Something I Can't Finish

Hello down there,

There are so many interactions and situations that I want to write about and almost all of them took place during yesterday's Dyke March. For those that are not familiar, this weekend is referred to as "Pride," a three day public party devoted to the celebration of homosexuality among almost all other sexualities. All but heterosexuality because, evidently, we have the remaining 362 days to celebrate. Public drunkenness is encouraged and nudity is acceptable. I have never been to anything like it.

On Saturday morning, I woke up and immediately walked to my neighborhood bar to seize the day. I ordered a shot of whiskey and a cider as I watched out the window for the L train. I would have never guessed that the mother-of-all-parties was taking place just a mile away. Everything was dull and ordinary in my area town, as it usually is at noon on a Saturday. Children were being picked up from their karate lessons and elderly Asian couples were carrying their groceries home. Ordinary.

I rode the train to Dolores Park, the epicenter of all things festive, to meet up with Danni and eventually Dean. I wrote about my interaction with Dean a few days ago and formed a concrete opinion of him based on what I knew of him at the time. It was a negative one and I regret to inform that I am sometimes wrong. As it turns out, he's a really fun person and not anything near what I made him out to be.

We drank and drank and drank Tequila, beer, and vodka. And we talked and talked and talked. Random drunken encounters would take place throughout the day, and two are worthy of their own paragraphs.

Humberto is a party-with-your-shirt-off kind of guy. Very friendly and very gay. We were returning from a liquor store and heading back to Dolores Park to march with dykes. They call it Dyke March. En route, Danni realized that she really needed to use a bathroom. Being the drunken trio that we then were, favors were asked of all that looked as if they had the authority to allow her into a bathroom. Residential bathroom, commercial bathroom, outhouse, anything. We didn't have time to be picky. Right as our latest attempt failed, a charming hispanic fellow descended from the clouds to scoop Danni off of her feet. At this point I was considerably drunk but relatively sober when comparing my inebriation to Dean's or to Danni. Danni definitively took the gold medal, Dean the silver, and I was left with an honorable mention of drunkenness. I wasn't drunk enough to let some stranger take my friend out of my view, however. Dean agreed with the potential risks and we chased them up the stairs. It turns out that he was a really cool guy and offered us some drugs, hit on Dean and Danni, and life moved forward in a slow-motion type of way.

I was dancing. Those that know me well know that I do not dance. This serves as further proof of my sloppiness during the march.

And I was attacked by a swarm of angry lesbians.

I saw a girl pushing a stroller. She was wearing a shirt that said...

"MARRIAGE = LOVE YOU SEXIST BITCH"

The number of hilarious ways that this can be interpreted is astounding. The best part is not knowing whether or not the wearer of the shirt knows this or not. Two thumbs up.

Religion/Bazan

David Bazan, formerly of Pedro the Lion, has given me a refreshingly honest and new perspective on religion. After reading through a few articles I feel that his opinion on Christianity is full. As it is plainly clear in his earlier recordings, Bazan was a devoted Christian in the past. Being forced into accepting the love and existence of Christ from a very early age limits what could potentially be understood without it. Having a closed minded view of God and religion (limited to Christianity) is rarely ever going to benefit anyone in relation to a child brought up in a free and boundary-free atmosphere, where a person can then base their own true opinion.

Anyone that cannot understand past "RELIGION IS LIES" should stop reading here. Religion is based on falsies and flat out misconstrued, silly lies. Coming to grips with the fact that many important lessons and understandings can be gained through such "lies" is impossible for most. It just so happens that Christianity is not worth anyone's time, and, having been forced into this specific religion, I can understand why someone would be sour about religion in general. Other religions with even more elaborate and unbelievable stories have thought provoking stories to better a person. Just don't take it in a literal sense. Do we really need to argue whether or not Moses parted a body of water? I certainly hope not.

Getting back to Mr. Bazan, he claims that his faith slowly disintegrated as he became more and more familiar with it. Some grow up with strict guidelines about faith, sometimes making it irreversible to think with an objective mind about religion, or anything. Others view religion as an escape. For example, when a 9 year old's dog dies, praying is going to put Spot into doggie heaven, right? Maybe it does help. I just don't think that I'll ever be in a position to think so. Neither does David Bazan.

Also, please view this hilariously biased blog post about Bazan's fall from faith here.

D-$

My roommate works at a fancy coffee shop in The Mission. It's an ideal environment to get work done in or to simply wind down and read a newspaper. Amazingly quiet to the point where the running of the faucet sounds deafening when breaking the comforting silence. The bulk of the patrons are regulars that are fine with the three dollar cup of coffee that is offered here. Lovely place.

