I wrote words before I knew poetry.I wrote poetry before I knew stories.I wrote stories before I knew me.
My Craigslist Advert
Date: 2004-06-16, 2:39PM PDT
I’m a 27 year-old gay Nor Cal native who has lived in SF for the past 3.5 years. I’m looking to move into a place mid-July – beginning of August. I'm willing to spend 500-700 clams for a room; more coin if the place is truly worth it. I want the place, as cliché as it sounds, to be home sweet home.
During the weekdays I work as an Intellectual Property Paralegal for a multimedia company in the Mission. (Feel free to ask me about it because it is quite interesting. The 3 P’s: Peer2Peer, Porn and Politics.) At night I can be found at SFSU finishing up their Creative Writing program. Each semester is different so my schedule changes. The weekends I chill out with friends or go on road trips.
I’m affable and easy to get along with. I don’t do the passive-aggressive thing, so you won’t see notes tagged up on the fridge or a list of everything you do that drives me crazy (we’ve all been there haven’t we?) Any challenges that arise I feel should be nipped in the bud before they become unmanageable. I like to keep common areas clean and I don’t freak out if there’s a glass in the sink. I’m looking for roommate(s) that feel the same.
I don’t drink or swear or rat my hair... Actually I don’t smoke or do drugs though I do have the occasional libation. I eat meat and it doesn’t bother me if you happen to be Vegan or Vegetarian. It’s all good in my book. 420 friendly, but I don’t smoke.
Having a rather irreverent sense of humor sets me apart from most everyone else you’ll meet. I’m a cross between Harold from “Harold and Maude” and Enid from “Ghost World” Everyday I choose a Daily Hero to obsess over (though my obsession is quite mild and almost apathetic— “I’m obsessed with _______” and that’s usually where it ends.) I’m a hopeless blogger. I’m a hopeless jogger. I’m just an ogger.
I have to mention as part of my parole— just kidding. I’ve never been incarcerated or for that matter have yet to do anything worthy of being incarcerated for.
I am toting a pet. She lives in a cage, is quiet and well mannered and exclusively will stay in my room. I like dogs, cats, birds and exotics.
As I mentioned, I work in the Mission. I’d like to find some place close enough to work but far enough away. Ideal neighborhoods for me are Castro/Upper Market, Noe Valley, Ashbury Terrace/Cole Valley, Buena Vista Park, the Haight, and the Panhandle. I’d go to Pacific Heights, Russian Hill or Nob Hill if the place was just right—and there’s street parking. I own a small pickup and I’m not getting rid of it any time soon.
I encourage questions so please feel free to ask.
PS: While I'm articulate, I generally don't talk as much as I write unless I've eatten some kiddie cocaine AKA sugar; which would make me a lot like Chrissy from "Pecker"
I noticed on my sales receipt from Pac Sun that I purchased a $19 T-shirt and never received it. There was a two T-shirt deal for $25 that I was taking advantage of. However of the two shirts I picked out, one was not on sale and it was $19. So the counter person rang it up, told me about the price and asked if I wanted to pick out a new shirt. I said yes, thinking he was going to take the shirt off my bill…
It took me 10 days to get back down to Pac Sun and when I explained my situation to the manager, who was younger than me, she said, “I’ll do this for you this once.”
All I could do was smile and think, “You’ll do this for me every time I ask. I’m the customer and you HAVE to make me happy. Neener-neener.”
I’ll take part of what I wrote yesterday back. Walking to the Mission can be as interesting as listening to the junkies on the bus. Amazingly at 8:30 this morning above the BART station at 16th Street, the Mission had its very own cantor. Wide wild eyes, she was belting out the crazy at the top of her lungs. Heavy pendulous breast hung down her rather plump front side. Her breasts parted as she sucked in the air for her next bar of verse. She started stomping to her incantation and people on the pedestrian portion of their commutes tried to stay at a comfortable distance.
I however am not like other people and I proceeded right up next to her at the corner. She threw her head towards me, her eyes a big as moons, “Don’t you know! Don’t you know! Don’t you know!” she wailed as the chorus.
Looking into those eyes I said, “I do.”
She stomped her feet five times and breathed in a bottomless breath. I however had to cross the street and left her there as she serenaded me with “He knows! He knows! He knows!”
I’ve got to admit— when I don’t ride the bus in the morning I’m kind of sad. Walking to work lacks color. Today I counted how many people I saw driving while talking on cellular phones. The total count: 46 in 15 blocks. Listening to the junkies is a lot more fun.
One of the other drags of walking to work is all the human shit I come across. Especially on the street I work on. I guess Capp really is one of the Mission's toilets. The corner of 17th and Capp with its piles of shit, Burger King® wrappers sticking out of ‘em, a hoard of flies, is one of the worse locations. If you haven’t read Fast Food Nation, then the site of a shit burger with flies is enough to keep you away from any fast food joint.
