Remnants

Well, this is exciting. I've been picking up my apartment in anticipation of liquidating much of it and giving me more organizaiton in the process. And the shit I've unearthed:

• A note from old college friend Shana (which I've subsequently misplaced).
• My old teamster card. Yes, I'm a box dragger.
• My high school hockey jersey. This wasn't a complete loss, but I hadn't seen the damned thing in years.
• A tarot set I'd thought I'd lost. I do not know how to read tarot, but the damned thing was humorous enough to keep around and made me enjoy my esotericism. 

So, what to do except pick up some more, see what else I can find. Go figure. Ugh, I smell right now, but think I'll have hockey to watch in a little bit. Before I head to work. 

Speaking of puck, I was hanging out with friend Matt at Kilowatt. To watch the Sharks put up a stinker to the Ducks, but that's neither here nor there. However, in the corner there was  of the bar there was a group of Blackhawks fans, watching the Hawks take on the Flames. And they were yelling, carrying on, going freaking ballistic over the game. And I loved it. Every hit, every shot, cheers, jeers, really going at it. Like hockey should be watched.

I'm not going to say too much about my hockey experience here, but I've gotten the impression over the years that Bay Area sports fans basically watch their sports like they're in a library. I'd actually gotten bored with the sport because nobody knew how to watch it. And seeing them (and nearly getting into a fight with one of them), was awesome. 

T-minus two months and counting. Time to fetch my laundry.

clap trap

Another discussion at work — this time about movies — which made me think about pet peeves. Of them:

• I dislike people talking in movies. Sorry, we're getting a world given to us with no breaks. Grant us the time to get it (see: case study 2046 where friends were giggling about the entire thing while I was trying to watch an awesome movie. Almost ruined the thing for me, although I still haven't seen it fresh.).
  
• Clapping in movies. Yes, I have no problem with this if the actual people involved are there, but a round of applause or standing ovation makes about as much sense as clapping at the end of a book. It's self-congratulatory bullshit.
  
• Exclamation points. Most of you know this.
  
• Taxes.

Okay, so this really is just for me to point out that I still haven't finished my taxes, although that may even change today. But really, does it matter that much?

* * *

Most recently on the facebooks I've been getting ads for Match.com. I'm not sure quite why this is happening, mainly because while yes, I am single, I'm not looking and have a history with dating sites:

So a few years back, I was reading an article in The Atlantic (I think) about the modern pseudo-science of the contemporary romantic enabler. Virtual Yenta, as it were. I figure what the fuck, for shits and giggles (take a drink), I'll try it, what me being perpetually and habitually single and with pretty much no luck by default in the SF genetic wasing pool.

I jump on one of them, put in the hour or so to fill out the psychological exam or whatever, filling question after ridiculous question just to see what type of response I would get. What the machine would say about me. I think it believed I was a cylon. It's actual response: "Sorry, but we can't do anything with your makeup, you neurotic, psychotic loser/douchebag. Get a sex change, find a mortgage broker." I think that was it.

And now, I guess I get ads from them. I should tell them I still have a codpiece.

post. it.

I need to rush this post, as I'm sitting in my bath towel and have to run to work. But it's very near official -- I'm leaving. SF. Gone like a distant memory (please grant me the cliche — again, I'm rushing).

The transfer to New York finally came through, and as of mid-June, I'll be packed and absconded.

I've been spending the last few nights looking at apartments in NY. Big, scary move, but at least I have the job so all I need now is a place to live, less I'll be spending nights at Grand Central sans shower. And I've realized how pointless that is at this time.

More to the point, though — I want to remember San Fran in a good light. Yesterday I took a walk past the Contemporary Jewish Museum, and the view from there was refreshing at worst. My history here has been spotted at best, and I'd pretty much tired of it five years ago, but there was something here when I first showed. And I want to spend the next two plus months finding it again.

First — (and this is going off a suggestion from Rik) the Tonga Room will have to be in the offing. It's closing, I'm leaving, so this makes sense. In my nine-plus years, I've never been there, so might as well end with a piece of history, as it was one of the last tiki lounges in the city and apparently worth every bit of the notoriety and repute it got.

As for everything else, well the explorer's cap is coming back. We'll see where it takes me.

Tea and crumpets

At work the other day we ended up a conversation about curse words. Namely, 

Party A: What's your favorite curse word?

Party B: Why, that would have to "fuck."

Party C: I agree wholeheartedly with my colleague.

Party D (me): It's "cunt." I won't say it in mixed company, but it's "cunt."

Party E (female): What's all the hubbub over there?

Party A: Do you have a favorite curse word?

Party E:  [thinks] "Shitbag?" I think I use that one the most.

Party D: It's still "cunt." Sorry, but it's the last one left. Unless you're Irish or a Brit, they've already used their allotment like its government whiskey rations.

This might not be the exact breakdown of the conversation, but it was close. I am not that witty sober. 

And I will have you know I was wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.

I should have remembered this article from slate awhile back (http://www.slate.com/id/2213558/ for the browserly retarded) that expounded on the virtues of matriarchal incest as a slur in nearly every language. And the other day a friend of mine texted me about losing his glasses after talking to a female bartender about Booker's being 'crazy juice' (a new one to me as that's a term I reserve for other much more personal things, namely about other people). I responded "Did you check her snatch?" I had to hide this response from my female company — too vulgar, too ultimately base for the moment.

