64 degrees and out of place

Winter was interrupted last night; t-shirt and Le Tigre vest weather.

64 degrees and out of place, I had no reason to complain. Ebullience in the kitchen led to vegetable lasagne and after I overshot the cooking directions I watched the ricotta burn a horrible dandy death at the top. Full of pasta and marina sauce, headed to Haight with not much of a plan other than being outdoors.

Divisadero cuts the city in two. Follow it up to flipcup in the Marina or get gay in the Castro, the middle section is where I tend to call home. I spend more time there than anywhere else, being as its so close but so different from Haight headshops and their poor patronizers. Are you loving this alliteration? It’s giving my fingers the chills.

Passed by the Page, a dive bar designed by a moron. Inside a jukebox stops playing when its not juiced up, beers are happily never over 5.50, and that invites the cougars to stay and pick up the scraps after last call. I know the bouncer there, a pleasant tall black man named Tony who somehow always recognizes me. We exchange a nod that says ‘I don’t know your last name, but if you’re ever in some shit around here I’ll help you out.‘ That would be the last time I’d see Tony that evening.

The weather calls for skirts and mini dresses, and that calls for compliments. ‘You look great!‘ I tell the girl in black with the silver sash. She’s tall, pale, with thick, nervous eyebrows that keep staring forward, even though they should be focused on her heels which aren’t behaving. I turn around and she looks back, confused by the nice things that people you don’t know say. They are an odd bunch. I hope she didn’t meet the floor during the night.

Walking. Walking and snooping inside, not making much conversation until I find a wooden bench outside Mojo cafe/restaurant/bike repair shop. I was there earlier with Lindsay. She was out in the garden, and I met Andrew, a friendly fellow wearing a conductor hat and a dark orange beard that requires serious dedication. I am not one for facial hair, or hair in general, but: School and work, money and laziness have left on my hair long. I’m disgustingly approaching 3 months and should anyone care to notice, it IS beginning to form an afro. I am Iraqi. This is the curse I was born with…

Sitting at Mojo with 4 other bohemians, we decide to form a high five parade for all the passerbys. Dozens of people, a few deja vus, plenty of high fives – this is our neighborhood and we own this place. We score five fingers for most who walk past – some are serious and do not want to be molested. Some are young and excited by the interaction. Some look weird and we do not offer them our hand.  I meet J.D. He wears pants that are too tight for him. He probably played football or ate a lot of meat when he was younger and is the definition of ‘burly.’

burly (comparative burlier, superlative burliest)

  1. (usually of a man) Large, well-built, and muscular.
    He’s a big, burly rugby player who works as a landscape gardener.


(1) Empire Strikes Back was the best of the three because the good guy must LOSE. Vader is your dad, and he wants to bring you in the family business. Luke refuses, and his dad CUTS HIS HAND OFF. You want to be the good guy? You’ll never succeed single-handedly. I’m your dad. You are me. Don’t believe me? I just cut your fucking hand off.

(2) No one talks about Obama anymore. Why? The real action is on the right. All moderates have joined the Dems, and anyone who stayed is at the far edge of right, and the furthest edge of reason. Good luck to those motherfuckers in 2012.

(3) Go see Waltz with Bashir! An Israeli animated film about Sabra and Shatila. Animation is a hard sell. Go see it and help it reaching the tipping point.

Leave Mojo. Head to Weizema for a drink. Talk to a few girls, Mattie and Gretchen and their best friends birthday’s whatever, who are too smart, too bland, or too boring for any game. I leave. Two bowties on the street. I walk with these gentlemen for a while, solely because they’re in bowties, hate those who hate Jewish people, and one of them is carrying a gigantic orange construction cone.  One of them is on a mission to find us cans of Sparks, energy flavored malt water.

The weather turns to water as Sunday approaches. The 71 is full of girls in piercings, discussing where to get the best tattoos for the cheapest prices in the Mission. Or is it Berkeley? I don’t know. I’m tired and want to get home, shower and shave. I’m back on my feet again, and convinced that as of now, I am headed in the right direction.


Published by


I'm fascinated with people, their stories, where they're coming from and where they're headed. Met many, and now it's time to write my own. follow the footprint.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s