As my roommate was closing the store one night, there were three regulars lagging behind, trying to finish up any last second internet chores. They are Hoan, Chantelle, and Dean. As Danni, Kristina and I were leaving to grab a drink, we decided to socialize as a collective clan at a bar called Dirty Thieves. All was going wonderfully as I talked with Hoan, an iphone application enterpreneur, about poker, expected value, soccer, facebook applications, etc. From all that I know of him, it seems that we will probably see eachother in the near future because of our similar interests. Chantelle is an actress/musician and a strikingly entertaining conversationalist. We talked about her friend, named Richard Johnson, who plays poker for a living out in Los Angeles and about her experience with the stock market.

Last, but certainly not least, we have Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. Random stimulating conversations were sprouting about with everyone but Dean. I don't know enough about him to gather a concrete opinion of him, but it's safe to say at this point that he brings about obscure perspectives and opinions for the sole reason of being obscure. He's extremely argumentitive and I have to assume that he has a great deal of experience with it. Moving on, I mentioned in passing from one conversation to the next that Outkast is one of the premier pop/hip-hop groups of my time: a simple statement and nearly impossible to argue otherwise. Not for Dean, though. Dean mentioned in an overly abrasive and flat-out threatening tone that he doesn't agree with Outkast as a pop group. Fucking Outkast. My guess is that I crossed words with him during his never ending quest to become the world's most interesting and inspiring intellectual. And I certainly wish him success in such an endeavor. Just not around me. The argument escalated to an absurd level and I left it alone.

Toward the end of the night we were all parting ways to head toward the homeland. As I shook hands or hugged everyone, I faced Dean and tried to shake his (I'm-sure-more-wonderful-than-mine) hand. He declined in such a way that wasn't nearly upsetting. It was sad to think that someone, somewhere in this world, is potentially capable of making decisions even slightly similar to his. Genuinely disheartening. I did what most wouldn't and wrapped my hands around him in "the bear-hug" position and squeezed lightly for about three seconds. A perfect hug. Five stars.

A few days have passed and I've been patiently awaiting a time to give him his gift. Outkast's "Stankonia" album wrapped in Valentine's Day paper.

Until next time.

Bob

Bob installs windshields for a living. He moved out here from upstate New York to chase a girl, something I've deduced as a failed attempt through simple logic. It was about 3:00pm on a cool and sunny Sunday and we were both drinking our adult beverages quickly, as if they would be taken away from us if we didn't finish them in under five minutes.

I was drinking a double shot of Jameson on the rocks with a Magner's Cider. I was on my second round, reading Bukowski's "Post Office," and constantly re-reading pages due to my inebriation. Bob and I were the only paying patrons at Shannon Arms, a quaint Irish pub in the heart of an Asian neighborhood. He was watching ESPN on the television and without looking away from the screen, he asked me what I was reading. When I replied, he let out a bellowing laugh from the pit of his stomach, what I imagine Santa Claus to laugh like. He looked over at me and I immediately noticed that the foam from his Guiness was dripping from his unruly facial hair. My kind of guy. I'm still not sure what his laughed meant. I presume it to be something along the lines of, "Oh-ho-ho. I am all too familiar."

Our conversation went on and on and he eventually noticed that he was doing all the talking. He would ask a series of questions, and before I could reply, he would ask another question. These would serve as a verbal diving board for his wild tangents. I must admit that it was entertaining and kept me at the bar for one extra drink.

He called me a modern man and I took it to be a snarky, backhanded compliment. We talked about baseball and he knew his shit. He talked about 1960's baseball and whenever I would ask him any sort of question about it, he'd say that I should research it for myself. Our drunken banter became sour soon after and he left saying, "I ought to take you outside and teach you something." Before I could conjure up an appropriate response he was gone.

Interactions!

I had the feeling that today was going to be an uneventful day. I woke up on an uncomfortable couch, ate, talked to my roommate about typical roommate stuff, showered, and left the house with no destination in mind. Fortunately, the day was a fun one.

On the weekends, the public transportation system (MUNI) is limited and unreliable. Because of this, I walked up to 14th and Quintara to catch a bus to a happenin' area of town, The Haight. For those that don't know, San Francisco is filled with hills at an outrageous incline. There are hills that become so steep that public steps are built in order to ease the pain of a walker's calves. I walked up a set of about 100 steps in order to reach the bus terminal. As I reached the final step, I saw that the bus was leaving the station, so I ran at a blurring rate to catch it. After catching the bus, I noticed that my heart was beating at a rapid rate and my t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I looked like a fool, but I was cool with it.

When I arrived in "The Haight," I browsed around vintage clothing stores, book stores a record store and a shoe shop. I spent $20.50 on a flannel shirt and a green t-shirt that I immediately changed into. I bought Bukowski's, "The Postman" and Vonnegut's, "Cat's Cradle" at a small book store with a tiny selection. I'm glad that I did because, later on, I ended up meeting some cool people because of it.

