I'm on the first full day of my second trip to San Francisco and feeling a particular sense of melancholy that I'm only now coming to understand -- the sense that nothing is ever quite as good as you remember it to be. You can never go home again, but you can also never go on vacation again.
I think I love cities the way other people love people. The first time I met San Fran, briefly, many years ago, in cookie stores and shopping centers, I felt ambivalent. I was heady with the intoxication of my distant lover New York who I was about to get serious with. I had grown out of a codependent relationship with my college town. It was comfortable but I wasn't growing, and it was a little boring. It needed me much more than I needed it.
I do miss her though.
I returned to San Francisco many years later. New York and I were in an abusive affair that had gone on for many years. When things were good, they were amazing -- New York constantly taunted me with possibility, almost magical coincidences and a sense of history and connection that could be found almost nowhere else. Ultimately though NYC also enacts a heavy cost with overcrowding, a high cost of living and an oddly paradoxical sense that nothing was permanent, no one could be counted on, that one day your favorite bagel store would become a Chase without a moment's warning.
My return to San Francisco was magical. I had come from L.A. on a 10 day trip up the coast and felt warm and welcomed. Judgment was suspended here. Cruising took the form of men and women looking at you with desire and not the NY sneer of judgment that could be interpreted as either lust or hate. No one worked a five-day week, and those that did worked from home. My affair with Seattle was forgotten. Instantly. He was a hirsute, quirky, charmingly outdoorsy lover who ultimately had very little going on underneath. San Francisco was a pansexual, polymorphously perverse rebel with a heart of gold and a love of the country and the city and equal access to both.
I laid in parks, ate pastries, and feared for my life in the Tenderloin. I ran on black sand beaches and climbed on the most spacious wall this side of Colorado. I made friends and fell in love with t-shirt shops. It was a whirlwind affair and when I left to camp in the Cascades the next day, I could barely look SeaTac in the face.
Less than sixth months later I return, ostensibly to use an expiring JetBlue frequent flyer ticket, visit a good friend and escape a glut of holiday parties. But really it's because I can't stay away. As I get off the plane the pilot says to someone waiting to get off: "There's no rush in Utopia" and I have a hard time not shouting "Amen."
Then I wake up today and try to find breakfast. I pass the Juvenile division of the police department, two or three homeless shelters, and shanties to doorways. I start to feel extraordinarily sad. I am surrounded by fancy restaurants, designer housewares stores and clever boutiques. And men and women living and dying in alleyways. I assume my sadness is caused by hunger and stop to eat.
I eat breakfast with an unsmiling Chinese waitress. My meal is all beige and costs as much as a New York brunch (although I must say the sausage gravy was amazing). Still sad, I decide to wander to the Castro. Cute boys always make me happy.
I can't help but notice the high-end underwear stores. The million pharmacies. The million and one bars. Everything except flowers and comic books has been sexualized. Desire normally sustains me and brings me joy but here I feel like it's grown out of control and gone malignant.
As I walk back to my friends apartment, I wonder what has changed and it occurs to me: First love is beautiful and magical and all you see is the good. You start a long-distance affair and look at pictures of your beloved, reminiscence on your experiences together and pray for the day you can be reunited. But it's when you come back together that your idealized image meets reality and you go from broad strokes to fine details. You have to seriously decide whether this is a face you could roll over and look at every morning. You wonder: Is this the same city I fell in love with?
I am about to go back out and try to find out.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Consolation prizes
I have a friend Negin who is a writer / actor / comedian. Many years ago, in the brunch times, she was in a comedy group and we would often hear things we had said at sunday afternoon breakfast repeated as the punchlines of sketches a few weeks later.
We all learned to keep the stories we wanted to use in our own work to ourselves.
The years passed and now both the comedy group and brunch have become no more.
But last night the old group gathered for happy hour drinks and it was like old times. I was relating the story of fight night when negin whipped out her notebook.
"Could you repeat what you just said?"
if nothing else the years have made us a little more honest about theft.
