On Being Blindsided

Bon Iver is playing on the 22nd. I'm looking forward to it.

After aimlessly riding my bicycle through the thick mist after class, I found myself sitting at a booth in a Johnny Rockets alone. It was a little after ten o'clock and I had spent twenty minutes sitting between my bike and the curb staring at the bright neon sign before walking in.

Since all Johnny Rockets restaurants look exactly the same, the storefront reminded me of times I'd spent at them in the past. Every year, my mother and father would drag my brother and I up route 128 to the North Shore Mall in Peabody, MA to buy us new clothes for the upcoming school year. The drive felt like hours even though it never took longer than twenty minutes.

When we finally arrived at some department store, my mother would have about a half hour of our undivided attention before my brother and I would mess around in an uncontrollable manner, obviously frustrating the living shit out of our mother. Once our attention spans were shot, my father would take us to Johnny Rockets as my mother would shop around on her own.

Every hour or so, the staff would dance around to some 50's song in a half-assed manner as the patrons would look on, eating their one-cut-above-fast-food burgers and thick shakes. I loved the atmosphere of the place. It was my favorite restaurant when I was younger, probably because of the time I was able to spend there with my dad and brother.

As I got older, I worked at the mall briefly and got fired for not being enthusiastic enough. In the short time that I was employed here I met a girlfriend of four years. We'd spend time at the Johnny Rockets, talking about our petty family/friend issues. The conversations I had with her there eventually lead me to fall in love.

Tonight, the booth I decided to sit in was suited to fit five people comfortably. It was difficult not to imagine those that I love sitting around me: my little brother laughing uncontrollably as my father would make goofy faces at us or looking across the table at a beautiful girl smiling and eager to listen or talk about anything at all.

It was even more difficult to realize that those days are gone.

I can't seem to find motivation in anything.

On Pot Limit Omaha and Drunk Driving (Bicycle Edition)

Across almost every poker site that is allowed for U.S. residents, I am getting pretty much zero volume in. I have two reasons for this:

• my screen name has become familiar (since I have the same/similar screen names across all networks) and those that are break-even/small winners avoid me. Oblivious fish buy in for 10 big bets and either lose it to me and quit or win 5-15 big bets and run away. I cannot put in a large sample of hands. Ever.
  
• my screen name is Talue Vown, which is an inverse of the phrase Value Town. People notice this and automatically assume that I am a thinking player. This was an ego driven, dumb decision on my end. Changing your user name is not allowed.

I have decided to invest some time in studying a different form of poker altogether, six handed pot limit omaha. The variance (over the short and long term) is much more prominent in this game, which may prove to be a major frustration while I take classes at the city college. I'm currently exchanging sweat sessions (sessions where you watch another player's desktop and critique their play) with heads up limit holdem (my game) and pot limit omaha (Alex's game). It's required that I put in a ton of study hours before I jump in to multi tabling the 50 and 100 max games. I'm excited about playing a more robotic/mechanics oriented game in comparison to the often creative and mind fuck of a game that I normally play.


Oh. And I drove my bicycle across town completely shithoused (see: enebriated, drunk). My shoelaces got caught onto my toe clips which lead to a narrowly evaded head on collision with a fellow bike-lightless rider in Golden Gate Park. It was completely my fault and yet he apologized to me.

Rather than biking up hill for a quarter mile, I decided to jump on the owl bus. The owl bus is the late night bus system that is often filled with some interesting characters. I befriended a set of twins on the bus and talked with them about nothing. A few seats down from us was a toothless "Yankee fan" yelling about complete nonsense. "Red Sox fucking suck I'ma motha fuckin' Yankee fan. Holler back!" was pretty much the bulk of his monologue. I asked him to name 5 Yankee pitchers on the current roster and this obviously leads to some verbal fumbling on his end. Minutes later, he felt the need to swing his backpack at my face. I lose my temper, clearly, and tell him to get off the bus. Thankfully, the bus driver gave a shit about the happenings on her bus, and sat him down as he spit in my direction.

Nonsense.

