Nine P.M.
It is night now, no longer evening but fully night, as in "black as," if not precisely "dead of." Evening usually has the afternoon hanging on its coattails, has actual flecks of daylight clinging like lint to its lapels, but night is solitary, aloof, uncompromised, extreme. The safe margins of the day, still faintly visible during eventide, have been erased by night's dense gum, obscured by its wash of squid squirtings, pajama sauce, and the blue honey manufactured by moths. Is the night a mask, or is day merely night's prim disguise? Most of us are born in the night, and by night most will die. Night, when tangos play on the nurse's radio and rat poison sings its own hot song behind the cellar door. Night, when the long snake feeds, when the black sedan cruises the pleasure districts, when neon flickers "Free at Last" in a dozen lost languages, and shapes left over from childhood move furtively behind the moon-dizzy boughs of the fir.
Tom Robbins
"Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas"
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Remembrance
16 years now and it is unbelievable. The pain is much less but still constant. The best way to celebrate who you were is to be happy myself. Here's to an incredible woman named Janet Jean. May your spirit be in happy floating places. Love, love.
Monday, May 17, 2010
A rainy-day walk turns into fiction
I just saw the weirdest and funniest thing in SF at this moment in The Mission. It is a rainy day and I've been out enjoying a walk in the light and steady downfall. As I passed 21st street, an old man dressed up in tweed and a beret pushed off on a unicycle. He slung a strapped guitar over his shoulder and shoved off into the drizzling haze. I turned to my left whilst passing and began laughing in delight at him. He smiled back and cycled ahead.
A few feet ahead of me, the unicycler tipped his head to an equally elder tranny. She had neck-length white hair to match her white moustache. She was wearing a long, pink satin ball-gown covering what looked to be implanted breasts, which strained against her dress fabric. She was leaning forward at a 45 degree angle hauling along behind her two incredibly heavy-looking suitcases.
The happy-tweeded unicycler gladly greeted a fellow he recognized to beas interesting as himself. The sober tranny, clearly sad and lost in intricate thoughts, wasn't even aware of the benevolence bestowed upon her on a rainy Mission street. I was meant to see these two unique characters today. I had walked out of a previous coffee-shop in search of a slightly better one, just to observe and walk past Sir Unicycler and Madam Tranny.
Do you ever feel some things are meant to happen just so? I imagine Sir Unicycler to be a lithe and generous spirit. He belongs to a Unicycling Performance Club. He can play serious and silly ditties on his guitar whilst roaming San Francisco on his unicycle. He is dating a mature woman named Lady Roller-skater. When out on the town they unicycle and roller-skate circles around each other. A wheeling dance that begins slow and steady, forever gathering speed and tempo--until finally, as a crowd draws near, on a newly lit San Fran street, Sir Unicycler and Lady Roller-skater's wheeled dance reaches a feverish pitch of legs out, arms up-raised, hands clasped, wheels furiously spinning into the final hurdle of their epic performance. Yes, Sir Unicycler indeed has a lot to be jolly about. Strange and joyful chap that he is.
Madam Tranny is a bit more tragic. She is homeless and walking in the rain on Valencia Street. As a once famous night-club singer in the Castro, she is used to a much finer standard of living. Alas, Madam Tranny's downfall revolves around a love story gone wrong. La Belle Chat, an old 1950s night-club, was typically full of deviants up to atypically debauched acts. Madam Tranny sang for the gaudy cast of deviants five out of seven nights. It was her custom to order a tall vodka tonic and lustily belt out 'Can't teach an old dog new tricks' or 'Some like it hot!' The heat usually radiated from the stage to the darkened interior of La Belle Chat.
After many years of working thus and entertaining the underbelly of Castro, Madam Tranny met the Prince. The Prince Frog, that is. He was more of a toad, really, just between you and I. But a Prince is still royalty, even in his froggy way, and he certainly knew it.
The Prince hopped into La Belle Chat for the first time one fog-dampened night. Eyes fairly bulging, he demanded a neat scotch. Down one scotch went, followed by another two. Madam Tranny was Centerstage, propped wantonly upon the baby grand piano. Her microphone softly brushed her white moustache. 'Summertiiiime...And the livin' is eeeeasy." Madam Tranny caught every deviant's eyes and made sure to hold them for a few moments; to let them know she really meant it. As her eyes dropped onto the Prince, she was not to remove them for the next two ballads. Love ballads, mais oui.
