I've moved!

I hope you packed your little suitcase, because you need to travel over to the new site. It's not far, but you might want your toothbrush. Oral hygiene is very important.

Cereal For Dinner Again.


See you there.

Not forsaken

Friends, I am in triage preparation/panic mode for this weekend's two shows. Hey! Here's one now (there is a misprint in my name, but it's my own fault for not noticing in time. Let's pretend not to notice). So, you're saying that you're just now preparing? And the first show is on Friday? Yes. That is what I'm saying. I am a terrible procrastinator. Wanna make something of it? What with all the hand-wringing and self-doubt that I need to attend to, there may not be a lot of cereal for dinner this week except for that which ends up in my own personal belly. It is not because I don't love you. It is more because I don't want to humiliate myself in front of scores of people. Selfish? Perhaps.

As an act of good faith, here's a little snapshot to tide you over:

This morning, a man stood on the grassy, be-palmed median of Dolores Street holding something delicately between his thumb and index finger. He regarded it intently and blew on it repeatedly. I was charmed thinking that he was making a wish on a downy little dandelion. Only when I drew nearer did I perceive that he was trying to salvage a cigarette butt he had found on the ground.

It's not quite Amelie around here, but we do what we can.

Most beloved character in fiction

On my way to work this morning, I heard an extended debate on the radio about the tainted Foster Farms chicken in California and what should be done.

This probably wasn't the main objective of the program, but my big takeaway was that someone must immediately write a book featuring a jaunty protagonist called Salmonella Heidelberg. If not, it will be a tragic waste.

Somebody get Lemony Snicket on the horn.

Upcoming

I have discovered that putting half-written posts in the drafts folder is exactly like putting meat in the freezer. That is to say, it seems like a good place to save something for later consumption, but I might just as well throw everything down a well. I never remember to defrost meat. I never seem to go back to drafts.

Currently, I have six organic hamburger patties in the freezer. I went to a BBQ where I thought I was supposed to bring something to grill, but I clearly misunderstood. The place was lousy with grillables. I went home with as much raw meat as I'd come with. That was a months ago. Additionally, I have a half-written post from August about how I bravely swam in a natural body of water; one from maybe three weeks ago about possibly the most beautiful place in San Francisco; and one from a couple of days ago about acupuncture.

Those sound good, right?

I thought if I admitted out loud that they exist, I'd be compelled to finish them. We can have a mini-series (oh. wait. I just remembered that miniseries is already a thing that exists. We're not going to have one of those. Sorry.) Um. We can have a short series: From the Freezer. It'll be outdated! And fantastic! Now I'm all excited.

In other news, I've got things brewing. You know that time directly after a break up when all songs on the radio seem to describe your personal broken heart, and you are a danger to all other motorists as you drive around weeping? Well, I seem to be in a period when all inspirational quotes seem directly applicable to my life. It's exhausting. There are so, so many inspirational quotes. I don't know what will happen, but it's possible that I might burst into bloom at any time.

For starters, I am doing TWO shows in ONE weekend. I am currently entirely unprepared, but that's how I roll (inasmuch as I "roll" at all). I embrace procrastination with the dedication that most people seem to dedicate to a spiritual practice.

Ready?

Friday, October 18
Naked Truth at the Mill Valley Library
(Their Litquake show! Which makes it extra exciting and gets me into the Litquake schedule just like a Real Writer.)

Sunday, October 20
The Vent at Stage Werx Theatre (the spelling of which I deplore, but it is out of my control), San Francisco

You should come.


Also, behind the scenes I'm trying to gussy things up around here. I mean, if it turns out you have a spottily maintained blog for nearly ten years, it deserves a little attention. Pack a small suitcase. We may be moving.

Tiny whiny terrorist

The weather in San Francisco has been balmy. Whenever I don't have to wear a coat at night in this town, I feel like I'm on vacation, so on the whole, I've been a little giddy. Last night, there was also an extravagant sunset during which I was driving home from the Eat Bay, such that I was able to see it stretched over the Bay in a postcard vista.

What with all the excitement, I stayed up too late. I'm reluctant to let weekends go. I'm equally reluctant to waste any time that the neighbors are all asleep and therefore silent. At one point, I was watching some Russell Brand standup on YouTube. Look. I'm not proud of it, but it happened. At nearly 1am, I finally got in bed and almost instantly after turning off the light, I heard the dreaded war cry of a mosquito in my ear. I often forget until it's too late that coatless weather is also mosquito weather.

