27 September 2004

Post-Folsom Street wrap-up, and the movies.

Sunday night I saw Bright Young Things and liked it, sort of. I wasn’t bored. The previews, as usual, were my favorite part of the whole experience. Five movies in 15 minutes! Bright Young Things was a nice antidote to the Folsom Street Faire. I spent the least time ever on the street at Folsom Street. What’s it like, you ask? If you ever wondered what your grandpa would look like in a harness and a jockstrap, you could find out there. Mother Nature co-operated: Saturday was foggy and cold, as was today, but Sunday dawned bright and clear and got hot by the afternoon.

I was up at dawn to study (so diligent). We stopped by the new loft of some friends for drinks and watermelon before the faire. After a partial circumambulation from 7th to 12th Streets and back to 9th, my friend and I ditched each other, and I stopped in at the Powerhouse for a cooling libation and never left. Well, I did leave, but not until 6:15, when the street held nothing but wind-blown trash of several sorts. I met a naïve little 23-year-old from New Jersey. He was endearingly shy.

We used to keep track of crushes and muses and inspirations around here. And then for a long time there were none to speak of. Time to bring it back, or at least give a few of the celebrity variety, so that you can follow along as needed.  First, Gael García Bernal, the handsomest man around (not Jake G., sorry). I can’t wait until Motorcycle Diaries and Bad Education come out. And yes, I know that Che was a total nutcase who directly caused and indirectly inspired the misery of thousands and thousands of Latin Americans. The second inspiration, is found in the October 2004 issue of Gourmet. Oh golly. A chef. A rugby player. Buzz cut. What more could you want? If I had to restrict myself to two “types,” these guys would mark the two poles.

22 September 2004

Goodbye, summer.

An old former crush has been oddly very friendly lately at the gym. Salt & pepper hair (my favorite), more muscles, big motorcycle. I can’t tell what it means. During the height of my crush on him, before the dot.com crash, he always seemed to be humoring me when we talked. Now he’s seeking me out. Why didn’t this happen a few years ago when I really wanted it?

I haven’t seen my secret boyfriend at school in days. I hope he didn’t drop out. Students are starting to evince the competitiveness that the school is famous for. I started researching my next memo this afternoon. In the library I ran into a classmate who is also working on the same topic. I had already found the relevant statute (California Civil Code § 1714.9). I offered to make her a photocopy; she accepted. I then asked her to show me where the Cal.Jur. books were shelved. She pointed them out and then got testy when I asked her where the Witkin’s Summay was. Jeez. As if helping me find the books would mean that (a) she’d lose her advantage or (b) I wouldn’t find them myself.

13 September 2004

I was struck walking home tonight how the light has already changed. We have sunsets again, after the summer fog, and now it’s getting dark earlier. The heat wave is over, and there’s a chill in the air. Almost time for pumpkins.

I espied him on the subway home. Young and chic, as usual.

I’m on my very antique computer while my regular laptop is in the shop. To print documents I have to take them downtown to the office, since this computer doesn’t have a USB port. The browser is so old I can't access my gmail account. I feel as if I’ve lost a limb. I had to take notes in class today in pencil, just like a schoolboy of yore.

12 September 2004

Various items from your Cranky Grandma Cunégonde:

• Yes, in response to his query, I do have a big crush on a blogger. I started reading his blog more and more regularly a few years ago. Finally I got up the nerve to contact him. When he responded, I liked him even more (yes, baby, it's you). And then I saw his pictures. We haven’t met yet. I could eat him up like hot buttered toast. Too bad he lives so far away, but I doubt I could live up to his expectations anyhow.
• I found out that my secret boyfriend at school is straight and has a girlfriend. He’s still inspirational.
• In other news, I’m getting a little stressed out because of school, so I’m responding my having no motivation. Trying not to be resentful of the busywork. I hate last-minute schedule changes. No, wait, I don’t mind the schedule changes, what I hate is the last-minute additions to the schedule. “Section X has a mandatory meeting at 11:40 on Thursday.” What the fuck? We’re not all 23 years old and living on campus with nothing else to do but school. Rant on, missy.
• And then my laptop fell out of my backpack. The screen no longer works. I think I still have a warranty with IBM; tomorrow I’ll know more.
• So, to unwind a little, I went off to make a community deposit. Let’s just say we’re not in Rio any more. Attitude. Porky dudes (Come on, you could make a little effort; if I have time to exercise, you do too.) Speedy messes. It took longer than it needed to, but as Our Leader used to like to say, mission accomplished.
• I think I need a boyfriend.

7 September 2004

I think I found my muse. Alas, I can’t describe him for you, except to say that he's cute. He may be straight. Does that matter? He’s smart. He has a sense of humor and nice friends. He seems to have a good idea of who he is. He’s not in my section, so I only see him in passing, or on the patio between classes. It’s a start.

Since I was without a bicycle, I dilly-dallied after classes and took the Municipal Railway  to the gym in the Castro instead of going to my regular gym. Maybe I should switch my membership to the Castro. Younger, cuter guys (OK, I admit it, I got cruised in the locker room, something that never happens at my regular gym). Call me shallow.

6 September 2004

A more-or-less weekend.

I worked like crazy all Friday afternoon so that I could have a day off.

Saturday I went up to Sonoma again, this time to the house near the coast. I volunteered to cook dinner: a Spanish-style gazpacho (thin enough to be drinkable, served in little glasses); grilled asparagus and green onions; a reprise of the lemony potato salad, this time with capers; grilled salmon; and an apple crisp for dessert. Everyone but the 16-year-old girl added a healthy shot of vodka to their iced gazpacho. Most of what we ate was local—I got the ingredients for the gazpacho at the farmers’ market that morning, the wine came from vineyards about a quarter-mile from the house, the host and his brother caught the salmon in Bodega Bay, and the apples (Granny Smith, Rouge d’Hiver, Fuji, Gala, Gravenstein) we picked that afternoon at the neighbor’s orchard across the street. I slept out on the porch. I had coffee in the morning, which made me energetic enough to plug in the laptop and work until noon. I came home, went to El Rio (dull, and a cute guy who came over to chat me up yelped (yes, yelped, not gulped) when I allowed as how I’m 39, and he quickly excused himself to go “find his friends.”) By this point, the coffee had worn off and I was heading into a deep depression ("I’ve wasted my life, the rest of it will be a waste, etc."), which is why I don’t drink coffee.

I tried to regain emotional homeostasis by going to the gym. It worked, sort of, until I came outside and found that someone had stolen the rear tire of my junky bike. Fuckity fuck fuck. I walked home. When I came back for it today, the front fork and handlebars had also been stolen.  San Francisco—the city that knows how to steal.