it's impossible. I wish I could remember what I said but I was too offput by the pitches. I know I tried to change the subject many times and contemplated getting off before my stop and reboarding a different train but I'm not too familiar with the weekday schedule so I sat still and endured hand touching, knee rubbing, and offers of everlasting physical bliss.
Andaloo, if you want more nasty awkward pick-up lines, I'll send em to your in-box.
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| Beach |
| 03.02.05 (6:36 pm) [edit] |
We had an amazing day here today and I spent hours of it reading on a beach. I'm re-reading a fun book and had several laugh out loud moments. I ate brownies and drank chai.
I met a few of my neighbors last night when half of the city's fire trucks surrounded our building. We could smell smoke, but had to go outside to ask Mr. Fireman if our building was burning. (It wasn't) It's exciting to hang around outside and speculate about the potential inferno that really was just a false alarm.
While out picking up dinner later, I talked to a cool guy who's training for the SF AIDS Lifecycle. A ride from here to Los Angeles. We're going to get together and ride sometime, supposedly. We Californians can be a bit flaky about the details....
Must run, I'm off to meet up with a very prompt east coaster for snacks and laughs. Woo-Hoo!
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| Man on a train. Man in a restaurant |
| 03.01.05 (12:39 am) [edit] |
Today's plan was to go to Sunnyvale to visit friends for dinner. I slept late, talked to Chicaloo, walked to the farthest possible bus stop because of the beautifully sunny weather. I stopped at Borders and bought the first 'Tales of the City' and read half of it on the train. What a fun read, especially considering I had a very strange encounter today.
Alex, (not a great name for me in this city), saw me get on the 30 and craned his neck following my every move. I'm used to watching out for who's watching me, but this was a different kind of craning. This was the craning of desperate fag and I knew I was in for an encounter. Luck, or lack thereof, would have it that Alex travelled the same southbound train as I, knowledge learned after I innocently remarked aloud about the absurd way bus drivers of the 30 route drive as far away from the Cal-Train terminal as is possible before stopping the bus and allowing us to get off and catch our trains. The station is the route terminal and it only makes sense to stop the fucking bus where everyone on the bus is trying to go. This is lost on all of the drivers of any 30 I've ever taken to Cal-Train. Alex replied with a smile, a handshake, an introduction, a question about how far I go, (concerning my travel) and a question about whether or not I have a boyfriend. (my first inner yikes bonged right then) I almost lied and told him, "yes, I do have a boyfriend", but I'm not the boyfriend type and I can't lie about it. I do like que sera, sera and then to write about it, so my answer was a flat ,"no".
We chatted about work. We both work in hotels and I inadvertently told him where I work when I said that my hotel is one of the few non-union hotels in the city. (second yikes)
Caught in a strange situation of enjoying the attention because of it's fodder value and trying to soak up the beautiful sunshine I'm so craving, I relented and gave out a fake phone number and listened to Alex tell me exactly how he was going to make me, "call loud in the joy he gives" (sounds like a bizarre cult meets Hallmark cards) Not being the sort to believe that any man who talks to me will love the sex we have together, I was understandably baffled at this iteration and continued to gaze out the windows at the blue sky and beautiful bay as it sped by.
Alex was wearing a really messy mop of hair, some wacko sunglasses, a blazer with a sweater and t-shirt underneath, 'nice pants' and decent shoes. He looked like a dark skinned Woody Allen. He spoke with a ridiculous accent and was really quite funny and he tried so hard that it made me want to throw Verlaine from the Train. I won't write much of what else he said here, but, DANG, YO! I had no idea someone could throw non-stop lines like that and not spontaneously combust.
At Dishdash in Sunnyvale, our waiter, one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen, about stopped my heart a few times. Aside from his from his physical stunning, he managed the restaurant in a fashion rarely seen. He knew what was up everywhere in the house, opened bottles of wine that were only intended to be sold complete and poured them by the glass, and spared plenty of time for conversation with each of his tables. He hugged many of his guests as they left him. Friend, S, remarked that if she were to ever open a restaurant she would search him out and hire him, if available. He remembers everything he has served to S and she has only been to Dishdash three times in the last year. To top it off he was intermittently shy and very forthcoming. (YUM!) From where I was sitting I had a fantastic view of the kitchen sidestand and could watch him go on and off stage. (entirely pleasant either way he was, either 'shy' or 'forthcoming')
That's today's pooh, so take a big whiff, some of it smells good.
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