I leapt into action. Literally. It begins with a lot of frantic hand waving around my face and then there is leaping. Leaping for the light switch. Leaping to the kitchen to collect my mosquito-killing implement. (It's a Swiffer dust mop, in its Clark Kent guise. Long handle, perfectly flat swiveling head. It is a mosquito-killing machine. The thing is, you can find the mosquito on the wall and sort of sneak up on it. You rest the short end of the mop head against the wall under the insect, leave the rest angled out so it casts no shadow, line up your shot, and then--BLAM--swivel the head flat against the wall. I can't tell you how satisfying it is. Particularly after decades of swinging and missing with rolled up magazines. In fact, I should probably pitch this to the Swiffer people. One commercial and their sales will skyrocket. And, presumably, I will also be rich, which I would not find objectionable.)

I did a sweep of the room, but couldn't see it anywhere so, killing machine within reach, dishtowel over my face (what? If you cover everything else up, they totally bite your face. Have you ever had a mosquito bite on your lip? Your eyelid? Well, I have), one bedside light on. Ready, set, sleep!

Trying to sleep while in a heightened state of retaliatory readiness (especially with a towel on your face on a hot night) is not easy. This is one of the many reasons I'm grateful not to be in the Army. Nevertheless, I fake slept and maintained vigilance until around 6am. At no point, to my knowledge, did the mosquito return. But it got in my head, yo. I know it's still in there. And it will try to bite me again tonight. I am both desperately tired and afraid to go to bed.

And that, my friends, is how the terrorists win.

Confessional

I am giving a new antiperspirant a whirl, which, frankly, is exactly the sort of detail of my life that I generally opt to spare you because...really. Should groping around for content leave us with no manners or dignity whatsoever? And yet, here we are.

My office is airless. Well, not entirely, of course. I mean, I can breathe and everything, but there are no healthful breezes wafting through. There is a vent that is meant to address this issue, but it is directly over my head and having it open is like sitting beneath my own personal arctic front, so I have had the vent closed and sealed. There is resultant sweating. I'm sorry to mention it, but there's no getting around it. It has been very vexing. And damp.

Enter: new, extra formidable antiperspirant. I am sure it causes cancer, but I can only address one problem at a time. Having never used it, I wasn't too sure what it was supposed to be like. It looks basically like a regular stick-type deodorant, but with a sort of plastic cage over it. Down near the bottom of the container I can see what looks like the regular stick substance, but it is at least two inches away from the protective cage, which is a rounded plastic thing full of little holes, which I suppose it to prevent using too much at once. The instructions say that you're supposed to turn the dial one notch to distribute the appropriate amount. Furthermore, you're supposed to apply it at night so that it has more time to stealthily give you cancer while you sleep.

For a couple of days, I've been faithfully dialing. Nothing much seems to happen when I turn the dial, but I figured there was maybe some kind of vapor technology at work? I dialed, I applied the approved two strokes per pit and then...continued to sweat. Sigh. I figured maybe it was a thing that had a cumulative effect, so continued dialing and applying.

Only last night did it occur to me that maybe something was malfunctioning. Why would all the stuff be sitting at the bottom? Why would dialing and/or a plastic thing full of holes be required for vapor technology? I turned the whole thing over and gave it a dozen hard whacks. Sure enough, the actual substance moved to the top of the tube and, with a turn of the dial, a little bit squeezed out of the holes in the cage, garlic-press style, producing the approved dosage. The approved dosage of an actual thing. Not the approved dosage of nothing, which is exactly what I have been very carefully and responsibly applying to myself for days.

The Emperor's New Deodorant.

I would have had the same results had I been carefully rubbing a spork under my arms at bedtime.

I had trouble falling asleep last night what with all the laughing.

Bright spots

I'm just going to level with you: I am in a lousy mood. I'm sorry, but there it is.

However, despite the black cloud under which I am traveling, there were two things that pierced my cold, dark heart on my way to work this morning.

1. A guy who looked like a younger Brad Pitt walking his nice, normal-sized dog past my house. (Ridiculously handsome men are weirdly easier to come by around here than normal-sized dogs. The combination was quite arresting.)

2. Crossing the street, a young woman wearing huge headphones, looking serious verging on scowly, and seeming unaware that she is clutching a pinata under her arm and trailing three helium balloons with bonus streamers.

That may be as good as it gets today. Carry on, good people.