After consuming three half pitchers of sangria, I vaguely recall resting in a thicket of wiry shrubs in a park along the highway. Danni's milk crate snapped off of her bike while we were rolling through Lincoln Street, and everything fell out of her bag, including her wallet. Also including the belongings inside her wallet falling both out of her bag and out of her wallet, miraculously. We eventually hopped over the barrier separating the road from Golden Gate Park, and looked for any more lost items. This lead to a wrestling match in the shrubs, which I obviously won by a large margin.

We left our bikes and bags along the sidewalk as we napped in the park; an idea implemented by a collaboration of two drunken minds deeming it safe to leave our shit behind. In my bag:

1. Two different types of Old Spice deodorant.
2. Two pairs of the same shitty headphones I bought at Walgreen's.
3. One pair of not-as-shitty headphones that I stole from Danni.
   
4. 4 napkins in case my nose gets mad runny from allergies.
   
5. David Foster Wallace's, "Infinite Jest."
6. Roughly one dollar in change.
7. One pair of Nordstom's underwear that have not ever been worn.

In Danni's bag:

1. Danni's mad tight journal with Sagittarius written in gold print across the pink cover.
2. Probably a pen to write in the journal.
3. David Foster Wallace's, "Infinite Jest."
4. Both vinyl and compact disc editions of Jay-Z's "Bitches and Sisters" single.
5. Limited edition Andrew Jackson Jihad ipod with autographs engraved on the metallic backside. You're probably not even close to punk enough to have ever heard of this.

Moving on, a girl passing by the scene of the spill noticed our bikes and bags abandoned. She was wearing an adorable black helmet that was bobbling around the top of her head as she was talking to us. She was probably rollin' up to our shit thinking, "Yo this is hella tight. XFREE SHITX!!!11." until she realized that we were laying in the distance, listening to her thoughts. I calmly told her, "Get with the program." as I rolled up my sleeves to reveal my gargantuan biceps. She wisely got with the program.

Danni was so impressed with how I dealt with the situation, and rightfully so, that she took her right shoe off and threw it at a bush in a moment of raw excitement. I took it to be a west coast way of showing her appreciation for my actions, and a very nice one. I showed her the east coast way of showing appreciation for people showing appreciation to you by giving her my right shoe as a consolation. She put it on and we started pedaling home until I thought to myself, "This is bullshit. Why should I be the one to ride home with one shoe, having the metal teeth of the pedal digging into my foot? Why should I encourage spastic behavior?"

The rest of the night sadly becomes a blur. I remember falling onto the couch, taking my shoes off, and falling asleep.

CORRECTION: 3 half pitchers of sangria were consumed. As we were leaving, Danni noticed that someone left between 1/6th and 1/7th of a pitcher behind. We also sat at their table and finished it for them.

Writing

My break from unhealthy amounts of poker has officially ended.

I've been testing the waters for over a month now, never really playing consistently. Over the past few days I've decided to take advantage of the jaw-dropping, horrendus regulars playing heads up on the Cake Poker Network. Never in my life have I seen such consistently terrible play. Come join in on the fun.

One of the players that I model my style of play after overdosed on antidepressants. He wasn't famous or filthy rich and no one's ever heard of him. I never met him, just watched his digital avatar collect more money than most.

Writing about almost anything causes me to reflect and realize certain characteristics of my own in such a raw and honest way. I'm able to understand myself on such a scary and limitless level. I find it therapeutic, but it certainly doesn't make me any happier. I've been working on a short story about my relationship with a man that I met during my time spent in underground poker clubs. The idea of reading to my new writing group has had it's ups and downs. Probably not going through with it.

My worst quality is my ability to hide and bury my true feelings so deep that my facade becomes a part of me.

Yankee

While drinking at Vesuvio's, a Columbus Street bar once frequented by the likes of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, I met a friend by the name of Yankee. Luckily, his name is in no way related to the baseball franchise, therefore allowing us to become homies.

As we drank whiskey and wrote haikus about the events happening around us, my train of thought was suddenly shattered by a knocking on the window. Yankee, someone I believe to be either homeless or doing a fantastic job at creating the false image that he's homeless, knocks consistently until he has my undivided attention. He holds up a piece of cardboard. On the piece of cardboard it says, "Will draw your entire group for any donation." In my current enebriated state, I nod approvingly and give him the thumbs-up.