Madam Tranny's pink satin dress rustled audibly as she made her way down from the fully-lit stage. Regular Deviants of La Belle Chat rose and came to Madam Tranny. Lips glistening and paws out-stretched predatorily, they wanted to show her their appreciation of such fine talent. The Prince remained in the shadows, watching. It was then that Madam Tranny sensed it might be serious with this one.
I hope he likes pink, she thought.
A few feet ahead of me, the unicycler tipped his head to an equally elder tranny. She had neck-length white hair to match her white moustache. She was wearing a long, pink satin ball-gown covering what looked to be implanted breasts, which strained against her dress fabric. She was leaning forward at a 45 degree angle hauling along behind her two incredibly heavy-looking suitcases.
The happy-tweeded unicycler gladly greeted a fellow he recognized to beas interesting as himself. The sober tranny, clearly sad and lost in intricate thoughts, wasn't even aware of the benevolence bestowed upon her on a rainy Mission street. I was meant to see these two unique characters today. I had walked out of a previous coffee-shop in search of a slightly better one, just to observe and walk past Sir Unicycler and Madam Tranny.
Do you ever feel some things are meant to happen just so? I imagine Sir Unicycler to be a lithe and generous spirit. He belongs to a Unicycling Performance Club. He can play serious and silly ditties on his guitar whilst roaming San Francisco on his unicycle. He is dating a mature woman named Lady Roller-skater. When out on the town they unicycle and roller-skate circles around each other. A wheeling dance that begins slow and steady, forever gathering speed and tempo--until finally, as a crowd draws near, on a newly lit San Fran street, Sir Unicycler and Lady Roller-skater's wheeled dance reaches a feverish pitch of legs out, arms up-raised, hands clasped, wheels furiously spinning into the final hurdle of their epic performance. Yes, Sir Unicycler indeed has a lot to be jolly about. Strange and joyful chap that he is.
Madam Tranny is a bit more tragic. She is homeless and walking in the rain on Valencia Street. As a once famous night-club singer in the Castro, she is used to a much finer standard of living. Alas, Madam Tranny's downfall revolves around a love story gone wrong. La Belle Chat, an old 1950s night-club, was typically full of deviants up to atypically debauched acts. Madam Tranny sang for the gaudy cast of deviants five out of seven nights. It was her custom to order a tall vodka tonic and lustily belt out 'Can't teach an old dog new tricks' or 'Some like it hot!' The heat usually radiated from the stage to the darkened interior of La Belle Chat.
After many years of working thus and entertaining the underbelly of Castro, Madam Tranny met the Prince. The Prince Frog, that is. He was more of a toad, really, just between you and I. But a Prince is still royalty, even in his froggy way, and he certainly knew it.
The Prince hopped into La Belle Chat for the first time one fog-dampened night. Eyes fairly bulging, he demanded a neat scotch. Down one scotch went, followed by another two. Madam Tranny was Centerstage, propped wantonly upon the baby grand piano. Her microphone softly brushed her white moustache. 'Summertiiiime...And the livin' is eeeeasy." Madam Tranny caught every deviant's eyes and made sure to hold them for a few moments; to let them know she really meant it. As her eyes dropped onto the Prince, she was not to remove them for the next two ballads. Love ballads, mais oui.
Madam Tranny's pink satin dress rustled audibly as she made her way down from the fully-lit stage. Regular Deviants of La Belle Chat rose and came to Madam Tranny. Lips glistening and paws out-stretched predatorily, they wanted to show her their appreciation of such fine talent. The Prince remained in the shadows, watching. It was then that Madam Tranny sensed it might be serious with this one.
I hope he likes pink, she thought.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Surrounded by people we are still alone
I've been working my false balls off trying to eek out any kind of money in SF. Even with experience it's difficult to find anyone to pay you. I work everyday and have discovered that my new friends/family seem to be my co-workers. Friends I thought I had have fallen behind in the fast jog of life.
Loneliness is an interesting thing. It makes people a bit awkward and unsure. It comes upon you at the most intimate moments when you are vulnerable and prone to sad feelings. Then you try to push them away, fight these unwanted feelings, as you know deep down it's a way of feeling sorry for yourself. But what do you do when the loneliness continues to exist, despite the fight?