Which brings up the question: why do all the good ones revolve around the female genitalia? I mean, you call a guy a dickhead, a putz, limpdick or micropecker and he'll probably not give a shit. Won't even think he's being yelled at, unless you're yelling at the time. But throw out "You dirty fucking cunt" to anyone and they'll just about rip your eyes out. Unless they're a Brit or Irish, and then they'll laugh and buy you a pint. Unless you're yelling at them. Seems like a sexist bias in there somewhere.

I will have you know, I also like the word "skullfuck," but thanks to the onion that's even gotten a little old.

The Music Blog

For shits and giggles (one of my favorite cliches btw, if anybody is regularly following this they will probably have already seen that pattern), I put my iPod on shuffle. No classical. Three out of three songs so far I forgot or didn't realize I had. This astounds me.

Now, I'm not going to talk up my musical knowledge — to be quite honest (and as intimated in the previous post), I'm usually quite far behind on any musical trend and have lost my taste and connections for it — but I have always enjoyed knowing I know what's in my freaking collection. It's up to 2222 songs now, a good third of that probably classical, but dammit if it this state isn't a result of pure negligence. 

Case in point: I made a friend a classical guitar mixer the other day. Got two cds out of it. And I'd forgotten how much I actually enjoyed a lot of that music. So now I'm trying to take stock of why that's happened. The usual lineup of co-mingling events are there: not enough time, a lot of music compiled in 33 years, and I've been so wide-reaching with my tastes that it's hard to get consistent thread between all of them. However, when I was younger, on my own, in SF, I'd sit around my apartment as something fantastic to do, chill and read and listen to music, usually sans the reading part (I'm guilty of trying to make myself sound to noble). And I've lost it somewhere, and sort of want to get it back, sooner rather than later.

So, the first part of this process is arranging my apartment for however long into a place I can again relax and sit and really listen to my tunes. The second — and now I'm challenging all my loyal readers out there — is to get back to making mixes. I'm guessing most of you are on the facebooks, where this blog is mirrored — send me a note, tell me what you want. I'll see what I can do. 

And if I've already made you one, then don't get too spoiled.

Anyway, this blog has now

.

rediscovering the shit on my shoes

I had a revelation tonight that, were I living back east or at least were I living in Baltimore, where I lived would be a tony neighborhood. I mean, the fucking former CAA building might as well be The Belvedere. Not to be confused with the Mister. 

Fuck, location is central, basics are almost perfect, you even get a walk past city hall and its gilded dome to go to work -- but this qualifies as inner city west-coast style. The respectable neighborhoods are all up the hill or less developed "neighborhoods," that, while they qualify as such, are much too large to substantiate basic civil existence on an old-world scale (meaning -- before cars existed). And I've met too many people here who will get their car to go half a block. True story. But that's an aside, and let's talk about the hill thing.

Now, make no mistake I don't think this is a bad idea: in general the riff-raff is less inclined to climb, esp. when it means they get farther away from freeway traffic, but something in this idea strikes me as horribly wrong. The buildings here are some of the oldest, not this pretty victorian shit but something that survived the quakes by being made well, or were made after it and are made even better.

Moreover, the monuments, arts, structure of the area says it should be so much better. And what is it? An effing ghetto. If I have one thing that always pissed me off about suburban life back east and west-of-the-appalachian culture in general is that if it means you have to be around people regularly, you must live in a ghetto. Not in a place that requires more substantive existence and people always being on their wits. No, you need to acclimate to the stupidity of the ghetto to get around beauty.

I've always said that if I ever went back to Europe, I'd never come back. I'm still tempted, but next stop (cross my fingers) will be New York. I'm done here. For several years now.

late night ruminations because i'm not sleeping

there will be no theme to this post, as quite frankly i'm only writing it in a fit of insomnia and disappointment because of it. so the list of random thoughts:

• Finished watching season three of Battlestar Galactica. Wow. I'd heard about this show for awhile, but frankly I'm amazed they've managed to pull off a show that's so bizarre, brilliant and absolutely unpredictable in a sci-fi setting. not that I have anything against sci-fi, but the genre usually relies on so many tropes it's not all that watchable. BSG...no. Easily one of the weirdest and most inventive shows I've seen since Twin Peaks, but without the Twin Peaks lulls.
  
• I miss days where I could just steal off to nowhere in particular, hang out, do nothing. Not to say I don't enjoy living in the city, but I miss the idea of going somewhere on a whim with no planning or agenda. That's the most nostalgia you'll hear from me for awhile.
  
• Music hasn't had the same power it once did for me. I still love it, but it used to be something that would just floor me and I would plan nights around. Maybe it's the prospects of not sharing.
• Grendel. Read it recently, made me realize that American authors do not write novels like that anymore. Slim, metaphysical, but also a full on monster story. Who knew? Too many American novels remind me too much of the author, like that was its purpose. 
• I'm taking a stab at making red sauce in my crockpot. We'll see what happens.
• I removed the last comment. It's too embarrassing.
• I need to get back to writing. My apartment is too much of a disaster to do so, though. Mainly to work on my portfolio.