The pervasive unsatisfactoriness of samsara.
When will I get it?
Crappity-crap-crap-crap.

Today would have been my thirteenth anniversary with Steve. I had promised my roommate, J., that I would go to Tehama Street that night even though I was jetlagged. J. woke me up, I protested but showered and got in the car. As we were driving past the club looking for parking I saw a tall hunky guy in a leather jacket walking to the entrance of the club. I told J. that that was the guy I wanted to do. It took me a while to find him once we were inside, since it was dark and he had taken off the jacket. He had such big arms that I was magnetized. He pulled me to him, and then, while kissing, we discovered that we fit together. It was like finding the other half of your body that you hadn’t known was missing until that moment. I brought him home. He fell in love right then; I didn’t. It took me three months or so, and then I was hooked. Would we still be together today? I’d like to think so, but I also know that we would both have had to change a lot to make it happen. I wouldn’t put up with his BS now; he wouldn’t put up with my avoidant behaviors. He spent money as if it were going out of style; I’m extravagant only with wine and shoes. I gave his ashes to his mother. I still have our rings, but I can't wear them.

I had my acaí, and I’m off to the beach to plot my future. High tide is at noon.

26 October 2003

I woke up this morning to get bad news of my own doing. I fucked up. The sound you’d hear if I had an audio component to this blog is of doors slamming shut.

What kept me from falling into total morosity was a catering job in Hillsborough, our local McMansion colony. Very nouveau riche, very Hong Kong. The hosts couldn’t have been sweeter, but everything was Versace—plates, water glasses, silver, wine glasses, tea cups, coffee pot, napery, vases, the hostess’s togs, even the sofas (in a black and gold Medusa grid), along with plenny of cut glass, carved ivory, and silk flowers. It gave the overall effect of a house in a Halloween costume. The wines were nice — especially the 1970 Mouton Rothschild (that would be the one with the Marc Chagall label).

Tomorrow I will visit the beach to touch up my tan and try to figure out where I can go from here to earn a living.

22 October 2003

$791.54 to fix a bent tie-rod. That will teach me not to pull the San Francisco Parking Maneuver (a three-point turn to snag a parking spot that includes charging over the curb and onto the sidewalk for at least one of the points).  It's two trips to Vancouver, one trip to New York, a round-trip ticket to Rio, or two pairs of shoes. It also means taking BART to work for another day, even though I don’t have a thing to wear on public transport.

19 October 2003

We went over to S.’s place for a late, sunny lunch today. Choosing quantity over quality, I brought two bottles of rosé (a Tavel and one from Navarra). We sat in the sunny front room to eat a white bean salad, grilled fresh sardines, roasted eggplant, and red peppers. S.’s boyfriend arrived after we did, much to our delight. All of S.’s gay friends are more-or-less openly in love with him, and she revels in it. S. got up abruptly when the wine was finished, left us alone with him, rushed into the kitchen, puréed a melon, and put it in a little round machine. By the time I had washed the dishes, she was serving sherbert*. Late summer. The light has changed, but the warmth lingers.

Tomorrow, I go to see my nephew for the first time. I’ve looked forward to this forever, but I’m full of trepidation. What if it doesn’t go well? What if I can’t disguise my dislike of babies? What if I start chain smoking while I’m supposed to be holding him? Why can't she just have given birth to a walking, talking three-year-old?

 __________

* I’m only being true to my dialect. Nobody I knew growing up spoke of  “sherbet.” I still can’t  believe "sherbet" is the right word. Where I’m from, we look for crawdads (not crayfish) in the creek, and we pronounced “caught” and “cot” exactly the same.

Uncle! Uncle! UNCLE!

Say it!

I’m an uncle!

(for the first time!)

H. was born just after midnight on Saturday!

Ooowheeee!

17 October 2003

I felt last night that I was coming down with a cold, so I ate a bag of Fritos and took a lot of Yin Qiao. One or the other worked, since I feel better now, but the Yin Qiao gave me very vivid dreams, including one featuring Cougar Cash, whom I dated years ago under his real name, before he got all tied up in the macramé of stardom. The things you didn’t know about your Cunégonde!

I made 100-and-something soufflés tonight. Oh, my noives was wracked! But after the first 30 or so I got into the swing of it. They were well received and stayed puffy. A local restaurant critic was in the audience and loved them.

Looking for inspiration…or a muse.

15 October 2003

A more concise version of the tour of the Castro: don’t walk on the north side of Market Street between Noe and Castro, and don’t walk on the west side of Castro between 18^th and Market.

Yesterday, as I was walking to Peets to get some tea, I noticed a young fellow cruising me. I didn’t pay him any attention, as usual (and I wonder why I’m single). He showed up at Peets and positioned himself right in front of the tea cabinet so that I’d have to talk to him. His smile won me over. Curly blond hair, 28, my height, non-stop flirter, Scorpio. We talked about New York; he touched my butt. I walked him back to my bike; he had to go to class. This morning I thought “what’s the point of being practically unemployed if I can’t have sex with gay youth in the middle of the day?” so I called him. I went over, and a little afternoon delight ensued. We left a few things undone so as to have something to look forward to next time.

Last night I helped little d., my ex, move into his new third-floor flat in the Castro, one of those typical old San Francisco places where you open the door and are confronted with a mountain of stairs. I refused to help him move his old, ugly, blue couch up all of those stairs. We were going to leave it on the sidewalk until we had a brilliant inspiration: one of Gavin Newsom’s neighborhood campaign offices is two doors away from d.’s old place. We took the couch downstairs and reassembled it, accent pillows and all, right in front of Newsom’s office. Little d. made a sign and affixed it to the couch: “For the Homeless, Courtesy of Supervisor Newsom.” It looked so homey yet practical there in front of all the Newsom campaign posters. Perhaps only our San Francisco readers will appreciate the political commentary.