"The thing about creating zero sum mix tapes or the detail about how there was always a perfect balance of songs saying 'I love you' and 'I don't care?'"
another friend: "jes-s, that's f-cked up."
and a third: "It makes a good story at least!"
me: "did you get that all down, negin?"
It almost makes all the years of pain and confusion and mixed-up mix cds worth it.
We all learned to keep the stories we wanted to use in our own work to ourselves.
The years passed and now both the comedy group and brunch have become no more.
But last night the old group gathered for happy hour drinks and it was like old times. I was relating the story of fight night when negin whipped out her notebook.
"Could you repeat what you just said?"
if nothing else the years have made us a little more honest about theft.
"The thing about creating zero sum mix tapes or the detail about how there was always a perfect balance of songs saying 'I love you' and 'I don't care?'"
another friend: "jes-s, that's f-cked up."
and a third: "It makes a good story at least!"
me: "did you get that all down, negin?"
It almost makes all the years of pain and confusion and mixed-up mix cds worth it.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
We're all in this together
I was riding the train this morning and a large portly man kept falling asleep on my shoulder.
He was warm and heavy. It was so comforting I almost didn't transfer when an express train appeared across the platform.
I might be a little starved for human contact. The man woke up and looked shocked when I got up. I think we might both have been helping the other out.
He was warm and heavy. It was so comforting I almost didn't transfer when an express train appeared across the platform.
I might be a little starved for human contact. The man woke up and looked shocked when I got up. I think we might both have been helping the other out.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Things you will never get credit for
I was at the Metropolitan with a friend after having had a blow up with him there on saturday. He'd accused me of being unsupportive of him and not curious enough about his love life.
I used to think I was *I* was in love with him to the degree that it had helped f-ck up not one but two previous relationships.
I had gone there to "break up" with him and be through with it once and for all. He was now dating a "gentlemen" now who bought drinks and insisted on getting him cabs.
These are things I'd never do, valuing strength and self-reliance above all else.
I get to the bar and he's seated on a couch with a drink. I approach the bartender and a woman gets there at the same time. She asks what's cheapest and the bartender says "Pabst." She fishes out two dollars and a bunch of dimes, quarters, and nickels. The bartender says "we don't take change below a quarter."
Before she can react I say "I'm going to give you a dollar and you're going to take it." She thanks me and leaves the change on the counter as the bartender says "the bar will only take quarters, but I'll take anything."
He thanks me when she's gone and I say that we've all been there at some point. He says "If I only have two dollars I don't go out to drink." I say "Me either." He says "It's because you were raised right."
I return to my conversation and manage to not get angry about being called disinterested in my friend's life despite the fact that I'd flown to L.A. this summer to see him in a play. I let it go. We finish our drinks. He goes to the bathroom. I ask the bartender to get us another round. He has no idea what my friend is drinking and neither do I. When my friend returns he orders another round and the bartender remembers he's after a Sierra Nevada. I pay and mumble something about owing him for drinks on saturday.
I am not cut out to be gallant and when I try to be it is never seen.
Some people are not meant to dabble in altruism.
I used to think I was *I* was in love with him to the degree that it had helped f-ck up not one but two previous relationships.
I had gone there to "break up" with him and be through with it once and for all. He was now dating a "gentlemen" now who bought drinks and insisted on getting him cabs.
These are things I'd never do, valuing strength and self-reliance above all else.
I get to the bar and he's seated on a couch with a drink. I approach the bartender and a woman gets there at the same time. She asks what's cheapest and the bartender says "Pabst." She fishes out two dollars and a bunch of dimes, quarters, and nickels. The bartender says "we don't take change below a quarter."
Before she can react I say "I'm going to give you a dollar and you're going to take it." She thanks me and leaves the change on the counter as the bartender says "the bar will only take quarters, but I'll take anything."
He thanks me when she's gone and I say that we've all been there at some point. He says "If I only have two dollars I don't go out to drink." I say "Me either." He says "It's because you were raised right."
