comma abuse

I understand the Oxford comma.  I honestly do.  But I can’t get over the basic rule of language evolution: simplify.  If you don’t need it, don’t use it.  Context trumps format. Let the serial comma die.  Nobody needs more commas in their lives.

San Francisco lessons

I spent the winter in surprisingly sunny San Francisco.  I had a lot of time to reflect, observe and wonder.  I realized a few essential truths about the city:

• There’s this super cute store around the corner.
• Your roommate is in a band playing this weekend, has a gallery opening this weekend and/or has a protest this weekend.
• It takes 30 minutes to get a $4 coffee.  But damn the baristas are cute.
• Why yes, i’d love to share homemade jam/mustard/beer/kombucha/mustard/pot brownie/organic vegan dogfood recipes.
  

  Dolores Park

• You’ll need a sweater.
• You’re cool if i smoke, right?
• If it looks like poop, it’s poop (Mission-specific observation).
• Where are you going to dinner?  It’s an hour wait.
• Yes, somebody’s living in that.
• Just because BART goes there, doesn’t mean you should.
• “Mission Creek” is a euphemism for the eternal spring of fresh urine trickling down the neighborhood sidewalks. Walk by the armory and see what i mean.
• Yes, the sun is shining.  You’ll still need that sweater.
• Neighborhood guide to how small a man’s pants should be (in increasing tightness): Outer Sunset, the Haight, Downtown, Hayes Valley, Valencia Street, Castro, The Badlands.
• You could walk through the Tenderloin.
• A bear doesn’t necessarily live in a dark, musky den, but he’ll know where to find one.   Walk by the armory and see what i mean.
• After five Irish coffees at the Buena Vista, what’s a sixth?
• I know it’s 70 degrees and gorgeous out, you’ll still need that god-damned sweater.
• San Francisco is cool with everything and it’s all happening in Dolores Park.
• You might not leave your heart in San Francisco, but your liver is at serious risk.

My New Shoes and… Part 5

The final installation of stuff i’ve had to avoid while walking around San Francisco in my new shoes.

The Pacific Ocean.

Andrew’s shoes. And the socks Ellie knit him.

The Russian River.

Falling off the stools at Monk’s Kettle.

My first In-N-Out Burger on the way to the cabin.

Chinese cigarette package and a Marlboro package.

Blue smear.

Odd, squishy, bright red fruit dropping off… eucalyptus trees?

Banana slug.

Pigeons.

205 plays, 11 years

Skit #142: Trips and Traps used as the knee play for Sandbox's production of Koogoomanooki in 2006. With Avye Alexandres and Alia Mortensen.

In early 2001 i wrote a play randomly titled, Skit #205: Napping Venus in Blue.  The thing is half a type-written page with the punchline, “For the last time, Clarence, you’re sister’s a narcoleptic, not a still life.”  I had an idea for some silliness and didn’t want to call it out as a ‘real’ play.  So i called it a skit.  Some point after that (Microsoft Word tells me it was around March 18th) i decided to adopt the naming convention.

“What if i actually wrote 205 of these skits?  Wait… i just called this one #205.  I’d have to count backwards.”

So i did.  A few days ago (Microsoft Word tells me i typed it on March 6, 2012), i wrote Skit #000: Last One.  So, technically it’s 206.

My New Shoes and Things I’ve had to Avoid Walking Around San Francisco… part 4

More stuff I’ve had to avoid walking around San Francisco…

Sandy steps at Aquatic Park.

Blue aquarium gravel.

Bucket of trash at Powell St. Station.

Bright colored fabrics.

Unopened condom.

Smashed 40 of Mickey’s.

Plum blossoms.

Purple fabric.

Purple glove.

Red fabric.

Salad mix.

Sissy tag.

Boredom in doctor’s waiting room.

A Valentine for my Valentine 1500 Miles Away

An open Valentine for Andrew…

When there’s distance between us, i feel the space i’ve made for you. You’re the empty pillow that frames my sleep, the me that i can’t be.

You’re the persistence of memory when i’ve lost my way, and when i lose it, you’re the momentum that swings me home.

You hold me accountable to the steps i take, and when they take me too far, you’re the hope that guides me on.

You’re the unsaid words i need to speak, and when i’ve said too much, you’re the silence that calms me down.

You’re the drive that keeps me pushing, and when i’m pushed too far, you’re the promise that holds me up.

When there’s distance between us, i feel the space i’ve made for you. And it’s that space that makes me complete.

And when i finally go where i can’t come back, i know the space you’ve made for me will be a better me than i could ever be.

My New Shoes and Things I’ve Had to Avoid Walking around San Francisco… part 3

Things I’ve had to avoid while walking around San Francisco in my new shoes…

Shaken milk shake.

Big hole.

Gobo at a bar.

Metal gear.

Christmas tree with tinsel (from February 10th).

Paper bag with a styrofoam cup with water placed inside.

Sidewalk koi.

Sday’s paper.

The well maintained floor of NohSpace.

Mulch.