After my time spent in "The Haight" became dull, I took the #33 bus to Valencia St., known as The Mission. There is a bar in that area of town that I've grown fond of called Zeitgeist. I couldn't remember where it was exactly, and decided to ask strangers for directions. The first guy that I asked seemed annoyed by my request. He said, "What the heck is Zeigeist? A bar? Oh, I don't drink. I'm a Mormon." I thanked him for his time and continued down Valencia St., where I met Noah and Kristal (or Crystal or Krystal or Ckristaal).

Noah made it abundantly clear that they were a couple. I respect that, even though I found it to be a little over-the-top. After asking them where my destination was located, they responded in unison, "We're going to the same place!" I took that to be a sign that maybe these people are crazy. It astonished me that they were not only able to say the same words together, but in the same fucking octave. It blew my mind. On the 7 block walk to Zeitgeist, we talked about how lovely Boston is and that Public Enemy is vastly overrated. Noah was very reserved in our 3-way conversation, but Kristal was very friendly and interested in what I had to say. We had an awkward departure once we arrived, much thanks to a collaborative effort between her over-protective boyfriend and the asshole of a doorman at the bar. I had a drink, talked to a few lame people and left.

I walked to 24th and Mission, which was quite a hike. My legs were hurting because of my excessive time spent at the gym, and the sun was gleaming down on my pale white face. I sucked it up and battled down the sidewalk.

As I sat waiting for the 48 bus to take me home, I talked with a "skateboarder kid" about the book in my hand. He was gliding back and forth on his skateboard as he talked to me about Kurt Vonnegut's, "Slaughterhouse-Five," a book that I haven't read yet. He spoke so passionately about Kurt Vonnegut's style of writing. I liked him because of it. I hated him at first for consistently whizzing by me on his board time and time again. I like him now though.

The bus arrived and we continued our conversation, which eventually lead to non-Vonnegut topics. He spent a semester at Berklee and finished his degree at Wesleyan, in Connecticut. When other people overheard that I had just moved here from Boston, other bus patrons were drilling me with a wide array of questions and comments such as: "Do you like it here more or do you like Boston?" or "Your accent sounds adorable." and other things to that effect. Good times.

Kyle the skateboarder got off the bus and shook my hand. He told me to visit him at his place of employment, a place that I already forget the name of. Time passed and another conversation was started with two gorgeous women sitting to my right. They both grew up in rural Massachusetts and were excited to hear that I was from the same area. I wasn't expecting to talk to them, and was really into my book, forcing me to answer their initial question in an embarassing way. Not only did I stutter badly, but I accidently spit in their direction. Noticing that they noticed, I said, "Okay, first off, can we go directly to laughing about me spitting at you?" They found it funny and we talked and talked about nothing I can remember. The more personable of the two said that she hopes to see me again some day. That made me smile.

My favorite interaction of all was with Jeff. We were waiting for the L train at West Portal as he tried to strike up a conversation with almost every girl that walked by, and to no avail. He said, "Not my day." and I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or not. I replied with an empty, default answer to the effect of, "Ya win some, ya lose some." or "We gotta work with what we've got." He took a liking to this, and we talked about redwood trees, Star Wars, Brazil, among many other things. It eventually got to a point where he reached in a bag and gave me a handful of weed. THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN BOSTON. EVER. I frantically put it in my breast pocket and he noticed. He said, "Yo, it's legal out here, man. Chill." He was a really laid back guy, speaking freely and at ease. He had just returned from a 20 country road trip and was pretty bummed out to be back. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to grab a drink on Tuesday.

People in San Francisco are so friendly. It's intense

After reading through this a second time, I've decided that proof reading is a necessity.

Acceptable Reactions A, B and C.

Never in my life have I experienced a relatively stress-free time. There has always been someone standing on the sidelines who I would need to report to after each an every meaningful moment, whether it be my mother, a girlfriend, or a very close friend. It's a tough emotion to describe. Having someone there that cares enough to watch me and help me is often relieving and I'm grateful for it. Sometimes it becomes overbearing and limiting to other aspects of my life that are appealing to pursue. I feel like I'm incapable of taking a long deep breath. And everyone certainly needs one of those at some point.

I left Boston to chase a feeling of weightlessness and ease. I'm beginning to realize that it's impossible to ever have complete mental clarity. Similar to a utopia. It's impractical to ever achieve, but everyone's striving for it to some degree. Mainly because the idea of mental clarity isn't defined as anything in specific. It's what you perceive it to be and different than anyone else's.

Uncontrolled hysteria over a fucking basketball game. How? It simply does not add up to me. For those that do not know, the Los Angeles Lakers won the NBA championship recently. This somehow resulted in the smashing of storefront windows. As it became evident that the LAPD could not chase the hooligans out of the area, police cars were set ablaze, boutiques were ransacked for anything of value, and metal trash cans were thrown at virtually everything. See below.

I can understand that die-hard fans rooting for the losing team would do something along these lines. I'm not saying that actions such as these are justified in that case, but doesn't it make more sense? If you're angry and upset, you sometimes react in a violent way. Anything of this magnitude rarely adds up, especially over a sporting event.

