The End

The end came excrutiatingly slow. The end to our softball season. We’re a fun team. Every time we take the field good times are guaranteed. But something has happened, or rather, has not happened, lately.

There’s a peculiar rule in the league we’re in. If a team scores 10 runs within an inning, they’re done. Back to the outfield. Time for the other team to have a chance to play ball. That rule was invoked upon us not once, but twice, in tonight’s game. Ouch.

What was especially painful was the very last inning. The umpire told the other team (at that point ahead by at least 20 runs) that in order to take their last at bat, everyone on the team had to switch hit. There were groans, meek protests of, “But I’ve never held the bat this way…” And yet they still scored.

Guess it’s a good thing we all have day jobs.

The Coldest Birthday I Ever Spent Was a Summer in San Francisco

In theory it was a good idea. A bonfire on the beach to celebrate my 35th birthday. Emily sent out the details; most people responded by saying they had never attended a beach bonfire in San Francisco before and were looking forward to a new experience.

We arrived to the beach just after nightfall, laden with firewood and refreshing beverages. As the icy wind blew through my woolen sweater and silken long underwear, I reminded myself, “Yes, it really is the middle of June in the northern hemisphere.” But, as we all knew it would be chilly, we had donned our ski attire. Yes, in the middle of the summer.

As we walked over the large sand dune to reach the long, flat area of beach where we were to build said bonfire, we were met with water as far as the eye could see. Unbeknownst to us until that very moment, it was a full moon, making the tide particularly high. Something we didn’t really consider in the planning of the bonfire. We were more concerned with having plenty of beer and marshmallows.

We managed to build a fire on a quite small strip of dry sand, which, in any sense of the word, couldn’t be classified as a bonfire. It hardly qualified as a campfire. We huddled around it, blinded not only by the spears of smoke carried by fierce winds, but also stung by the sand those same winds slapped against any area of exposed skin.

Everyone was a good sport. No one complained (much) about the cold. Or the absolute absurdity of the plan. Or the fine particles of sand that would be found everywhere over the next several days – in clothes, in ears, in cars, in apartments. I think, however, the next time anyone in this group receives an invitation to a beach bonfire in San Francisco, they’ll probably look back to a cold evening in June on a lonely beach and politely decline.

Lights, Camera, …

He called it a rock star filter. To me, it just looked cool. Pics from the socializing going on after the workshop. Thanks, Merlin.

‘Til Death Do Us Part

I expected a small adobe brick building in a field somewhere. They were getting married in a Mission and for some reason that conjured rural images in my mind.

We parked on a city street, at a meter, and walked through a bustling crowd. “Where are we going?” I repeatedly asked. They pointed. “Right there. The white building.” Said building was sandwiched between others, not even a hint of a lawn surrounding it. As we neared, I heard amplified noises. The others, while not surprised about he location, were surprised by the sounds growing louder and louder as we approached the church.

Strains of loud Christian rock assaulted our ears as we rounded the corner. I turned to Em. “Diane doesn’t seem like the type to hire a band to greet guests.”

As we rounded the corner, the music grew louder and we were astonished to witness a festival, a “Freedom Fair” taking place in the courtyard and on the front steps of the church. The drummer hammered a steady beat with his eyes closed, head turned towards the sky. Several musicians, men and women, strummed electric guitars. A singer belted out words praising her Lord. People gathered around, singing, clapping, observing, praying.

The only thought running through my head was, Are we going to be able to hear the ceremony? We entered the Mission yet the sound didn’t diminish. I had a flashback to my brother’s wedding, almost 20 years ago, in the small town of North Wilkesboro, North Carolina. The church happened to be adjacent to a race car track. The wedding happened to be on the day of a major race.

“Do you, Greg, VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…… take VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…”

It was one of those moments during my life when I knew that it was completely inappropriate to laugh, yet I couldn’t ignore the irony of the situation. Being sixteen probably didn’t help either.

Thankfully, on Saturday, the band took a break moments before the wedding began. Solemnness was restored as Pachelbel’s Canon in D rang through the church. Two beaming mothers were escorted to their seats, followed by the bride, elegantly radiant as she sashayed down the aisle.

Today’s Special

The specials board read like the sushi chef’s own personal ad (roll names in bold, in the order presented):

Super Super S?xy sushi chef iso a Super Hot Hot Hot female. Size doesn’t matter, will consider any XX. Come be my Very, Very Sapporo Super No 1 gal (or maybe No 2) for this Sapporo SAM. I will be your Super Star, giving you a little Hawaiian Poke, making you scream Oh My God! I’m a man of many tastes – let’s share a Mexican Burrito and be Happy Together. Or perhaps you are a Tuna Lover? Let me take you to Paradise where we’ll feast on Fatty Toro then enjoy Super Super S?x all night long. But first, my dear, you must get your Energy Up, so please accept my specialty – a Spider, Unagi, and Oyster roll to put you, and only you, in the mood.

Spotted on the Street

A lilac bulldozer, in front of my house. Just didn’t seem like an appropriate color for an instrument of destruction.

Tongue In Cheek

3 Racy Men’s Magazines Banned by Wal-Mart

“The Timothy Plan, a mutual funds management firm that invests in companies based in part on whether the companies share its values, has been pressing Wal-Mart to pull women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan and Glamour from checkout lanes and put them back into the magazine rack. Arthur Ally, president of the Timothy Plan, said that he saw magazines like Maxim and FHM as ‘a level worse.’”

“It is soft-core pornography,” he said. “It’s very addictive and leads to harder stuff.”

Cycles

I was in that state, drifting between total unconsciousness and ever so slight cognizance when I heard it. A muffled, yet loud, thump. My eyes struggled to open. I listened more carefully. No sounds whatsoever met my listening ears. For some reason, this led me to believe that I was being robbed.

As quietly, as carefully as possible, I threw back the reassuring weight of my down comforter. First one tiptoe then the other I placed on the chilly floor. I stood perfectly still for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the black of the room. I peeked into the hallway. My eyes did not meet another’s. The front door did not appear to be ajar. I pondered. There wasn’t another entrance to my studio apartment. I tiptoed around my bed to my closet. Maybe the burglar entered through the window in the closet.

I placed my ear to the door of the closet. I heard noises. Not a barrage of loudness, but quiet, surreptitious sounds. I flung open the closet door.

The noises were indeed coming from my closet. All of my clothes, ever so gracefully, were sliding from their proper place on the closet rod. The rod had broken freeeeeeeeeeeeeeee from its position on the wall and hangers upon hangers danced across the floor. I had only enough energy to push the bodiless dresses, skirts, and pants back into the closet with a poke of my toe before returning to bed. A sense of deja vu shrouded me.

This morning I remembered. Not quite a year ago, the same thing, more or less. In Korea. First the light bulb, then the closet. Maybe I should read my archives to see what is going to happen to me next.

Life Amongst the Cubes

I had an Office Space moment today. I sat in my cube, when suddenly my nose tickled. I sniffed, then let out a succession of tiny sneezes. From the next row came a pinched voice and in a sing song manner I heard, “Are we allergic to work over there?”

I was tempted to reply to this unknown entity, “No, and we don’t have a case of the Mondays either.”

But I didn’t.

He Said, She Said

Since I’ve moved back to San Francisco, I haven’t blogged as much. Not because life’s not interesting, but because too many of the characters know each other. I can’t write with the same anonymity that I did while in Korea. I don’t mind exposing my own misadventures, but feel somewhat of a traitor when exposing those of unsuspecting friends. Emily sent me this link today. Couldn’t have said it better myself.