He takes a moment to study our facial features and retreats back to the sidewalk to begin his work. I decide that it would be fitting for me to join him outside and ask him for a quick run-through of his process, in case I ever feel the need to draw group portraits of my own some day. Very little was learned about his technique other than the fact that he really likes the way orange chalk looks on cardboard. And he's right. I never really took the time to think about it, but it ends up looking wonderful. As he touched up the portrait by adding fire-red colors to the lips of the women, he told me that his wife, who lives alone in Louisiana, is pregnant and that he needs as much money as I can possibly string together for him...



After the exchange of twenty dollars for a fantastic piece now sitting atop my living room mantle, Yankee and I are no longer able to control our cheerfulness. We hug and rejoice, as seen above.

Beds

Whenever I sleep on a friend's couch or on a hotel mattress, I revert to thinking about beds that I have normally slept in and how they compare.  I do this as I gradually sink into a relaxing breathing pattern and doze off into an often quirky dreamscape.  Usually involving the ability to jump great distances.  Don't ask me why.  Don't tell me why, either, because I don't believe in those ridiculous dream dictionaries.  

Tonight I'm sleeping on a futon in a spacious three bedroom home located in the northeast section of Portland, Oregon.  This futon reminds me of the way that a dorm-style bed feels like, in my experience.

I recall working long hours in one of Boston's many illegal poker clubs and walking down to South Station after my shift.  There I would catch a bus that would bring me to Manchester, New Hampshire, where my then girlfriend was attending art school.  It would take the duration of Bedhead's "Transaction de Novo" album and few tracks off of Andrew Bird's "Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs" for me to arrive at the Manchester YMCA, where she rented a closet sized dorm room with a surprisingly spotless shared bathroom and a filthy communal kitchen.  I remember the Hello Kitty sheets wrapped around the twin mattress placed snugly in the far right corner of the room.  There were regularly stray art supplies sprinkled across the floor.  Paints, pencils, paper, glitter, charcoal. 

Most days, the room was either uncomfortably cold or absurdly warm.  I didn't mind.  I didn't mind sharing a bed hardly large enough for one person.  I actually enjoyed it more than any other sized bed.  The idea of being tightly wrapped up in the arms and legs of someone you love is a wonderfully safe and unnerving feeling.  Knowing that, for those silent hours, our worlds would remain completely still and safe from any guilty thought or petty argument or room to grow apart was the most selfishly satisfying feeling I have ever experienced.

But, I regret to inform that waking up is inevitable.

I'm in Oregon

Wildly chill.  

Radically rad.  

Rainy.

Tired.

Excerpt

I stepped directly onto the bus. No one was there to kiss me or hug me or simply wave goodbye with a smile, and it was new to me. Regardless of where I was or what I had done, there was always someone there to bid me adieu from the sidelines, whether they were important to me or not. A true sense of loneliness never hit me as suddenly as it did here in this moment. It paralyzed any excitement I had built for the foreseeable future, and rightfully so. Rather than linger around the bus terminal, I quickly hopped onto the bus long before it's departure time in order to shake off the distinctly depressing state of mind that I created from nothing.

I sat in the back of the bus and watched the couples, business acquaintances, friends, and families fill the seats in front of me. Children began to cry as their parents would quietly hush them to sleep. Loud conversations among friends and family soon followed. The aisles were covered in a layer of garbage from patrons past consisting of empty bottles and plastic bags, making crinkling sounds every so often. It was far more comfortable than a sleek, spotless, and silent bus ride, for sure. Those tend to go by a lot more slowly, in my experience. Being fixed on my surroundings so intensely postponed any truly depressing feelings of my own.

The bus departed and the soft rumbling of the interstate pavement tried to lull me to sleep. A bump or pothole would wake me just as I would get perfectly comfortable enough for some much needed rest. Giving up on the idea of a beginning-to-end bus ride of uninterrupted sleep, I decided to write a letter to someone whom I hadn't seen in many years.

