The Red Phone

My favorite thing about living in San Luis Obispo was how (unless you stayed indoors) it was nearly impossible to go a whole day without seeing someone you knew. In my late summer stupor, bored and injured (alcohol, skinned knee), I at least managed to sit out on my front porch most days reading a six-inch copy of "Les Miserables," eating Trader Joe's Vanilla Almond Crunch cereal, and saying hello to people I knew walking by our house. Even John Fino, the bearded, uni-dread-ed spirit-channeller from Linnaea's, walked by at least once a day, once telling me "I want to talk to you sometime" (It never happened).

Here comes the surprising part: San Francisco is like that too. A city with a population (according to the 2000 census) of roughly 800,000 shouldn't behave like a small college town in the sticks with a population of 45,000...or should it? People are more or less the same wherever you are. What's surprising to me is how often I run into the small number I recognize over and over again. My roommate Dave showed up at The Fly Bar by George's house. I ran into Tom (the LucasArts guy), who I met through George's British ex-pat group, at the BART station. I bumped into a girl I work with at the Rickshaw Stop during a promotional party for a book called Broke-ass Stuart's Guide to Living Cheaply in San Francisco (apparently we're both lured by free food).

These encounters are the most bizarre, however, when you start to recognize random people you've seen before in public places: the middle-aged homeless man on the BART with hair that looks like a net, the girl who reads Harry Potter on the 21 bus... Friday night I sat at the San Diego airport for over an hour waiting for my flight back to San Francisco. Eventually I grew tired of listening to music, and started observing the people around me. I thought nothing of a teenage guy pulling out his cell phone, until he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a bright red telephone receiver. He proceeded to somehow plug the receiver into the bottom of his phone, then chatted away happily, unaware of the surprised glances from strangers. As soon as we got off the plane, there he was again at the BART station, again talking on that phone.

I recalled this instance while riding home on the Muni tonight. I wondered if he was afraid of the cell-phone radiation, or just felt nostalgic for the grip of a plastic handle. I had concluded he was just trying to be unique and hipster cool, when I noticed the same guy was up ahead on the same MUNI train as I. I knew it was him because he was wearing the same tri-colored jacket.

Small world!

No Car = No Fun

This morning I thought I smelled bacon cooking when I woke up.

I went downstairs.

It was my mom cooking a catfish for our dog.

Meet Me in the Stacks...

Appropriately delirious from staying up all night to catch my 6:20am flight home, I would have napped all afternoon if my sister hadn't sent me a text message saying "Ugh! Why do guys hit on you at the library? I came here to get away from people." Apparently she had settled in on the 5th floor (an area she assumed to be harmlessly remote) when some dude came and sat right next to her and tried to strike up a conversation. Apparently he had seen "The Prince and Me," a horrible Julia Styles movie with a grammatically awkward title (why couldn't they have gone the way of "The King and I"?) that I have mostly blocked out of my head besides the scene where Julia and the Prince try to get it on in a library. What I took to be hot as an 18-year-old no longer seems like such a sexy idea. Seriously? In a library? Remember that "Friends" episode where Ross got angry about people having sex in his dissertation's aisle? You know this guy talking to my sister was thinking, "hot AND smart! Score!" Believe it or not, Casanova, the library is not an ideal place to meet women.

She just wants to get back to analysing the significance of iambic pentameter in Macbeth

Don't tell me you haven't imagined it: You sit down five feet from a beautiful girl in sweats with stacks of books and various snacks arranged on her desk - oh yes, this one will be here all day. You calmly but noisily begin unpacking your materials, hoping to catch her eye with your white Macbook. She looks up and frowns. That's the signal to start workin' it. Ask her something like, "come here often?" or "Do you think Emily Dickinson was gay or just agoraphobic?" Lean back in your uncomfortable and threadbare chair to show her that you put the stud in studying. After a bit, find the biggest book in the library and appear deep in thought at how its non-linear plot structure supports its use of dramatic irony. At this point, she will look up and say something like, "I just hate Chaucer. I can't understand the Prioress's Tale at all." Come over and sit next to her. As you go to turn a page, your hands inadvertently touch...

Just stay away from my sister!

Sad, but True...

I'm as corny as Kansas in August...

C'mon Chemicaaaaals!

I apologize in advance for two concert posts in a row. No more until Andrew Bird in early December. I promise.

Monday I got an e-mail saying I'd won two free tickets to the Of Montreal concert in a contest sponsored by The Onion newspaper - for the next night! I didn't even remember entering, but was not about to let an opportunity to see the eccentric indie pop quintet pass me by. Although I haven't heard all their songs, "Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse" is probably in my top five favorite songs of all time.

If you just clicked that last link, these photos will come as no surprise to you:

The Kiss. Rodin ain't got nothing on these two.

I want his boots.

Kevin Barnes, lead singer. Or as Wikipedia aptly puts it, "front figure."

The Great American Music Hall - a phoenix that spread its wings from the ashes of the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake.

Jag Elsker Dag, Jens Lekman

Last night I was fortunate enough to attends Jens Lekman's concert in San Francisco with George and his visiting friend Paddy.

A group called Throw Me the Statue opened, and other than a few songs, I didn't care that much for them.

Throw Me the Statue, "About to Walk" - one of their good songs:

They played about six songs, then it was time for Jens, who is surprisingly more attractive, likeable, and less awkward in person (despite a story about how he once took a vow of silence, "Little Miss Sunshine" style, I imagine). Also, if you've ever listened to his music, it's no surprise that he likes the ladies. Of course, he would have to have an all-girl back-up band: accordian, trumpet, sax, violins, drums, bass...

Afterward, Bimbo's 365 Club, which is a pretty swanky joint, busted out the disco ball and started a dance party. I really wanted to stay, but I was just with the wrong company, I guess.

I miss SLO.

Dadaism

Only in San Francisco would a shaving-cream pie fight break out on Market Street on a Friday afternoon.

Right in front of the tourists...niiice.

I went to run on the beach today, which consisted of less actual running (two minutes, I timed it), and more wandering, composing poetry in my head, petting peoples' dogs, watching sandpipers run in and out of the surf, and picking up halves of sand dollars. It was probably 80 degrees, without the wind I'm used to at the beach, so I kept wading in the freezing water until my feet cramped. I'd been feeling a bit out of sorts lately, and today was exactly what I needed to re-coup.

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