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| The Preposterous Methuselah Well, it's my birthday. I'm older than old now, twenty-four. An ancient, decrepit, lurching fogey, one foot in the grave and gray about to encompass my scalp...you get the picture. With luck I'll age like Lee Marvin. And die like...a man.
Ahem.
Now I'm going to go get cake.
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| "The journey is in the parking..."As Greg and I are walking through the Castro, a guy dressed out in a top hat, old-school vest, etcetera walks up to me, decked out in pinstripes and a London Fog coat and fedora and says "look out, 1940s, the 1890s are coming for you."
Which was one of the more hysterical strange things to happen to me since coming to SF. Strange things happen every day, but that was fucking funny. That was funny on the level of discovering the three drug dealers outside my apartment called themselves Purple, Big Toby, and Up-Up. That was fucking funny too.
I'd been showing Greg around the town for a bit of time before that; got him some grand old mexican food from the best taqueria I'd been to. Also showed him the general Bay, had a couple of drinks, showed him what the Bay Bridge he'd be driving over the next day looked like, took a picture to send to Kim (it'll probably show up on his xanga sometime soon), went drinking and shooting the shit and talked about womens and TV shows, etc. Tour guide shit.
And I have to say, Greg may be the most laid back son of a bitch to walk God's green Texas. He certainly easily fielded San Francisco's total lack of self-consciousness with his own ultra-chill. The man had a degree of chill we all could aspire to. Perhaps because in SF it's a lot chillier than Texas and according to him that was one of the better parts of the trip. But Greg is one cool cat.
Back to the trip tales. This, the second day, when God created Parkinson's Disease and fish or something and the 1890s was on my ass, I'd introduced him to the girlfriend, showed him the magical adventure that is attempting to find a parking spot in San Francisco (they could make a video game about it, coming out for the PSP soon -- God Of Parking: Chains Of The Meter) especially in the Castro and in the borders of the Tenderloin. However Greg seemed to take to the colorful and vibrantly weird nature of the TL, which is good. I tried to take him to my favorite bar, but it was Quiz Night, and you don't want to be around a TL bar when it's Quiz Night. Oh no. I have many a bad story about the ruckus of Quiz Night, and it's never related to questions about the Original Star Trek or quotes from Full Metal Jacket.
So we went to the Korean bar across the street (Benjimon, you know what I'm talking about) and had ourselves a grand old time with a serving girl who comprehended about as much about drinking as we did the Korean period drama soap opera we were watching. Which, I'll be honest, had the terrible subtitles such things are famous for, but got funnier as we drank more and ultimately culminated with the highest of hilarity after a failed rape and opium dealing, one guy asked the other "WHY YOU LOSE SO MUCH TEMPER."
Then I decided for his last touristy nonsense in San Francisco, I'd take him up for the view from my apartment's roof. One of the few advantages of living in the general center of the inner city is that you've got something in every direction, and from my roof is a magnificent view that almost makes up for the amount of hobo fights. What am I talking about, I love the hobo fights, I just hate the club next door and their shitty techno and stupid emo bands that stop by. But anyway, the rooftop is really a gorgeous view of San Francisco where you can basically see everything. It wasn't just Greg I've taken up to see the view though, this is something I do for everyone I took Ben up there (hell I think he's got a picture of it in his blog somewhere), I took Brian and Matt (another pair of Texans) up there, I took Riley fuckin' Turpin up there, took Mujah up there, I took anyone who wanted to see up there, and probably will taken even more in the future. Me, I have plans to set up a deck chair and just sit up there with the PSP just chillin' in the shine.
So it was a grand old visit from Greg.
Guess I'm headed off to Texas next.
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| Out Of LineI was out drinking with Seth (an amusing aside; I refer to him as The Pope and he refers to me as The Suit) last night up at the Edinburgh, one of the few straight bars here in San Franscico that isn't annoying or terribly crowded, shooting the shit, drinking screwdrivers by the truckload and playing what may have been a game of pool so godawful, it not only defied the laws of physics but it marched up to physics' front door and posted an edict of ninety-five different complete fuck-up shots. We discussed women, internet, weird music, and movies, and how I've been meeting a lot of interwebs folks passing through SF and have plans to meet yet more. Perhaps I'll introduce him to some.
And that's about it.
No embellishments of how afterwards we were engaged in a lightsaber battle with the guy from Brisco County Jr. for an over-indulgence of references. No allusion to a scene from Batman Returns being similar to El Topo. No polysyllabic inference of the massive intellectual inferiority of my audience. No profoundly profane portmanteaus of cuntweasels and scrotum-scuffers being tossed about wildly in some zany, wildly obscene rant or internet insight into why Featured has gone down the toilet or some shit. No, just me drinking with a guy a telling you all about it.
Catch you all later.
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| And Now, In ItalianAlright, I got Ma outta here.