I return to my conversation and manage to not get angry about being called disinterested in my friend's life despite the fact that I'd flown to L.A. this summer to see him in a play. I let it go. We finish our drinks. He goes to the bathroom. I ask the bartender to get us another round. He has no idea what my friend is drinking and neither do I. When my friend returns he orders another round and the bartender remembers he's after a Sierra Nevada. I pay and mumble something about owing him for drinks on saturday.
I am not cut out to be gallant and when I try to be it is never seen.
Some people are not meant to dabble in altruism.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree
an exchange between polymorphous-perverse, anarchist libertarian son and NRA member, conspiracy-theorist libertarian dad
Dad: The dialog between the parties is all smear campaigns and mudslinging these days.
Son: Like "democrats eat aborted baby caviar for lunch" and "republicans still own slaves"?
Dad: Exactly. How can you respect any of them?
Son: Can you give me a second to write that down? I think it might have been funny.
Dad: The dialog between the parties is all smear campaigns and mudslinging these days.
Son: Like "democrats eat aborted baby caviar for lunch" and "republicans still own slaves"?
Dad: Exactly. How can you respect any of them?
Son: Can you give me a second to write that down? I think it might have been funny.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Freedom isn't free nor apparently, particularly desirable
New York Times
"That's part of the price you pay for traveling during a time like this," said Julius Ibraheem, 26, a college counselor from Chicago, as he stared at the long lines leading toward security checkpoints at O'Hare Airport.
"It's better alive than dead," said Bob Chambers, whose flight from Baltimore to Detroit for a business meeting was delayed more than an hour. "It's inconvenient, but we'll make it."
And my least favorite:
"It's a slight inconvenience," said Tom Sheehan of Toledo, Ohio, who was headed for Los Angeles from Detroit Metropolitan Airport. "It's a pain, but I still think getting across the country in six hours is pretty amazing. I don't mind waiting an extra 15 minutes to check my luggage."
Wow. Amazing. I feel lucky I'm allowed to leave the house. Planes are dangerous. Thank goodness we haven't been forced back to horsedrawn carriages. I mean, they're so much safer.
I have nothing smart to say about this. It just makes me sad.
At news Web sites, readers posted their thoughts on the developments, and one man writing on The New York TimesÂ’s Web site counseled avoiding the risks of travel in favor of the pleasures of home.
“I really do not understand why anybody would want to go anywhere,” Bill Threlkeld wrote. “Stay home. Read a book. Tend your garden. Make love. Drink wine. But most of all — stay home.”
Yahoo News"That's part of the price you pay for traveling during a time like this," said Julius Ibraheem, 26, a college counselor from Chicago, as he stared at the long lines leading toward security checkpoints at O'Hare Airport.
"It's better alive than dead," said Bob Chambers, whose flight from Baltimore to Detroit for a business meeting was delayed more than an hour. "It's inconvenient, but we'll make it."
And my least favorite:
"It's a slight inconvenience," said Tom Sheehan of Toledo, Ohio, who was headed for Los Angeles from Detroit Metropolitan Airport. "It's a pain, but I still think getting across the country in six hours is pretty amazing. I don't mind waiting an extra 15 minutes to check my luggage."
Wow. Amazing. I feel lucky I'm allowed to leave the house. Planes are dangerous. Thank goodness we haven't been forced back to horsedrawn carriages. I mean, they're so much safer.
I have nothing smart to say about this. It just makes me sad.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Dreams
I dreamed that I went on vacation (?) with two unidentified female friends and ended up staying at a house full of young, beautiful cultists before a major ritual.
We had been led there but it was unclear if they needed fresh blood for their coven or fresh blood for their sacrifice.
At some point we befriend one of the members who tells us that our behavior in that night's ceremony could mean the difference between life and death. She advises one friend how to wear her hair, and the other what to bring as an offering, and she looks at me and tells me who's sympathetic to us and who's not.
I laugh. Everyone stares "It's like a party." I say by way of explanation. She's telling us the theme, what kind of drinks to bring, and who the key guests are. I stop worrying about the rite: I know party.