Does the average fan think: "Oh my goodness, I can't believe that my favorite team just won the championship! Let's all congregate outside and fuck shit up! Let's show the world how happy we are by lighting a bunch of shit on fire and punching cops!" I don't get it. But I must admit, the person responsible for trimming the local trees in order to magnify the already existing flames must be a die-hard fan. You can't fake that.

I hate Los Angeles.

Battle of the Inconsiderate Pricks

I spent the beginning of the day at the gym. It's very clean and busy, both things that I seek out in a gym. I need to have different things constantly going on around me in order to work out for extended periods of time. Televisions on, my music blaring through my headphones, other people putting their bodies through rigorous training along with me, etc, etc. Twenty nine dollars a month is a steal, in my opinion. That makes me enjoy my time spent there all the more. Getting my money's worth, bitches.

I tend to hog one specific machine for too much time. There are many reasons for this. It's so busy at some hours that it becomes a scramble to find a machine that isn't in use. Awkwardly lingering around a machine to get across the message of "Yo, your time has expired. Get the fuck off." is of no interest me. I go to great lengths to avoid these types of situations, actually. This time, I was on the opposite end of the interaction. I was the one that needed to realize that my time had expired and that I need to get the fuck off. He was a giant dude. Probably 6'4" and 260-270 pounds of muscle.

He said, "Hey man, do you mind if we switch off using this?"

He was wearing a Yankee's hat so I replied in a sarcastic tone, "I'll fight you for it."

He was two of me. Easily, probably more than two of me. He thankfully found it funny and that was the end of our dialogue. We both were wearing our personal music devices.

As I left the gym, I decided to take the train over to Trader Joe's to buy some healthy food. At the moment, I'm riding out a health-food bender and Trader Joe's is the place to go for that. Hopefully it doesn't last too long because this type of food happens to be the most expensive. I picked up a package of salmon and saw that the price was $11. I thought to myself, "This shit better be laced with gold." After some reasoning with my more frugal half, I threw it in my basket. I even bought multi-vitamins. You bastards that are healthier and in better shape than I sucked me into this world. You had me surrounded at the gym, all of you in excellent physical condition. I envy you. I'll get there some day. Baby steps. Expensive baby steps.

On my way back from Trader Joe's, I browsed around Border's. It's the mother of all bookstore chains. They're so helpful and they're all so happy. It makes me feel like I'm being run through a well oiled machine. I hate it, but it just so happens that these places are well-stocked and very organized. Whenever someone is being overly helpful or smiley, I think about how they are trained to act that way. Like puppets. I envision a well dressed district manager coming into the store before the doors are opened to the public. I picture him calling a meeting where every employee is ordered to attend. He sets up an easel to harness a poster filled with charts and graphs.

He says, "Our quarterly earnings are down 40% compared to this time last year! This is proposterous!"

He then grabs a whip out of his briefcase and begins whipping all of the employees while yelling, "Smile you motherfuckers! Smile! What do I pay you for? My money is at stake! Smiles mean dollars!"

I know, I know. It's probably a bit of an exaggeration. Not impossible though.

I picked up Bukowski's "The Most Beautiful Woman in Town." After some thought, I realized that I didn't want to support this beast of a corporation, so I found a comfortable recliner in the coffee shop looking area. To my right there was a man reading a "Dummy's Guide To..." I can't remember the topic, but he was silent and concentrated. To my left sat a girl (or woman?) around my age, I guessed. She had black hair and was very attractive in a cute and innocent sort of way. She sat with her bag on her lap, reading a graphic novel. After a few minutes passed, she started reading aloud. At first I thought it was a joke or something. Maybe I was on some hidden camera show or something, I'll never know for sure. The guy to my right was expressing his aggravation in the form of a long, deep sigh.

I tolerated it quietly for around ten minutes. I glanced at her quickly to see if there were any evident conditions that made it necessary for her to read aloud in a store. I found nothing. I didn't confront her about it. Instead, I decided to also read aloud. This created a noisy and confusing environment for everyone around us and took only about a paragraph's worth of words for her to stop. My new friend to my right found it very amusing and laughed softly. Minutes later, she left and I surprisingly felt bad about it. I mean, I did accomplish what I wanted to: for her to stop reading aloud. It was more dramatic than I would have liked, and that made me feel like an asshole. At the same time, if she weren't such an inconsiderate prick, she wouldn't have found herself in the situation to begin with.

Miniature Days

Some days are better than others. Some days are difficult to exist inside and some days are not. This is probably why I enjoy a long, uninterrupted sleep. This is also why I view life in an ephemeral sense. It's easier that way, isn't it?

Step 1:
You wake up to a clean slate. The belongings around you have been left from past lives that you've somehow managed to take with you. Your sheets, your pillow, your dresser, your mirror. Your soap, towel, clothes and coffee maker have all been left for you.