I met this Mexican guy at work, named Remijio. He is always hanging around the restaurant, even when he's not supposed to be working. Through my broken Espanol and his mierda English, we found a common link. Our families are far away, we need to work constantly to survive, and when we're not home sleeping we're at work to keep ourselves muy occupado. Or more accurately, to keep ourselves away from the loneliness - if even for a short while. It struck me that my situation is quite common. Particularly in cities.
There are other things. Boys want to date me. I don't want to date them. It's too soon and I'm not sure when I'll ever feel somewhat 'normal' again. Perhaps after enough work I'll feel like taking a break and being nice to myself again. Then I can allow others to be nice in return. Silly, wallowing girl. Things will get better.
Loneliness is an interesting thing. It makes people a bit awkward and unsure. It comes upon you at the most intimate moments when you are vulnerable and prone to sad feelings. Then you try to push them away, fight these unwanted feelings, as you know deep down it's a way of feeling sorry for yourself. But what do you do when the loneliness continues to exist, despite the fight?
I met this Mexican guy at work, named Remijio. He is always hanging around the restaurant, even when he's not supposed to be working. Through my broken Espanol and his mierda English, we found a common link. Our families are far away, we need to work constantly to survive, and when we're not home sleeping we're at work to keep ourselves muy occupado. Or more accurately, to keep ourselves away from the loneliness - if even for a short while. It struck me that my situation is quite common. Particularly in cities.
There are other things. Boys want to date me. I don't want to date them. It's too soon and I'm not sure when I'll ever feel somewhat 'normal' again. Perhaps after enough work I'll feel like taking a break and being nice to myself again. Then I can allow others to be nice in return. Silly, wallowing girl. Things will get better.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tidbits
Am sitting in the Presidio hoping it doesn't rain whilst I steal some wireless. Along the way here I saw a guy carrying a cardboard sign saying "Believe in Yourself." It made me happy.
I breakfasted at Dolores Cafe across from Dolores Park. At the park, I saw a little boy pushing an old man on a swing.
Walking down one of the monstrous hills in the City, I was passed by a skateboarder going at least 35mph. He had his hands in his pockets and was whistling. Death wish.
I breakfasted at Dolores Cafe across from Dolores Park. At the park, I saw a little boy pushing an old man on a swing.
Walking down one of the monstrous hills in the City, I was passed by a skateboarder going at least 35mph. He had his hands in his pockets and was whistling. Death wish.
Monday, April 19, 2010
New life
Talk about eccentric characters. From the profiling artists on the 14 Mission bus to Homer the homeless man outside my apartment, I fit into this city pretty fast. Not that I am a profiling artist or homeless man, just that I am weird and this city is full of my kind. I'm living with my friends on their couch, trying to eek out a living at 2 restaurants and pay off some debt. I still have yet to properly explore the winding hills of San Francisco but from living in the Mission, I'm getting a good idea of what's what around here.
The Mission:
Mexican neighborhood with many gun-toting crazies trying to kill each other in gang-related activity. Awesome murals along several blocks from talented artists who fit in with the crazies and generally fascinating residents here. Never carry a big purse. Or wear a skirt. Be prepared for people asking to use your phone and/or stab you at the ATM. Amazing top-notch tacos and burritos. Fantastic bars and restaurants. Funny how Mission St is the worst but if you go anywhere 2 blocks away it is infinitely nicer. Also, you must speak un poquito espanol because shop owners will not speak ingles for you. The best thrift stores in the city are located here. Everything is cheap but the rent.
Did you know?
That medicinal marijuana is legal and one of the biggest cash crops of California? It is a normal part of life in SF. A lot of people seem to have Medicann cards and medicate themselves frequently off the products dispensed from dispensaries. From edibles to several strains of weed and hash oil. Smoking up (medicating) is allowed in public areas.
The Pay Is Shit.
From just arriving from Corporate Australia to Hospitality San Francisco, I've noticed a huge monetary difference. As in, it is almost poverty level here. Thank you Recession. Now is the time when people can take advantage of others and pay them next to nothing for an incredible amount of work. Having any job is a success.
San Francisco is the prettiest city I've ever lived in hands-down. Colorful houses, or 'painted ladies' dot the hilly streets. Bay-views with massive bridges are common land-marks. I really do adore it here. Gun-toting crazies and everything. It is America, after all.
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