My lucky number.

Cabbage.

Celery.

Carrots.

A baby toy.

My New Shoes and Stuff I’ve had to Avoid While Walking around San Francisco… part 2

Latest things i’ve had to avoid walking around San Francisco.

A white smear.

A silver smear.

A fringey pillow.

An orange paint stripe that goes about 2 1/2 blocks down Valencia.

Photo of some dude posing between two cheerleaders. With paper tissue stuck on it.

Sandbag.

Rib bone. Probably pig.

“Spine Aid” mattress.

A magenta smear.

My New Shoes and Stuff I’ve had to Avoid While Walking in San Francisco

Spending two months in San Francisco.  Bought a pair of new, blue shoes before leaving.  Here is some stuff i’ve had to avoid while walking around…

My New Shoes and…

Parking voucher?

Airdale on Market.

Blue plastic rings.

Black boots.

Branches.

Burnt Christmas tree and melted stand.

Graffiti on floor of MUNI bus.

Busted toilet.

Cartoon pillow.

Chicken wing.

Old felt… mattress?

Divine.

Eucalyptus blossom.

Falling down escalator.

Sewer grate.

Green mat.

Hair extension.

Invite to a surprise 91st birthday party.

Latex glove peace sign.

Wet orange clothing.

Broken pallet.

Potted cactus.

Puddle.

Purple mat.

Do Not Stand Here red BART station arrow.

Red smear.

White shoe.

Smashed mini pumpkin.

Smashed 1/2 lemon.

Latex glove flipping the bird.

Tirsh’s shoes.

Toilet with margarine and… other stuff.

Two toilets.

Wire plant holder.

Busted umbrella.

Wet paint sign.

RIP Second-hand Scarf

Got my scarf caught in the 3 Train headed out of the WTC station once – maybe it was a 2, it was red and the doors were closing and i was going to be late to work.  Just missed it.  This wasn’t a particularly high point in my life.  Half-days were spent at a stressfully boring phone job on the far upper East side where i was only kept around because the volcanic-tempered queen that ran the joint thought i was funny.  Afternoons were spent napping my depression away on the lawn in Central Park.  When time came when people who could afford dinner ate, i sank my broke ass into a bar stool and suffered through anaerobic, deadend conversations with middle-aged homos in exchange for free drinks.  ”Really.  That’s interesting.  Don’t touch me.”  By then, i was a couple months late on rent in my crack-shack in Jersey City.  About a month before i got evicted, the police raided the bodega on the ground floor.  The red brick wall underneath my window was like a narco wishing well.  You rolled up your cash, stuck it between the loose bricks, come back a few minutes later and – like magic – your money had transformed into a rolled-up sandwich baggie.  I got to recognize the magicians.  More importantly, they recognized me.  I was no threat and no mark.  Just some gray-faced white boy too tired and shitfaced to care about anything other than dragging myself upstairs onto the pile of clothes i called a bed.  I rented the place from a family of realtors that was a front for the Jersey mafia.  The son that toured me around drove a red Dodge Viper.  He was maybe 22, grabbed his crotch a lot, showed me where to find the hottest whores in Jersey City and spoke in a voice that shrieked through my hangover like a train brake. I had to pay my rent in cash, which suited me fine since i didn’t have a bank account.  Same kid – Rob?  Rod? – came knocking on my door one morning not so subtly encouraging me to pay up, then left with a, “Now i’m gonna go bang the chick downstairs.”  Getting late to work was the quickest way to get the tempermental queen agitated – and get myself fired again.  So catching that express uptown was the only way to keep my kneecaps intact.  Coming up the stairs i heard the panic-inducing decrescendo of my train pulling in.  You get these things timed out and i knew i could make it if i ran.  Of course, Metrocards are panic-sensitive.  The more anxious you are to make it through the turnstyle, the less likely the machine is to read your card.  Precious seconds ticked by, “bing-bong” the doors were closing, “beep” the machine let me through, i bolted and the doors closed in my face.  I offered the typical leer toward where the conductor lazily ignored me, offered myself up with the, “come on, man” crucifiction pose and stepped back.  But there was a tug at my neck.  It was my only scarf – i’m pretty sure it was a gift – maybe not a new-bought gift, but a god-you’re-a-miserable-son-of-a-bitch-and-i-feel-sorry-for-you-so-have-this-old-scarf” kind of gift.  A bug-eyed woman watched me through the doorway.  She had a look that might’ve been concern and might’ve been schadenfreude.  Either she was about to pry the door open to save my scrawny neck or she was already watching her TV interview after witnessing my gruesome beheading.  I barked to the conductor, who either didn’t notice i was connected to the train or didn’t care.  Probably both.  The ambient electronic train buzz rose, cars clunked together and i was about to become an urban legend.  It was a nice scarf, but it wasn’t worth me going Isadora Duncan on the piss-stained subway platform, so i quickly unwound my noose and watched it dangle off down the tunnel.  I hope that woman caught it before it fell down to the rats.  That scarf deserved better.