Step 2:
You effect things. You either go to work, or you decide not to. You make decisions and you effect people, places and things. You spit on the sidewalk and leisurely walk toward the bus. You read Charles Bukowski's, "Women" and are glad you did. You meet with a stranger and discuss measly topics like sports and dinner plans. In the grand scheme of things these topics are irrelevant in reference to the big picture. But today is a full life, ephemeral. With a sunrise and sunset the day will be complete, and the same for tomorrow.

Step 3:
You drunkenly stumble home and put on a record that you have no memory of ever hearing. Your records are your friends and they keep you company as you dose off into sleep. You think about the decisions you made in the day, mistakes or not. You're aware that you'll have no recollection of anything come tomorrow. You'll wake up with a hangover and wonder about what potentially happened. It's exciting.

Step 4:
Repeat step one.


These miniature lives make up an entire life. It'd be nice if you could revisit each specific day before you died, or something like that. In the form of a mosaic or a slide show or a movie. That would be pleasant.

Jack Bauer V.2.0

Sitting at the bus stop, minding my own business, I found myself caught between a rock and a hard place. Looking back on it after the fact, I can laugh about it easily, but that was sadly not the case while in the moment. Let me explain.

While babbling at a bar about my passion for the Boston Red Sox organization, I realized that there was a fellow baseball enthusiast in the house. Her name is Megan and she has been a faithful Giants fan since the creation of their present ball park, AT&T Park. We talked and talked about petty statistics and former players, which eventually lead to an invitation to see a game with her and her family. I obviously accepted this invitation and am very glad that I did. I had a great time, aside from the fact that my brain was mush, I acted like a zombie during the entire game, and had a canker visible on my lip. The latter effected me to an absurd degree, forcing me to avoid direct, close eye contact. Self consciousness runs wildly throughout the majority of my family and close friends, sadly, but I have plenty of experience in dealing with it.

While taking public transportation, I got a call from Megan telling me to get off immediately and she would pick me up. I did so and waited at a bus stop where she said she told me to go. While waiting, and while being the nosy person that I am, not looking over at the group of Mexican gangsters was impossible. It was as clear as day that they were dealing drugs and I couldn't help but watch. There were about five very hard looking thugs conducting their business freely and openly until one of them noticed me staring. Knowing very little Spanish, I heard something that may have been in reference to me. That frightened me. I postponed my nosiness for a moment. In that moment, I noticed one of the hoodlums walking toward me. He was walking in a fast, aggressive manner, but that didn't change my approach at all, surprisingly. He got to an uncomfortably close area in relation to my personal space and said, "Are you a cop?"
Almost flattered by this interaction, I gasped with relief and replied, "Am I a cop? Nope. Not a cop."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, positive."
He walked backwards, back toward his group of fellow gangsters. All things considered, he was very a lot more cordial than I imagine he should be, given the exact context of our conversation. As I waited to be picked up, I pulled a book out from my bag and made it look as if I were reading it. Time passed, and a bus came and went. While the Mexican thugs were watching me, I realized that the bus that had just left is the only one that stops at that specific stop. Adopting the persona of a cop, still sticking around the bus stop after it had just left must have looked suspicious in the mind of my thug counterpart. And I realized that quickly. It was then deemed necessary to flee.

I briskly left the scene and walked in the direction that Megan and I would intersect the soonest. Glorifying the situation in my mind, I felt like Jack Bauer/Indiana Jones/Bruce Willis-in-just-about-any-of-his-roles. It was fun to think that way, knowing that these petty drug dealers had probably since forgotten about the situation entirely.

This is where I'd like to say that I narrowly evaded gun fire coming from every possible angle. Minutes later, Megan drove by and I safely left the scene.

Shapes or Shades

After blogging about non-poker related topics for the past two months, I've come to the conclusion that I should incorporate it a tiny bit more. After all, this blog was created to track my poker stats and stories.

If you play online, you are given a username to log in and to be identified as. Mine is Talue Vown. Value Town, but with some trickery. There is a player that I follow on a regular basis under the handle Quiet Lion. His name is Richard Brodie and you can find his blog here.

When you play online, you have the ability to chat with other players. After watching for a few short minutes, I come across this:

Yanksfan362: you aren't as quiet as your name implies.
Quiet Lion: I was lion about that.

After taking some time off, I thought I'd need to shake off some rust. I feel that I'm playing as well as ever, and am in a far more clear state of mine than ever before.

Charts and graphs to follow.

No Good to Anyone Now

The idea of love is undoubtedly warped and fuzzy in my twenty-two year old brain, but who's isn't? From what I know of most relationships between friends of mine, people decide to label relationships as love far too quickly, forcing an unhealthy layer of comfort usually constructed from a fear of being alone. This type of thing, from an objective perspective, seems naive and dumb in a grand sense, but it is rarely simple enough to be viewed as that. I was in love and it was a perfect fit, and I am unfortunately unable to push it aside as false or unhealthy.

