overheardinmyhead

Io, Saturnalia!

A reversal in social roles occurred while I was walking down the street. A hobo gave me a dollar. It really is Saturnalia. 

The front reads: I'M THE PREZ

The back reads: or i was in prehistoric times (i think!)

I admit I dig that look on Old Georgie Boy there. Guys in glasses get the asses of the masses as the totally made up saying goes.

Finally, A Holiday Spark

Christmas is a phantom limb. It was amputated long ago. During December I feel its tormenting tingle. Pain comes with every holiday bell that's rung. Every salutatory "Happy Holidays" is a reminder Christmas was removed from me. When I try to touch it nothing is there. It's empty space haunted by troubled nerves and frigid air.

But today I saw something that has served as a kind of therapy. Christmas feels like it has been transplanted. It's not like how the original Christmas felt. No, this feeling is slipshod and twisted like a hand sewn on backwards in a back alley clinic. I want to share it with you, this Christmas miracle: Santasm (NSFW, but so worth clicking when at home.)

Overlapping Dating Pools

San Francisco is small especially when it comes to dating. It's very likely you will run into former date, somebody you just didn't click with. Despite having no animosity towards that person awkward tension still pulses through the air. Often they try to ignore you and you take their lead. It's in everyone's best interests but it makes for such a boring story.

Yesterday Brent and I had brunch at Chow. We sat ourselves in the back by the kitchen between a couple and a group of four. The couple was male/female. I sat next to the man. Brent sat next to the woman. They were having a typical first date conversation.

"Where did you grow up?" the man asked leaning forward to show interest.

"San Jose," the woman replied. "I'm a Bay Area native."

More getting-to-know-her questions followed: where did she go to school? Does she have any siblings? What does she do in her spare time?

Brent was engrossed in The Real Estate Times he grabbed from the newsstand. Occasionally he'd glance up from it and stare at the man asking questions.  Brent looked over at me and mouthed, "I know him."

I mouthed, "How?"

"We've been on a date before?"

*insert record scratch here*

"WHAT?!" I exclaimed though no actual air passed over my vocal chords. My eyes were so wide I almost passed out from the flood of additional light that poured in to my optic nerve.

Brent leaned over the table. "I went on a date with that guy five years ago. It only lasted an hour."

"Do you realize they're on a date?"

"What? No way!"

"Have you been paying attention to their conversation? It's textbook First Date 101. Listen to 'em."

Brent fell back in his seat and tuned into what they were talking about. Sensing that the vibe in the air had changed the man glanced over at Brent. He looked away as quick as he could. His body language changed and he became very fidgety. Brent and I started to laugh.

"I should say something to him," Brent laughed. "'Aren't you--'"

"No, you should go with the classic 'Oh, this will save me the phone call. I went to the clinic and you probably should go too.'"

We laughed again.

The poor fellow was terribly uncomfortable. Not to force him into some sort of panic induced moment where he'd flee the table, knocking down servers and spilling food along his escape route, as hilarious as that would be to witness, we calmed down and paid him little mind. Until we were ready to leave.

I got up from the table and walked a few steps away. Brent got up and casually dropped his Real Estate Times right next to the guy. Ever so awkwardly the guy leaned over and picked it up. With terror in his eyes he handed the magazine to Brent who offered up a kind, "Thanks."

We left the restaurant giggling like school girls.

Give Me Some Credit, It's a Brilliant Card

I have a problem. I don't use my credit cards. You might not think that's such a bad thing and really, it's not. But occasionally I do need to use one and I can never remember where I keep them. Are they in my sock drawer or the top drawer of my desk? Am I keeping them in the safe or are they frozen in a block of ice in the freezer? Honestly, I have no idea. The only credit cards I can find are expired ones. I know I'm supposed to destroy them when they are no longer of use but I keep wanting to use them in art projects I'll never create.

This weekend I needed purchase airfare to visit the Great White North. I could have used my check card because Alaska Airlines was running a ridiculously cheap promotion. But I wanted to use one of my rewards cards, specifically my Capital One No Hassle Something or Other Card. The one endorsed by stinky ill tempered barbarians which always reminds me of the men in my family. But I couldn't find it.

I logged onto the Capital One website to see if I could glean my credit card info there. I couldn't. I decided I would order a replacement card and saw that I could upload my own image to use as art work. I completely forgot for the time being that I was trying to buy plane tickets. I opened up my photo folder and started going through the 10,000+ images I've taken over the past few years, most of which are complete crap. But then I saw one of my favorites: The Dead Pigeon.

I shot it outside the showroom of the SF Mercedes dealership while an old starched white couple was looking at a new car. The old woman gave me shade saying what I was doing was morbid. I was like, "Give me a break lady, I'm taking it's picture not fucking it. Though..." I proceded to unzip my fly while I laughed maniacally.

It's also my favorite because as the saying goes: the best kind of pigeon is a dead pigeon. I don't know if that's a real saying but for the sake of this blog entry believe it's true.

I uploaded the image and got this snazzy mock up of the design.

What a magnificent looking credit card! I imagined sales clerks asking me the story behind the photo and all of us laughing as I said "Give me a break lady, I'm taking it's picture not fucking it. Though..." Good times would be had by all. Days would be brightened. World peace would occur! Cancer and HIV would no longer exist! All because of this dead pigeon credit card.

So imagine my dismay when I got this email this afternoon:

Dang!Well I guess I'm going to have to try a different image then. Something less deathy AKA mundane.

So this holiday season, when you think about why world peace hasn't happened or why there's still no cure for Cancer and HIV, remember it's because a kibosh was put on the dead pigeon credit card.

Early Bird Special

For the past month I’ve felt out of whack. I eat a light dinner around 4:30PM because I go to bed by 7. I wake up at 3:50 in the morning, or is it still considered night at that time? All I know it’s very dark and cold. My new routine apparently has caught the eye of a major organization: AARP*. If you don’t know what AARP stands for you must be under the age of 10, a foreigner, or a retardate which means you shouldn’t be reading this blog in the first place but I’m glad you are because no one else does.

They sent me a temporary membership card and a letter which touted their fantastic member benefits. AARP members get some great discounts just about everywhere. My mom, who is a member and old, just kidding mom, visited me back in April. We went to Lenscrafters and she got a substantial discount when she presented her AARP card. I tried to use her card saying I was her spouse but they just weren’t buying it. Even our French kissing couldn’t persuade them but a few techs did start masturbating right then and there. In the end I was forced to use coupons to get a discount. It is something I’ve been working out in therapy ever since.

I would love to join AARP but I still have 18 years to go until I’m 50. Wow, only 18 years. How depressing, either way I look at it.

*Check out the summary on Google for the fifth entry.