Now the only thing I'm worried about is my immortal soul.
Night arrives and we enter the ritual chamber through a small claustrophobic chamber. It's a weird mix of people and I see my paternal grandparents across a sea of young, attractive bodies.
It's very "ice storm" meets "the brotherhood".
I stop noticing the nubile after I see them and realize my dad is also there. They're nagging me after I knock a jack o'lantern shaped pumpkin off a shelf. My dad tells me to put it back together but I've already smashed the face.
I leave the room and end up in a pantry with the post-sacrificial snacks. (grandma and grandpa are big into the upstate NY Methodist scene so imagine.) I add chocolate chips to a ritual cookie dough, worry that I've screwed up and doomed my friends and cultist relatives and wake up hyperventilating.
I eventually fall back to sleep and dream that this guy I used to kind of date before he was convicted of murder has served his sentence and wants to hang out. I'm reluctant but eventually assent.
We end up spending an ok day together and he asks if I want to go have drinks with him at his apartment. He's pissed me off off-and-on all day but I still see things in him that I like. I say yes and we get into his rusted-out old van and drive to the liquor store.
On the way there he asks if I'll buy the booze since it violates his parole and then asks for an extremely rare brand of scotch that the ghetto liquor store we pull into is unlikely to have. I am reminded of how his small requests would always lead into big ones and how he just expected everything but gave nothing. I am about to get out when a crazy, maybe homeless man walks up and starts shouting and pounding on the window.
"Oh sh-t," he says, "we need to get away from him." Apparently he knows the guy, but it's unclear if he's ex-cellmate, brother of victim or vengeful ex. I start to regret my decision to give this guy another chance and wake up from the steaming asphalt parking lot
Note: In real life I have never dated anyone convicted or even accused of murder.
This is what not drinking before bed gets you..
We had been led there but it was unclear if they needed fresh blood for their coven or fresh blood for their sacrifice.
At some point we befriend one of the members who tells us that our behavior in that night's ceremony could mean the difference between life and death. She advises one friend how to wear her hair, and the other what to bring as an offering, and she looks at me and tells me who's sympathetic to us and who's not.
I laugh. Everyone stares "It's like a party." I say by way of explanation. She's telling us the theme, what kind of drinks to bring, and who the key guests are. I stop worrying about the rite: I know party.
Now the only thing I'm worried about is my immortal soul.
Night arrives and we enter the ritual chamber through a small claustrophobic chamber. It's a weird mix of people and I see my paternal grandparents across a sea of young, attractive bodies.
It's very "ice storm" meets "the brotherhood".
I stop noticing the nubile after I see them and realize my dad is also there. They're nagging me after I knock a jack o'lantern shaped pumpkin off a shelf. My dad tells me to put it back together but I've already smashed the face.
I leave the room and end up in a pantry with the post-sacrificial snacks. (grandma and grandpa are big into the upstate NY Methodist scene so imagine.) I add chocolate chips to a ritual cookie dough, worry that I've screwed up and doomed my friends and cultist relatives and wake up hyperventilating.
I eventually fall back to sleep and dream that this guy I used to kind of date before he was convicted of murder has served his sentence and wants to hang out. I'm reluctant but eventually assent.
We end up spending an ok day together and he asks if I want to go have drinks with him at his apartment. He's pissed me off off-and-on all day but I still see things in him that I like. I say yes and we get into his rusted-out old van and drive to the liquor store.
On the way there he asks if I'll buy the booze since it violates his parole and then asks for an extremely rare brand of scotch that the ghetto liquor store we pull into is unlikely to have. I am reminded of how his small requests would always lead into big ones and how he just expected everything but gave nothing. I am about to get out when a crazy, maybe homeless man walks up and starts shouting and pounding on the window.
"Oh sh-t," he says, "we need to get away from him." Apparently he knows the guy, but it's unclear if he's ex-cellmate, brother of victim or vengeful ex. I start to regret my decision to give this guy another chance and wake up from the steaming asphalt parking lot
Note: In real life I have never dated anyone convicted or even accused of murder.