Wanting what you can't have is natural. Somewhere within the inner workings of my body, my arms and legs move about in a sometimes dishonest, sometimes primitive way. Years back, I came across someone that was alone, uninteresting, passive and dull. At the time, I took the love that I had for granted and shifted my energy from what was right toward what was distinctly wrong and nothing else. Writing about it in this fashion makes it seem as if this were a quick and heartless decision on my end, and I guess that isn't too far from the truth. Tension built between this sad, sad person and I over a very long and relatively uneventful time directly effected my relationship with Lee. My relationship with the love of my life was fading fast and it was completely my doing. I was aware of it, and viewed this "friend" as a plan-b, although she was the main reason why my relationship of almost four years was dissipating to begin with. For a long time, I felt indifferent in regard to Lee's (my actual relationship) view of time spent between June (my unconscious band-aid to fill the void left behind with Lee) and I. Looking back on it, I can't believe that I was incapable of understanding her perspective on the situation. Maybe I'm stubborn because she was right about it all. Maybe it's that I'm not completely over any of this yet. I can't pinpoint exactly what I feel, and whenever I feel as if I'm closing in on it, it changes drastically because od the fact that conditions are constantly changing all around me.

Attraction is obviously relative and I know that I'm not reinventing the wheel by mentioning it, but it's important to recognize. I spent six months in a relationship with someone completely uninteresting, unintelligent, manic, and unmotivated. I was fixed on the idea of a relationship only because I was a member of such a healthy one for so long, irrelevant to the one forming at the time. Being attracted to the fact that someone is attracted to you is a poor and shallow quality, and I wish that I was aware of it at the time. Having been oblivious toward the situation from the very beginning leaves me feeling embarrassed with all of those that know of my problems in greater detail. But can I really blame myself? When so many complicated layers of intricacy (sex, money, dependency, mutual friendships, feelings about others, etc) are poured onto an already frail and untrue foundation, what can you expect other than destruction? I'm left with that empty lot where a beautiful thing once stood, and am still cleaning up the mess from previous attempts to replicate it. And I'm not unhappy about that.

I was pursued while in a relationship, too. That is something that I find to be pathetic, especially if you are the pursuer. Especially if you are an admitted psychopath without enough respect for yourself to seek medical attention. I mention this because I see June doing exactly what was done to me to someone else. That someone happens to be in the midst of what I presume to be a healthy eight year relationship. Our relationship is pretty much non-existent, and I've only spoken to him once. Maybe he knows of my situation well enough to gain something from it. I hope so. Her intentions are so clear, and the temptation of infidelity is impossible to ignore for some. He seems like a decent guy, and I hope he doesn't make the same mistake I did. It's no coincidence that her only friend in this entire world is someone equally as pathetic as herself. I don't use the word pathetic too often or loosely, but I can't imagine a more fitting home for it. She's malicious in her intent and too dumb to realize it. Pathetic.

With that said, it'd be fun to see someone react under the same circumstances that I had to, in order to give myself a point to measure from. One hundred percent of people in the same situation would have done better than me. I originally intended to end this post with something to the effect of, "Despite all of this nonsense, I actually mean well." or, "Well, that's all folks!" but both come across as equally humurous.

Super Market Sweep, Pharmacy Edition

Waves of dizziness and nausea are preventing me from enjoying this beautiful day. Not being able to pinpoint the root of my illness is frustrating me far more than it should. So I've decided to take action against my new sickness by doing what most consider as "the lazy approach." And that approach comes in the form of a pill knwn as ibuprofen. Most of you know me as a non-believer in Advil or Tylenol and both brands have not relieved or cured me well enough to change that opinion. However, I find comfort in knowing that they are designed to relieve my pain, which ultimately leads to relieving my stress derivative of my nausea and dizziness. It comes full circle in a deceitful way. Completely eliminating my illness is hardly ever the case with the consumption of ibuprofen, in my experience. I find comfort in knowing that there is something inside my body allegedly working diligently to enter me back into the world of wellness. Whether it is actually working or not is irrelevant.

Cliffnotes: Don't buy ibuprofen. Save your money.

The store/pharmacy down the street from my house is running a pretty +EV promotion. If you make a purchase of $25 or more, you get $5 off. That obviously sucked me directly into the store, leaving me to search for items that are even the least bit useful. As I leisurely waltzed from aisle to aisle, I crossed paths with a guy doing the exact same thing. He was juggling bug spray, sponges, a bag of elastics, and other some items of similar importance. I feel that I did a much more cost-effective/better job by buying floss, a fathers day card, an expensive paste to treat the canker on my lip, Advil, and a package of tennis balls. Of course, he didn't have a canker on his lip, leaving the numbers to be slightly askew (and bias, not prejudice.) If we were to break down the profit margin of each item, I would win and it would not be close. This was meant to be a joke, but I'm noticing that things just got out of hand. I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about right now, nor do I intend on reading this to see if it actually makes some sense. Deal with it.