I woke up this morning in a kind of food induced stupor. Usually stupors are reserved for nights of beved out bliss but not last night as I binged on sushi, teriyaki and miso soup right before bedtime. Jim had kindly purchased the take out and brought it to me as I was finishing up watching Cassie and Stewie.
Miso might as well be called mescaline if eaten so close to bedtime. My night was interrupted by out of this world dreams and obviously nightmares (read below.)
One of the cats woke me up with a mew. Turning over to get into a more comfortable position on the king sized bed I saw a rather non-descript woman standing before me. I got up (in the dream of course.) She was showing me around a Pacific Heights home. She was trying to persuade me into staying there while she was away in New York City on extended business.
While leading me through the living room—her husband came home. I didn’t look at him as he entered the room but felt his presence. When I turned to see him, I was embarrassed because I had been having torrid fuck-fest with this man for the past few weeks. I didn’t know he was married and I didn’t really care to know. He was just an anonymous John—though not that anonymous as in my dream he turned out to be…
Gavin Newsom (but better looking.)
I said hello and followed his wife to the bedrooms. She had to take a phone call and while I was checking out the master bathroom he walked in and cornered me. He jumped my bones and I let him.
I must be hard up.
He explained to me how his wife was leaving but he'd be staying. I had to call the whole thing off. Imagine if the papers found out. I didn't need to be a San Francisco version of Monica Lewinsky.
The fog was extremely thick this morning. I got a leash on Stewie and decided that we should go out for a jog. I’m currently fighting an extra 17 pounds of winter weight that I’m positive is one of the reasons my back has been aching recently. We started out by the golf course in the neighborhood I’m house-sitting in.
It seems no one leashes their dogs. While heading down one street a cocker spaniel started to run after us. When we rounded the corner a German shepherd bounded out of his drive way. Stewie froze while I started sprinting, dragging his little ass behind me. When I rounded the corner the German shepherd handed the baton off to a mutt. It was like a doggie relay race.
I finally out ran the dogs— Stewie was beside himself. I guess I’ll jog alone tomorrow.
Misty the dog peeked into the TV room while I was winding down this evening. She spends almost every moment in the office closet. I gather she’s around 8 years old. Originally from Costa Rica where the locales used to shoot her full of bullets as a sort of sport, my friends Alex and Charles rescued her when they lived there.
One ear is cocked crooked. Her eyes dart back and forth—treading out of the safety space is a big deal. She looked over at me, but I was told not to stare because it makes her nervous. I kicked back on the sofa and flipped the television channels. She took a few steps into the room and then turned around and left. Progress.
Five minutes later she was back at the door. By this time I had curled up with some pillows. She checked behind her and then walked up to the couch. She jumped up and walked over—never making eye contact and put her front paws on my lap. I extended my hand slowly. She sniffed it, her eyes darting back and forth to see who or what if anything was in the room.
I placed my hand on her head, slowly petting her. She adjusted herself. I traced her scars with my fingers. All I could think is how unbelievably cruel people can be. I spoke tenderly, “You’re such a good girl Misty. Good girl.”
Misty began to soften although her hypersensitivity was still full on. She licked her lips a bit and edged herself even closer to me. Looking across the room to the door she decided to lay down. I ran my hand down the length of her body. Upon reaching her back thigh she lifted it up for me to pet her belly.
I felt honored.
Picture it: (A la Sophia Petrillo from Golden Girls)
Several lit Catholic votive pillar candles adding a soft glow to the bathroom. Surrounding them are little stuffed animals tied with ribbons, vases of flowers and a hand drawn card in crayon made by me. All of this in the bathroom where the trick had OD’d.
The bathroom is now a shrine! Feel free to come over and weep there to annoy the fuck out of my unemployed roommate!
We all know or have seen this type of person. He wakes up in the morning and has a cigarette before even getting out of bed. On the way to the bathroom she has another cigarette before peeing. He smokes a cig in the shower. She smokes while doing her hair. He smokes while eating cereal. She smokes while drinking orange juice. By the time he or she gets on the bus, they’ve had three thousand morning cigarettes. The stench of smoke actually flakes off these people.
Well this morning, she got on the bus. A junkie from the rehab place (no judgments—seriously.) She proceeded to shut all the windows as she ambled to the back to stake her seat claim. She approached the four seat area I was in and stopped to shut my window. Her smoke detritus crumbled onto my shoes.
She looked at me with a don’t-talk-to-me glare.
“Don’t shut that window,” I said.
I added “and you stink.”
She went to close the window.
She glared again at me.
“Go sit in the front where you already shut the windows.”
“Don’t tell me where to sit.”
“Don’t shut the window.”
These bus battles are so silly.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“If I were to tell you what to do, I say ‘jump off a bridge.’ Just don’t shut the window.”
I’m an asshole before I have any caffeine in the morning.