This is what not drinking before bed gets you..
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Love is a devalued currency round these parts
I am so tired of hearing about "love."
Love as universal panacea: "I'm sorry you're upset with me. You know I love you."
Love as self-delusion: "They totally realized they were in love at his going away party."
Love as obstacle: "I'll never be able to love anyone as much as I loved blank. You'd understand if you'd ever felt true love."
Let's try make some substitutions:
"I'm sorry you're upset with me. I know you'll forgive me if I play on your empathy."
"They totally realized they liked each other but always knew they could never make a real relationship work at his going away party."
"I'll never be able to allow myself to be vulnerable to anyone as much as I allowed myself to be to blank. You'd understand if you'd ever been unable to let go.."
Every time we misuse 'love' we degrade its value. If love isn't backed up by a gold standard of truth, loyalty, and self-awareness it's worth nothing but an empty motion of the tongue or movement of the fingers as we make forgeries of our hearts.
Love as universal panacea: "I'm sorry you're upset with me. You know I love you."
Love as self-delusion: "They totally realized they were in love at his going away party."
Love as obstacle: "I'll never be able to love anyone as much as I loved blank. You'd understand if you'd ever felt true love."
Let's try make some substitutions:
"I'm sorry you're upset with me. I know you'll forgive me if I play on your empathy."
"They totally realized they liked each other but always knew they could never make a real relationship work at his going away party."
"I'll never be able to allow myself to be vulnerable to anyone as much as I allowed myself to be to blank. You'd understand if you'd ever been unable to let go.."
Every time we misuse 'love' we degrade its value. If love isn't backed up by a gold standard of truth, loyalty, and self-awareness it's worth nothing but an empty motion of the tongue or movement of the fingers as we make forgeries of our hearts.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Prosiac things one can learn on a Wednesday in San Francisco
People here cruise shamelessly.
I may be in denial about being a bear. I also may look like a bumpkin.
It may not always be appropriate to make out.
Running in wet sand is not easy.
There are many types of sea life in coastal CA including sea anemones, sea urchins, starfish, mussels, and (allegedly) crabs.
Black sand beaches really are black. Especially when inhabited by ravens and cormorants.
Ravens mate for life and live until they're forty.
The number of people I can contemplate hooking up withon one vacation without feeling like a whore is 3. The number I CAN hook up with without feeling like a whore is none.
There really are heroic men and women like Ayn Rand describes in her novels. Some of them are beautiful, rock climbing MD/PhDs.
Project Runway isn't as much fun without your friends.
I may be in denial about being a bear. I also may look like a bumpkin.
It may not always be appropriate to make out.
Running in wet sand is not easy.
There are many types of sea life in coastal CA including sea anemones, sea urchins, starfish, mussels, and (allegedly) crabs.
Black sand beaches really are black. Especially when inhabited by ravens and cormorants.
Ravens mate for life and live until they're forty.
The number of people I can contemplate hooking up withon one vacation without feeling like a whore is 3. The number I CAN hook up with without feeling like a whore is none.
There really are heroic men and women like Ayn Rand describes in her novels. Some of them are beautiful, rock climbing MD/PhDs.
Project Runway isn't as much fun without your friends.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Prosiac things one can learn on a Wednesday in San Francisco
It's amazing how fast non-stop, blatant cruising begins to feel natural.
I may be in denial about being a bear.
It may not be appropriate to make out in all situations.
It's easy to accidentally steal free rides on trains and busses from lax drivers.
In-N-Out Burger is overrated, Animal Style or not.
Running in wet sand is not easy.
There are many types of sea life in coastal CA including sea anemones, sea urchins, starfish, mussels, and (allegedly) crabs.
Black sand beaches really are black. Especially when inhabited by ravens and cormorants.
Ravens mate for life and live until they're forty.
The number of people I can contemplate hooking up with on one vacation without feeling like a whore is 3. The number I CAN hook up with without feeling like a whore is none.
Mole that tastes like chocolate-flavored catsup isn't mole I need in my life.