The cashier didn't scan the coupon until I mentioned it, and I expected that. I took the $5 I saved and bought a beer. Beer always does taste better when it's free. Or stolen.*

*-The past few sentences were a collaborative effort to joke about a recent situation. It's meant for a select crowd only.

Cheers.

Proof

My social life is a lively one, and I am happy about that. Shortly before leaving Boston, a lingering feeling of worry lurked about my brain. After having been a part of what I once thought was an intricate and healthy social web, leaving that forced a sudden feeling of anxiety onto me. Granted, my bonds with specific people have faded with time and I identify that as natural and sometimes irreversible, I still feel close with the true friends I have had, mainly because of our significant and beautiful memories that bind us together forever. Without those, we are an empty slate. Viewing this period of my life as an empty slate is dismissive of my past and I resent that I'm capable of doing things like this.

I have recently been turned onto The Rumpus by two friends. I could explain what they offer, but it'd be good for you to check it out. From what I understand, it is run by an author named Stephen Elliott and he happens to be a prominent figure in the bustling art community here in San Francisco. I have yet to read any of his work, but plan to after I finish with Kurt Vonnegut's Welcome To The Monkey House.

The Rumpus organizes an event called The Monthly Rumpus at a bar called The Makeout Room in the Mission area of town. The show exhibits artists not limited to fiction writers, musicians, poets, actors, actresses, etc. After hearing about this event in a sarcastic, chore-like tone, I wasn't too excited to check it out. The entire show was stunning, and I'm still talking with my friends back home about it.

I have an unhealthy crush on Thao Nguyen. Check her out.

Right now, I'm meeting up with new friends at a Salvadorean restaurant in the Mission. When I return, I plan to give a detailed report on The Monthly Rumpus. Checking out the website in the meantime is strongly encouraged.

Cheers.

Haiku

I'm considering writing a haiku for each important person that I've met thus far. I was inspired to do so by a haiku posted on my new fridge:

Lady on the bus.
You fuck all your friends when drunk,
Now the whole bus knows.

I have some rough ideas for pretty much everyone. This one is for Jimmy MacCarthy, a fellow Bostonian sporting many different articles of Sox attire. We met as I exited the bathroom at a bar called The Broken Record.

You lived in D-town.
We drunkenly shook hands thrice.
"You rep Boston good."

Jose is a beer vendor from the Mission that knows ridiculous amounts about every topic I mentioned. We talked about Mo Vaughn, Phillip Seymour Hoffman's early works, Six Point Brewing Company, Mormonism, earthquakes, etc. He was cutting up newspaper clippings at an Irish bar in a largely Hispanic neighborhood.

Something in your teeth,
Is pink and looks like putty.
So irritating.

Rory was born and raised in Dublin and is living here illegally. He works as a mason and for a moving company in San Francisco and has been miserably doing so for 4 years. His friend wanted to buy coke off of me, and was let down by the fact that I didn't have any. I guess being Irish in San Francisco means that you have access to coke. We obviously met at a bar.

You wrote your number,
On a paper I threw out.
Your girlfriend was cute.

I took a random sequence of buses yesterday, and it took me to the most expensive area of the city. It's called The Marina, and there was a bumpin' festival going on. This area of town is incomparable to any area of Boston, but sort of reminds me of a Newbury St/Beacon Hill fusion on the beach. Twenty-something year old snotty rich kids were running rampant with their Ferragamo shoes and Prada sunglasses. By the time I got there, it was 2pm and the healthy majority of people were drunk. In my travels, a drunk Asian kid (of a similar build to mine) lightly tapped me in the face with his digital camera and snapped a picture. I slapped it out of his hands and walked away.

Wanted to punch you.
Very satisfied with my choice,
To break your camera.

I have 4 more, but after revisiting them, I noticed that they could come across as mildly offensive. I need to re-work them for a PG audience.

Also: I was rocked by the sun yesterday and have a nasty sunburn on my face and neck, leaving to me resemble a tomato.

Explosive West Coast Shit!

My pre-moving anxiety has finally subsided, and I'm really glad that I love it out here. Looking back on it, the idea of moving to a city that I had never been to is absurd. As it turns out, luck is on my side (pun intended), for sure. There is not one thing that I dislike about this city. Not one thing. The people out here (for the most part) are a complete 180 in relation to New England residents. People are friendly and helpful.

My first interaction with someone other than a familiar person was this: As I walked down the main street of the Haight area (a fun part of town), a man walked up to me as I was checking out a coffee shop. He said, "Boston, huh? Fuck you." referring to my hat. I wasn't sure how to respond, and in that time that I took to figure out a fitting response he said, "Hahaha I'm fucking with you. What's up man?" I have since come across some similar interactions, but not to that same degree.