13 October 2003

Y. is up from L.A. We had breakfast yesterday at Citizen Cake (“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked.  “Do you have any customers?” I wanted to retort. The room was 90% empty.) We hung out again this morning and took our Castroggiata around the ghetto. We follow the prescribed path, as do most people who take the walk. If you start at Café Flore, you have to cross Market  Street to the Gold’s Gym corner and walk up that side of Market to Castro Street. You can’t walk along the other side of Market unless you have a destination mid-block. Then down Castro on the Castro Theater side, across 18th (with possibilities of elective detours at 18th) and up to 19th. Cross Castro and come back down to 18th on the Citizen side, visit Walgreens and possibly A.G. Ferrari, but turn back toward 18th so that no one sees you walking all the way to Market on that side of Castro. Return up Castro on the theater side. Once back at the corner of Market and Castro, stare into the window of Twin Peaks, return down the same side of Market that you came on, admire the flowers at Ixia, cross Noe and 16th and halt at  Books Inc. or  Peets. Repeat as necessary.

Yesterday morning Y. and I took a walk around my neighborhood after breakfast. I saw a tall, foxy guy with a little beard, mid 30s. We cruised each other in front of Amphora and then again while we were waiting for the light to change. Y. didn’t notice, since he has eyes only for 20-year-old Hispanics. I met Y. this morning at the Flore. We sat outside, but I faced in toward the counter. I saw the foxy guy again while he was getting coffee. He sat outside, and I got a little smile as we left. Y. didn’t notice that either.

Last night I cooked for Dr. Watson and several other Nobel Prize winners who were at the restaurant celebrating some DNA-related anniversary. We did not get to meet them.

Farmers’ market this morning: leg of lamb, peppers (Joe Parker and italica), chard, German butterball potatoes, turnips, eggplant, lettuce, and buffalo mozzarella.

9 October 2003

I love New York. Could I live there again? I think so. I’m comfortable there; I know how it works; I like its rhythms, its neighborhoods, the surprises you can find even walking down a familiar street; two of my best friends live there; and the food can be pretty good if you go to the right places. J. asks me once a day when I'm there to just change my plane ticket and stay forever. I'm tempted every time he asks.

I procrastinated all morning on the day I was supposed to visit Columbia. I had a little stomach ache and couldn’t eat breakfast. When I got out of the subway stop at 116^th I walked in a circle (just like a dog) before I entered the big gates. I was sweating a little. This was only the second time I’ve set foot on campus since I dropped out fourteen years ago, and I’ve been back to New York at least thirty times since then.  I calmed down once I got to the dept I wanted to visit. People seemed friendly, and engaged, and cheerful. I sat in on one class — I’d have to work very hard to keep up with the other students if I go there; I liked the atmosphere more than I thought I would. When I left Columbia in 1989, I was in a bad state: burnt out, broke, not getting along with my roommates, at a dead end. I had so little money by the time I left that I was eating only one real meal a day — I weighed less than I had six years before when I left high school. I visited my old department, but hardly anyone was around. My favorite falafel shop has now been subsumed into a huge faux bistrot. The Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam was just as crepuscular and anti-customer as always.

NYU was another story. I had high hopes for it, since the program there is, on paper, just what I’m looking for, and since I swore years ago that I'd never give Columbia another penny as long as I lived. The students at NYU, however, seemed much younger, more neurotic, and less dedicated than I would have expected. Immature. They came late to class, asked dumb questions, and IM’d each other the whole time. Plus of course, there is the whole issue of the tragic fashion sense of NYU students in general. Four-inch brown wedgies, tight jeans, and a pink velour jacket with cartoon-character appliqués (WTF?) is not a good look. Do NYU students get a clothing allowance at Urban Outfitters? (Sorry, kiddo, but you know it’s true.) I’ll still apply.

8 October 03

Back from New York.  As a stop-gap, I offer a few facts about my trip. More later. After three nights on a couch, I need some sleep.

Days of perfect weather: 4
Trade schools visited: 3
Impressions changed: 2 (third choice remains third, first and second swapped)
Pony rides: 1*
Books acquired: 7
Pairs of pants acquired: 1
Good meals (that I didn’t cook myself): 1
___________
* On Sundays, in lieu of the farmers market, Union Square features actual ponies for riding.  No, I didn't.

4 October 2003

The test is over. I fear I did no better than last time.

Now it’s time for a little glass of wine and a holiday.

2 October 2003

Restless again.

One nice thing about living in a city is that none of your possessions have to end up in a landfill. Just put them out on the sidewalk and they’ll be gone within an hour . (OK, it did take about six hours for an old, worn-out pair of Birkenstocks to find new feet, but that’s the exception.) Yesterday I rearranged the kitchen and put a five-foot-tall étagère out on the sidewalk before I went to the gym. Gone by the time I came home. The subtext is that I am rearranging furniture in my apartment, which means that I am desperate for distraction. I never, ever move furniture if I can help it. The whole idea gives me anxiety; when I move in, I put things in their proper places, and they stay there until I move out. It’s only two days before my test, I have no work, one of my paychecks has been “delayed” for a few days, and I had an argument with my father about my moving to New York (with two stubborn parents and four stubborn grandparents, it’s no wonder I inherited a little firm-mindedness).