Project Runway isn't as much fun without your friends.
I may be in denial about being a bear.
It may not be appropriate to make out in all situations.
It's easy to accidentally steal free rides on trains and busses from lax drivers.
In-N-Out Burger is overrated, Animal Style or not.
Running in wet sand is not easy.
There are many types of sea life in coastal CA including sea anemones, sea urchins, starfish, mussels, and (allegedly) crabs.
Black sand beaches really are black. Especially when inhabited by ravens and cormorants.
Ravens mate for life and live until they're forty.
The number of people I can contemplate hooking up with on one vacation without feeling like a whore is 3. The number I CAN hook up with without feeling like a whore is none.
Mole that tastes like chocolate-flavored catsup isn't mole I need in my life.
Project Runway isn't as much fun without your friends.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Airport, Phoenix, AZ
I drank in lieu of sleeping in order to better pass out on the plane and wake up adjusted to new time zone. I arrived at jfk and muscled my way through a large family to reach the one functioning kiosk. I slid in my credit card and the impatiently followed the prompts hitting (print ticket) instead of (choose seat).
This landed me in 22c. Last row aisle by the bathrooms. I was asleep before we left the ground.
I woke up often as people jostled by me walking to the back. In my half-asleep state I almost reached out to stroke each of them, my sleep addled mind interpreting each foreign body as a lover moving against me in bed.
This landed me in 22c. Last row aisle by the bathrooms. I was asleep before we left the ground.
I woke up often as people jostled by me walking to the back. In my half-asleep state I almost reached out to stroke each of them, my sleep addled mind interpreting each foreign body as a lover moving against me in bed.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Starting over
Welcome to Atlas Slouched (title subject to change).
This is my third attempt at a blog and my first at Blogger, previous blogs meeting untimely ends at the beginning of relationships: As love blossoms, drama decreases. And then in a moment of weakness or intimacy (My exes would say I see no difference between the two. They might be right.) you reveal that you keep a journal and then self-censorship sets in and slowly posting drops off until the time you spent writing is spent cuddling.
It's a fair trade off until it's not.
Enough reminiscing, I guess. Now for some context:
I'm 29. Male. Brooklynite. Obviously single and a little bitter about love. Gay. Music fan. Working in the convergence of print and new media. Currently under the sway of Ayn Randian objectivism after a lifetime of neosocialist secular humanism.
Some nuance: I prefer Magnetic Fields to Madonna but would rather listen to Sufjan. I like Phoenix much more than XL but am more likely to be found at Urge any given happy hour. I'm more Cherry Grove than the pines but am spending my summer vacation in a cabin in seattle, praying for a cozy perpetual light drizzle.
and I don't really believe in anything but i'm a little obsessed with beauty and coincidences. They give me hope for meaning in a world that sometimes seems pointless and a little cruel.
Don't tell ayn.
This is my third attempt at a blog and my first at Blogger, previous blogs meeting untimely ends at the beginning of relationships: As love blossoms, drama decreases. And then in a moment of weakness or intimacy (My exes would say I see no difference between the two. They might be right.) you reveal that you keep a journal and then self-censorship sets in and slowly posting drops off until the time you spent writing is spent cuddling.
It's a fair trade off until it's not.
Enough reminiscing, I guess. Now for some context:
I'm 29. Male. Brooklynite. Obviously single and a little bitter about love. Gay. Music fan. Working in the convergence of print and new media. Currently under the sway of Ayn Randian objectivism after a lifetime of neosocialist secular humanism.
Some nuance: I prefer Magnetic Fields to Madonna but would rather listen to Sufjan. I like Phoenix much more than XL but am more likely to be found at Urge any given happy hour. I'm more Cherry Grove than the pines but am spending my summer vacation in a cabin in seattle, praying for a cozy perpetual light drizzle.
and I don't really believe in anything but i'm a little obsessed with beauty and coincidences. They give me hope for meaning in a world that sometimes seems pointless and a little cruel.
Don't tell ayn.
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