Last night, I voyaged out to a few bars with Danni and her friend Kristina. We walked around the Mission area of town and were patrons of a bar called Zeitgeist and The Elbow Room. Zeitgeist was a pretty sweet bar, for the most part. The bartender on that particular night was silly. She would overwhelm herself with orders and forget the majority of them while making drinks, thus creating more work for herself. In the two experiences I had with her, she broke a glass and yelled at a customer. She got 50% of what I normally tip bartenders.

The Elbow Room registers as one of the worst bars I have ever been to. As a self proclaimed drink-slightly-too-much-er-but-not-quite-an-alocholic, this is a lousy category to be placed into. The drinks sucked. The bartender was a dick. The environment was tacky. They could be giving out hundred dollar bills at the door, and I still wouldn't go back.

Speaking of hundred dollar bills, I plan to end my month long hiatus from poker within the next day or two. After giving a lesson today, I feel that my conscious is finally clear enough to get back to the grind. My roommates are unfamiliar with the idea of "gambling" for a living and that was expected. I have an article pending approval from BLUFF magazine, and I intend to use that to corroborate my means of income to them. Not too-too worried about it, but it'd be nice for them to understand my method of thought regarding poker, and convince them that I don't flip a coin for a living.

As of right now, I'm going to attempt to make my bedroom a comfortable and livable one. Knick knacks, posters, and comfy looking things are to be acquired in the trip from this coffee/beer shop (Maxwell's) to my apartment.

To anyone that reads this blog: If any of you suddenly get the desire to come out to San Fran to chill or whatever, I am completely down with letting you stay at my place for a few days. I'm serious. Do it, especially if you've never been out here. Chances are that you'll love it!

San Fran Sisqo

What a beautiful city. Why wouldn't anyone want to live here?

Being in Salem

Tomorrow, I will be a resident of California. As a result, I'm forced to run crazy amounts of errands up to the very hour that I depart (i.e. taking my car off the road, canceling my bills at my previous apartment, packing, meeting up with people, etc). I can't wait for this anxious/frantic period of time to be over and I can finally relax.

I'm listening to a mix that I made for a friend that I never shipped out. I don't really plan to anymore, mainly because it won't appeal to her as much as I had originally thought. It's sick sick sick though. I wrote Chop Suey on the disc, having nothing to do with System of a Down. Track list:

1. "Children's Story" by Slick Rick
2. "Fireworks" by The Whitest Boy Alive
3. "Fake Palindromes" by Andrew Bird
4. "A New Chance" by The Tough Alliance
5. "All Falls Down" by Kanye West featuring Sylena Johnson
6. "Down the Line" by Jose Gonzalez
7. "The Go in the Go-For-It" by Grandaddy
8. "Weed Demon" by Wavves (I listen to unhealthy amounts of this band.)
9. "Chicago (Adult Contemporary, Easy Listening Version)" by Sufjan Stevens
10. "Agoraphobia" by Deerhunter
11. "We Have Mice (Boombox Version) by Casiotone for the Painfully Alone
12. "Fear and Loathing on Cape Cod" by Piebald
13. "Baby" by J Dilla featuring Madlib and Guilty Simpson
14. "Pistol Dreams" by The Tallest Man on Earth

I love the way that it plays through because it is so choppy sounding and each song sets a distinctly different mood. If you want it, it's yours.

All Systems Go

"This is the same ocean where blue whales dive.
This is the same ocean that fell on white mountains.
This is the same ocean as tomorrow's good coffee."

I've been keeping it pretty lax and low-key in the days leading up to my departure. Some pretty solid time was spent up in Salem, MA last night. A good friend of mine invited me to drink some beers and listen to some records. That we did. I recall listening to Mount Eerie, Jib Kidder, theUSAISAMONSTER, and Black Elf Speaks.

While drinking a fair amount of intensely potent beer, I found myself knee deep into a passionate conversation/argument regarding astrology and horoscopes. I, of course arguing in the favor of the rational man, picked up on some fairly interesting points on the opposite side of the debate. For me, when it's dissected completely, the mystery and aura surrounding it becomes coincidence and patternless. Anyone that bases serious decisions on alignment of the stars is lazy. And gullible. Probably even dumb. I digress.

The entity defending the opposite side of the spectrum was a woman named Elizabeth. It got to a point where we were arguing for the sake of arguing, which was enjoyable. I found her to be really interesting for that reason, among many others. From what I gather, she's a touring musician originally from northern California, now residing in Berlin. She shared a story about her idea to move to a country where she doesn't know a single person or the language. Without any money, she found under-the-table employment as a dish washer as she spent time writing music. I found it to be overly inspiring and "gutsy" to pull that off. After explaining my situation (which is a watered down version of her story... moving to an area where I know one person AND the language,) she said that I'm going to really enjoy my time out there. Given her past experiences, the comment felt really comforting. You can check out her music here. Good stuff.