"Please excuse the sloppy handwriting to follow. I am currently riding on a bouncy bus heading toward Seattle, Washington, and my hand is being jerked all over the paper. You will be reluctant to hear that I have not developed Terret's Syndrome or any spastic disorder of the like. Just simply cruising down the highway..." It was a letter to a girl from home. She was the first woman that I had ever loved and she still owned a fair portion of my heart, whether she was aware of not I am not sure. I would write to her time and time again, never recieving a response, and I will constantly make up reasons to justify it. "Maybe my letters aren't reaching her. Maybe she moved away. Maybe she's become illiterate." I would think to myself. I still very much enjoyed writing to her because on the off chance that she actually was reading the letters, it made it worth my while.

Runny Nose

Have you ever felt as if your brain had suddenly melted into a liquid form and started to seep out of your eyes, ears, nose and throat but there was nothing you could do about it because as you would plug one hole, the others would leak more quickly and right as you asked a friend for a helping hand in plugging all of your holes, the bottoms of your feet began to crack because of the pressure build up inside you and as you crawled to the nearest hospital you wonder if there will be any brain left by the time you make it and right as you finish that thought the hospital flips the "OPEN FOR BUSINESS!" sign to a "CLOSED! HOPE TO SEE YOU SOON!" sign at the main entrance so you sneak around to the back of the hospital and break a window and right as you carefully step through the broken glass you realize that it was merely a sinus infection?

No?

Me neither.

Even Everything Bagels Have Hearts!

Every major city seems to have a bar with second rate Boston-sports memorabilia (i.e. a signed Wade Boggs jersey, a giant signed photograph of Tim Nearing, a Larry Izzo signed poster, etc.) that New Englander's feel comfortable at and frequently visit. In San Francisco, that bar is called The Connecticut Yankee. I was skeptical of the name at first, too, and almost thought that it was a joke. "Hey let's tell the die hard Red Sox fan to check out The Connecticut Yankee, a Yankee bar filled with their fans armed with their Blackberrys and iPhones, occasionally looking up from their mobile devices to check the score. That will be a funny joke, right?" As it turns out, it actually is a Red Sox bar with a comforting New England feel. If a shot of Maker's Mark were affordable (and I'm usually flexible), I would be a frequent patron. Unfortunately, seven dollars is pushing it, if you ask me.

A friend of mine happens to be a close friend of the owner, Fritz, and we had the chance to talk briefly. He's been in San Francisco since 1980 and is originally from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I hear a lot of objective opinions on how native New Englander's tend to have a "hard and rough" look, generally speaking. The same with Californians and their California glow. I've never been able to pick up on anything like that, having always lived in Boston. Now that I'm a San Franciscan, it's a lot more noticeable when you're able take a few steps back and view it differently. He had a native New-England-like aura about him and talked about his passion for Phish, The String Cheese Incident, and bands of the like. The rest of the time was spent talking about how he just got back from Tahoe and before that he was camping in Humboldt, and from there he went to Seattle to see a band, and from there he hung out in Portland, and blah blah. The tone in which he talked about his role as "professional traveler/camper/band see-er," it sounded like he thought of it as a chore. "Oh I had to go all the way up to Seattle to see some friend. Sigh. Poor me." Tough life, man.

Part 2 of 52132 tomorrow.

Clean Out of Partially Clever Titles

Last night consisted of, but certainly was not limited to:

• Going to two shows; The Tallest Man on Earth and Mi Ami/Double Dagger.
• Getting into a fist fight in front of a bar called The Knockout Room. Irony. Discuss.
• Not winning the fight, but not losing. Considered a win when all body parts are still fully functioning.
• Telling a girl from Boston that I was from Ireland in order to measure the believability of my new Irish accent/alter ego.
• The consumption of three beef empanadas.
• Breaking into a coffee shop after hours to watch an indie film about Werner Herzog eating his own shoe.
• Realizing that I settled for some p-r-e-t-t-y lame parrot-like friends/other-types-of-relationships-that-aren't-defined-as-friends in Boston.
• Evading the early morning bagel man by laying completely still.

