A is for Asshole

aaron tsunami (313)

aaron and I had both simultaneously hit a snag in the great metaphorical pantyhose of love and romance as we found ourselves both in the throes of our respective break ups. on a sunny spring afternoon, it was still two hours before the restaurant would open, and my designated hostessing busywork for the day was to painstakingly fold an unholy amount of imitation cloth napkins. I sat at table one with my shoulders hunched, focusing on the zen quality that such menial tasks possess rather than my inherent misery. aaron sat down and offered a hand with my origami assignment and offered me a sympathetic look, having been privy to my plight.

"you know," I began, "this wouldn't be such a traumatizing ordeal if he didn't happen to be my roommate." followed by a sigh as I ran a manicured hand across a napkin to make a crease.

"oh, that's right," he replied, grimacing at the revelation, "how's that working out?"

"he dumped me and then took off for LA for a week, so our platonic dynamic has yet to be determined. I've just been sulking and watching his netflix."

"you really think that's it?"

"yeah, it feels pretty final." I paused to ponder a flashback of the last fight where he'd dramatically cast a handful of computer parts across his desk in a wild gesticulation that was accompanied by yelling with an abundance of words meaning or pertaining to 'finished'.

aaron continued, "nah. you guys live together. clean breaks don't exist in situations like that. sorry." he shrugged.

"we'll see."

"when does he get back?"

"... sunday."

"you're going to end up sleeping together. I give you until monday night."

"no!" I shrieked, "no, we're not."

"it's inevitable."

my gaze drifted out to fulton street and it's inhabitants, purposefully strolling to destinations that weren't likely to be as exotic as I imagined them before I replied.

"if only there was some way to be on my period every day for a month..."

"what if you took the morning after pill daily like an anti-sex multivitamin? I mean, you'd probably die--"

I cut him off, valiantly pointing my index finger skyward. "but I would die with dignity!"

"yeah," aaron said, "dignifiedly ODing on plan b to have successfully avoided sleeping with your ex but likely only ruining some perfectly good sheets."

I sighed. "well. have you got a plan c?"

adachi! (415)

the minutes of my hectic shift at the sushi joint were dragging by mercilessly and my stomach growled like a beast. I opted to go traipse back and forth in front of the sushi bar in hopes of being tossed a sardine as if I were a dancing bear at the circus. (sometimes, it works.) instead, upon arriving to the window display of rainbow colored slabs of raw fish, adachi looked up from his chopping and rolling and declared loudly, "I rove MONDAYS!"

I was puzzled, but intrigued. "adachi, it's saturday."

"I know, but I just rove mondays. especially in the winta-time when everything is all red and green around christmas."

"but, isn't everything decked out with a yuletide motif around christmas, every day?"

"yeah, but mondays are the best. I just rove them. anyway." and with that, he had returned to work.

adamn (949)

adam was a kid from orange county who frequented san francisco and had a penchant for trouble but a wildly charming boyishness that always got him off scot free. he once stayed on the couch at the fabled household called the crunk station for a week in october, spending his nights pounding the pavement for danger in the mission and his afternoons fashioning a mariachi costume of his own design for the impending halloween. he'd had a one night stand with my crazy german roommate that had turned into a fortuitous friendship as our living room became his regular bay area motel. after I moved on to slummier pastures to the "shotwell mansion" apartment, I saw him less and less, and eventually not at all. I've looked at his myspace page from time to time and inferred that he became a main player in the LA club scene and perhaps lost some of that peter pan-ish sensibility. when I saw that he'd done a photoshoot with cory kennedy and I felt a sharp pang of jealousy that I promised to myself I'd never admit to anyone.

AJ white heat (415)

aj is one of the more eccentric young lads I've crossed paths with. he played a show with his band at the knockout on his 22nd birthday dressed as an electric satanic space lobster complete with a giant, red beehive tranny wig. during one of the songs he ripped off his own claws, then his shirt and threw himself on the floor of the stage, writhing in rock bliss and smearing fake blood and glitter all over himself. almost every time I see him he drops to his knees and begs me to let him make love to me. I admit, had he asked that night, I might've said yes.

the cell phone project

the premise is deliciously simple, and the results have been delightful so far. I am attempting to write an anecdote or true short story about every person that makes an appearance in my cell phone directory. so far I haven't been going in alphabetical order, but I may switch that up just to bolster the challenge a bit. I borrowed this idea from an old friend of mine, a certain bobby burgess, with whom I have spent loads of time in the past 6 years swapping stories. you can find his work on his website.

I don't think I'll be posting them on myspace as some of the subject matter may not be suitable for my brother's girlfriend's little sister, etc, etc. (that's what myspace has become for me. ay caramba.) so, this is the new blog. a log a ding dong.

you've got a minute left to fall in love

fade IN: this is not my room. this is my room. this rickety old mansion is a house that became my home, but in past weeks I've fantasized more than I care to admit of striking a match and holding it to a beam in the attic. she's a proud painted lady, 113 years old and originally bedecked in a perfect shade of "it's a girl!" pink that has these days faded to a noncommittal pastel salmon. I live here with 3 boys, a girl, a feline and an undertermined amount of ghosts who toy with us playfully on a regular basis. I'm fairly sure that they must have been writers, too, because the otherworldly and inexplicable noises are almost always what sounds like the whooshing turning pages of a gigantic encyclopedia, or typewriter keys pinging faintly from the crawl spaces.  

today, I am lying in a bed that I've made but can't get out of, quite literally and factually doomed to an immediate future (at least) of romantic peril and sticky, sticky living situations. I'm wearing a black lace slip, a hoodie that bears a faint tincture of pad thai, and some sleep smeared eyeliner. the only music I hear is of the urban concerto below on fell street, trucks rattling toward the sea and people at the gas station dutifully filling 'er up, percussed steadily by my cat's suspicious thumping tail. it's ten in the fucking morning and all I want to do is sleep but my anxiety is in the ranks of 24 hour party people and you can't call the cops on a panic attack. my whole body feels slack from exhaustion but I shot up from a nightmare around 7, wild eyed as a hunted fawn looking down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun and slumber is as of yet still an impossibility. it's too cold to leave the down comforter to scavenge for food so I survey my options. a picked-over bowl of jellybeans with only the gross flavors left, or a warm newcastle that someone let fall by the wayside during a particularly wild and exciting rock band tourney on saturday. I look back at the beans and then opt for the beer, telling my cat to shut up as I reach for the opener, don't look at me like that, but he continues to stare, tail thumping all the while.  

the beer tastes surprisingly refreshing. (can I readily admit that? I suppose that I can.) this year has been a curveball if anything, with all of the twists and turns being plentiful and each one seemingly more consequential than the next. I'm getting by. the other night jon and I laid in bed and he looked at me straight on for the first time in weeks, comfortingly shrouded in night time, and put a hand on my cheek. he paused thoughtfully and said, "your eyes give you away." I'd started to scoff or do something to predictably ruin the moment and he continued, "no, really. they look so incredibly sad, sometimes. you can be smiling bright enough to light up the whole room and your eyes will stay so sad." I didn't answer.  

he asked, "why?"  

I said, "I don't know. why does it bother you?"  

up until that moment in my life I had never once considered myself mysterious. mystifyingly chemically imbalanced, perhaps, but not puzzling. I have become someone's rubix cube, someone's enigma soaked riddle, and somewhere along the line I became a woman.