Fuckin' old bird had dirty dishes. Dirty dishes! That shit's fuckin' disrespectful. I bring her over to my house, I got clean dishes. I'm showin' my respect. But I come to Ma's house, fuckin' Ma's house, and I gotta look at shit on my plate? I'm going to be eating good pasta and shit. That ain't fuckin' right.
Okay, Paulie, Tommy, Frankie, see the thing is, there is a problem with Boss Carvozetti. It seems that his latest fling has thrown herself at Jimmy the Pistol, and now he went and got his cartridges wet with her. I don't know why the fuck he'd want a skank like that, fuckin' bottle-blonde with an echo between her legs that only wears a pair of fuckin' panties when she thinks her ankles would get cold, but fuck it, some men can't take a lot of women. Now the Boss is lookin' to throw her away, probably in the lake, and throw in Jimmy too so she's got some fuckin' company, and him with some designer cement shoes so his feet don't get cold. We gotta find someone to do that. Frankie, I think it should be you, since you get such a fuckin' kick out of kickin' couples apart.
Next item of fuckin' business is all these fuckin' wops from Easties trying to move in. You know what the problem with an Eastie wop is? He fucks his sister and he can't pay the rent. He's fucked his sister so much his dick has rotted off and he's gotta stab us in the back, just so he can pay the rent to have a roof over his head so he can fuck his sister some more. I don't get this, but now they're trying to marginalize our margins or some fuckin' bullshit like that. I don't know why some wop from Eastie is gonna come fuck with us while he's doin' some stupid incest bullshit like we found in those fucked-up Jap cartoons on Paulie's son's fuckin' computer. Paulie, your kids are fucked up. You're fucked up. What the fuck's the matter with you, Paulie, you fuckin' retarded? You got fuckin' Down's Syndrome or some shit? No wonder you're so fuckin' ugly. Your fuckin' kid is a nerd, Paulie, you better fuckin' correct that shit before it takes him all the way to college to lose his virginity. Sittin' around on the fuckin' computer all day startin' fights with losers ten years older than him, what the fuck. He's worse than the fuckin' Japs who think they got a mob, fucking Yak Cooze or whatever the fuck it's called, those fuckin' nerds who think just because Bruce fuckin' Lee killed a nigger with a judo chop they're all fuckin' bad ass when they're set up on our turf...
You know the only fuckin' nerd shit they got that I like is that fuckin', what's-it-called, fuckin' Battlestar Galactica bullshit. Hot chicks who are fuckin' robots fucking some fuckin' scientist fuckin' nerd in outer space. Last episode I saw had some fuckin' dude playin' some Bob Dylan tune, except it turns out that shit was partly done by the motherfucker who was in Oingo Boingo, can you believe that shit? What do you mean you don't know who Oingo Boingo is, fuckin' Tommy you uncultured idiot, they did the theme song for Weird Science, that fuckin' John Hughes movie. You never saw that shit? You're a fuckin' barbarian. That shit I'd expect from Paulie, but not from you. You, shut the fuck up, Paulie! Jesus. You just wander into the conversation like a lost fuckin' six-year-old, no one needs to hear your voice. You're outta your element!
And what's this bullshit I hear about Jo-jo bein' so fuckin' afraid there's a hit out on him he's driving two feet rather than that piece of shit fuckin' Camaro he's so hot for? Who'd want to kill fuckin' Jo-jo, besides everyone who met that asshole, but no one's put a hit out on him. Tell him to calm the fuck down before some nigger from fuckin' Southend puts him outta his fuckin' misery. That brings me to my next point, the fuckin' niggers from Southend think they can delay fuckin' payment. I don't know why, they gotta buy more fuckin' crack or more copies of Scarface so they can rip our fuckin' culture off, but someone's gotta thin the fuckin' herd of niggers down there. But don't hit none of the fuckin' Southie spics while you're at it, last thing we need is the niggers and the spics gettin' a fuckin' truce against us while we're still dealin' with them fuckin' Eastie goddamn fuckin' traitors.
We done here now? Paulie, you got any more stupid fuckin' questions? Frankie, you gonna go unload the Pistol, Tommy, you're gonna go take care of things with the Easties, and me, I'm gonna tell the fuckin' boss he shouldn't have any fuckin' worries so he stops givin' me a fuckin' migraine every six fuckin' minutes.
Ma! Where is the food already?! | | |
| UnconventionalI've decided I'm going to do a very West Coast remake of "O Brother Where Art Thou", but instead of being three white guys from a chain-gang in the South, we'll have three black guys escaping from a prison in Los Angeles twenty years ago and getting on wacky adventures (rather than Depression-era references, have Eighties-era madness) in their attempts to elude the law and simply make it out of LA alive.
And I'm calling it "Nigga, Where The Fuck You At".
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