I want to write about this day. Beginning to end. When I wake up from my nap, hopefully I'll attain enough knowledge to depict the reasons for my actions in a clear manner. What I truly mean is this; I hope that I don't rise with the moon accompanied by a brain-splitting hangover.

Wish me luck.

The Most Uneventful Blog Post on Earth

I am eagerly awaiting tonight's show. As long as I've been a San Franciscan, I haven't been able to check out any shows. Tonight, The Tallest Man on Earth, one of my favorite artists at the moment, is playing at The Independent.

I plan to write a review and submit it to an indie webzine that I've been talking back and forth with. Well, I haven't been talking to the actual webzine someone that works for them. We'll see how it goes. For some reason, they seem to be interested in offering me a review column.

Cheers. People love to use the word cheers in San Francisco. Whenever a bartender brings me a drink, which is often, they say, "Cheers!" I like that.

Part 1 of 52132

I once knew a man that I resented for more reasons than I could count on a handful of hands. He was born into piles and piles of money and didn't need to do a thing for it. Opportunities consistently fell onto his lap for many reasons:

1. He was lonely and in dire need of friends for a simple reason. He would frequently alienate acquaintances for an assortment of reasons, usually related to a mixture of his greed, immaturity, and ego. If this disgrace of a human being were remotely intelligent, money would never become an issue for him. That happens when you inherit millions.

2. Typical social environments that young twenty somethings are involved with (college, a job, a group of people with similar interests) did not appeal to him. This would create an artificially strong bond between he and whoever he would relate to on the street or in a casino, etc. Altering his perception of friendship messed with his ability to create healthy relationships.

3. His stubbornness showed through his disorder. He was a compulsive gambler and saw that gambling was something that I went about in a careful and calculated way. With his already warped perception of money, he tried what I made look easy. He considered himself a "professional poker player" without ever making a dollar profit.

Two million dollars later, he is now broke and it can be easily viewed as my doing. Only in part, of course, but my fault to a certain extent. I was a loose acquaintance of his for the better part of two years. Looking back on it, I was completely unconscious of it at the time, but he was a figure in my life for selfish reasons on both ends.

1. I perceived his friendship as a way to advance my then inconsistent financial situation.

2. I put up with his bratty bullshit because of it.

At this time in my life, I was hustling in illegal poker rooms in order to stay afloat financially. At 18, I moved out of the home that I grew up in to escape a family dynamic changing for the worst. Around this time, I was introduced to forms of poker that I picked up on fairly quickly, and steadily made money applying basic gaming theory to the felt (of a poker table). Having little experience in the art of the hustle, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Being 18 and unable to deal with complex social situations (especially involving those that I loved and continue to love with my entire heart), I jumped into the first apartment that I could find to give myself some space from my tense family. It was in Roxbury, a section of Boston that was the most crime ridden and the most affordable. Granted, I did live in a rapidly gentrifying part of Roxbury, but my guileless actions pointed me toward an intuitive and suboptimal direction.

Living on my own appealed to me. I was out of sight from any authoritative figures and could do whatever my heart desired. Suddenly having to pay for food, laundry, bills, rent and entertainment, the money that I needed to reach on a monthly basis was much higher than I had originally thought.

In the underground poker clubs of Boston, work comes in heavy streaks. I think of it as one of those machines on game shows. You're placed into a transparent box where wind is blowing around a pile of money. In a set amount of time, you grab as much as you physically can. Some weeks, the machine was out of order. Other weeks, there would be so much money blowing around in there that it was impossible to pull out less than two thousand dollars. The inconsistency of the business always left me with this feeling of unease. Knowing that there were people in the city around the same age as me with exorbitant amounts of money left me with a sour taste in my mouth. This feeling was deeply rooted in jealousy, of course, but I wanted to work diligently on hitching my beat up 1990 Ford Taurus to their space craft heading straight for the moon. Not necessarily the moon, maybe Saturn or some other planet. You get the point. I wanted to position myself in a ready stance for success at someone else's expense. I was willing to do whatever it'd take.

To be continued...

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.