31 October 2004

Happy Hallowe’en. Must be busy in the Castro—I can hear the helicopters from way down here. I’m avoiding the whole thing again. Drunk straight people not in costume—I can see that 365 days a year..

I was burnt out by Friday morning last week.  The day ended with a productive but dispiriting meeting late Friday afternoon with my legal writing instructor. Apparently, my long sentences mean poor grades.  As do any attempts at concision. I’m supposed to imagine that my readers are bright eighth-graders. Nine more days and that class is over. Only 33 months until school is over. Not that I’m counting.

Farmer's market on Saturday: pears, rapini, pork, honey, and fresh dates (Khadrawi?).  Citrus fruits are starting to look better and better. And Della Fattoria is back with their great bread.

I had a drag-back from the gym this afternoon (since he stayed for a second round, it meant I didn't have time to work on my memo at all today. I suppose I could have kicked him out, but the muse was elsewhere). I rode my bike to the gym; but since he was on foot, we walked back to my place.  As I took him up the back stairs of my buidling, we passed by the knowing glances of ALL my neighbors. They all happened to be outside at the same moment enjoying the warm afternoon. Sheesh. The trick and I bonded over our mutual love of Rio. He lived there for a year doing field research on syncretism in Afro-Brazilian religions (in other words, voodoo). I tried to convince him to take me with him when he returns in January as a research assistant specializing in the . . .  of Afro-Brazilian males aged 20-35.  I hope I still have time to get a research grant.

I still haven’t made up my mind about who to vote for.  No, not that race. It’s the 22 candidates for supervisor here in District 5, now that the spoiled brat Matt Gonzalez has crawled back to sulk under the rock where he belongs.  Pointers and endorsements are appreciated.

Austrian chocolate stuffed with pumpkinseed cream.  I wouldn't have joined Fog City News' frequent buyer club if the guy at the counter hadn't been so foxy.

Next stop: Mijita in the Ferry Building for a tiny taco de carnitas. A disappointment, since it was twice the price and not half as good as the ones from Taqueria San Jose in the Mission. Next stop: a very expensive quarter-pound of new crop Keemun Mao Feng from Imperial Tea Court. It made a very nice cup this morning while I was trying to decipher the Supreme Court’s rebuke of ol’ Ken Starr (aka the Puritan Pornographer) in Celotex v. Catrett, 477 U.S. 317 (1986).

Weekend plans: my next memo and lots of studying.

22 October 2004

I would be a little more gruntled if I had my laptop back.

School: cocky twenty-five-year olds. I’m getting tired of them. I suppose it would be even worse if we were in a first-tier school. So many of the boys have the callous Republican indifference to others’ suffering that one would expect from those conceived and born during the Reagan era.

My trip downtown yesterday turned into a spending spree. First stop, Fog City News on Market Street, which also carries the city’s largest selection of imported chocolate, which led to a $6.95 splurge on:

20 October 2004

The San Francisco Chronicle has an article about the rebuilding of Octavia Boulevard, which is taking place practically on my doorstep. The paper's series on the changes since the earthquake fifteen years ago is worth reading, though provincial and triumphalist. Octavia would have been rebuilt years ago if it hadn’t been for the cretinous selfishness of certain groups.

Alan Hollinghurst’s Line of Beauty won the Booker prize this year. Santa, I have been a good boy; please remember me in December. I loved his Swimming Pool Library, and appreciated but didn’t love his Shooting Star. And, yes, I dropped the article from each of the titles on purpose: it’s not English to precede an article with a possessive, no matter how often you see it in the popular press. Perhaps that construction (possessive-article) is allowed in other tongues, but it’s an illiterate barbarism in English. Don’t let me catch you doing that.

The sun is shining. My mood has correspondingly improved. I think I had a little biorhythmic dip there over the last day or so, both physical and emotional.

As I was making dinner tonight (pork stew with beans and the corno di toro  peppers I got at the farmers’ market) I heard Teri Gross interview Joni Mitchell. I had never heard Joni’s speaking voice before. So amazing to hear her Albertan broad vowels in such phrases as: “You don’t know how to party!” Steve introduced me to her music. Joni was part of his goal of becoming a hippie chick in his next lifetime. I keep looking for the seven-year-old Aires girl he would be by now, but no luck so far.

I have found a new muse at school. He was there all along, but I didn’t realize it until he made a stellar performance in class the other day. I’m dumping secret boyfriends Nos. 1 & 2 in favor of the latest one. Physically, they’re all along the same lines (dark hair, cute, nice little body), but No. 3 I think is the smartest of them all. Aside from looking good, he seems to know what he’s doing in school (I have my doubts about SBF1-2), so he’s a better choice of local muse. I wish I could be as good of a student as he is. And unlike the previous tenants of that office, he might not have always been strictly straight. I don’t have any evidence to support my suspicions, but I’m not usually wrong about such things. Not exactly gay, but open-minded when it comes to fun; that's all I ask.

13 October 2004

It’s hot. Since my apartment is on the top floor and has big windows on three sides, it’s an oven in heat waves. I’m reduced to living here in my underpants. I don’t have air conditioning (no one does in San Francisco except my therapist, but he’s not one to deny himself any comforts), and I don’t even have a fan. The air has been hazy because of the wildfires north of here. Nice sunsets, though.

But what about Cunégonde? Boy crazeee again. Lots of little crushes. The secret boyfriend No. 2 at school is progressing slowly. Such cheekbones. I have two S&P daddy crushes now at the gym, though S&PD1 is getting oddly tubby. S&PD2—I never have been able to figure him out. He’s probably one of those winter signs like Sagittarius that are always so opaque.

And old crush is looking mighty fine. I went home with him and his boyfriend years ago. I was more into him than I was into the boyfriend, but the boyfriend seemed more into me, which seemed to be causing them tension, so I declined further invitations. Now they’ve broken up, and my crush has been working out like a demon. He’s in much better shape now than he was years ago when we first met. He smiles more now, too.

And then yesterday I had to stay on the exercise bike extra long when I saw my new secret boyfriend. Hunky, but not too big. Tan. Cute. What got my attention was the black wrist straps he was wearing. He used them to do pull ups, but between sets he wore them loose, and something about that latent invitation for restraint . . . well, just imagine for yourselves. If I had a camera like Wah’s I would have sneaked a picture for you. He kept his tongue in (I checked).

10 October 2004

I spent most of the weekend re-writing my memo, avoiding other homework, and coping with insomnia.

I'm hoping that he wasn't giving us notice too.

Farmers’ market report: peppers (Italica, Joe Parker, Gypsy, Hungarian, and pimentos), plums (the last of the season perhaps), lacinato kale (aka cavolo nero), quince, apples, and a Sharlyn melon.

6 October 2004

We finally got to quantum meruit today. I’ve been wondering about that for years. Think: restitution for unjust enrichment.

I’ve replaced my secret boyfriend with someone cuter and hunkier. Like SBF1, he has dark hair and is a little shorter than me. Something about the way a heavy backpack makes a guy in a tight t-shirt with a nice chest look so ... doable.

Decision-time: who to vote for? No, really, the question is: Should I buzz cut my hair again, or let it grow out?

5 October 2004

Who knew trade school would be so bad for the waistline? I’ve eaten most of a huge bag of tortilla chips as I try to get through my memo. Never mind reading the cases for my other classes.

Castro Street Faire was fine; I could only stay for one circumambulation as my memo was calling my name.

The A’s are out of the running (first and last sports news you’ll ever see here. I only knew about that because of you, Wah.)

Only minor touching to report (tall, slim, and tan).  He was saving himself for a date later that evening. Oh, the depravity.