Quixotica

To be honest, I just wanted to bump that annoying turkey game off the front page.

"I was going to wax poetic about a number of topics you have no interest in, but as a very important person I have a number of very important things to do which preclude me from lavishing my attentions on the unwashed."

/\ The passage above summarizes the average introduction to these entries, and it is my sincere belief that you will never suffer through writing of its ilk where I can prevent it.

I am very excited about a number of things, exceedingly anxious about many more; if you're interested, I might take advantage of this space to work a few of them out with you.

Many things have changed in the past few years, and I only hope the majority of my decisions prove positive. A foolish hope, as how could one ever objectively judge the worth of choices never made?

I often feel as though I should be apologizing for who I choose to be, and perhaps some day I will. For now, I ask only that you switch off the monitor for a moment and take a long look at your murky reflection.

Is this all you ever wanted?

I was going to write a deep and suitably epic retelling of time well-spent in the city by the bay until I realized that I'd be seeing the entirety of my audience in like, 4 days. Looking forward to a week off, here's a little something to get warmed up for the holiday season.



See y'all Saturday ;)

It's over; time to finally make good on all those promises while the whole world watches.




No pressure.

Alcohol + high fructose corn syrup = words are hard so it's a picture-heavy post, just a heads-up.




The usual painfully purple prose is difficult; instead, let's try for terse description. It'll be like a Sam Spade paperback, if Spade drank Long Islands and wandered the dirty soulless streets with pockets full of fun-size Snickers.

Anyway.



With no Halloween plans to speak of things were looking grim; I'd seriously conidered writing a holiday coverage piece for extra credit, a sure sign of naked desperation.

Providence has a flair for the dramatic, and the night before the fateful holiday an acquaintance I hadn't spoken to in weeks called to inform me they were forming a Dr. Horrible group; a lanky beanpole stand-in for the inimitable NPH was desperately needed, was I a bad enough dude to tackle the part?




My heart skipped a beat at the offer. I like to think of myself as a pretty shady character, but this is Dr. Howser we're talking about; the man tames unicorns.

Bareback.



Thankfully I managed to root around beneath my skirt and find some balls. We assembled a pretty respectable group with Captain Hammer, his archnemesis, two Hammer groupie and even a decent Moist! My very own sidekick in tow we stepped out on the town, wandering the bars in the Haight and crashing a decidedly uncomfortable house party before arriving at some dive where a friend claimed to "know the band."

We scored some pretty sweet home-baked pumpkin spice bread and free lighters somewhere in there as well, but I digress.




Sex With No Hands took the stage, and though I was too busy head-banging with Fred Flintstone and the Reverse Cowgirl to pay much attention I think they did the joint justice; there was at least one kick-ass Ghostbusters theme cover.



That picture you see below was compiled at the behest of Those Guys In The Corner Booth; blank paper and Crayola were provided and drunken revelers proceeded to communally compile the greatest Rabbits vs. Scots epic ever told, one panel at a time. I guess they also went to Burning Man? They kept urging me to go, but I was too enthralled with my crayons to pay much heed. Rabbits and the Scottish, enemies since the dawn of time.



Slept in today, and all the horrible San Francisco weather held at bay by the sanctity of holidays involving candy was unleashed with an almost audible sigh. Walked four miles in pouring rain to mail the application packet for an internship I'll never land, then bummed around the apartment playing Fallout 3 and eating leftover candy. It's been a good few days.

My father has undertaken a seemingly spontaneous quest to convert a basement's worth of old family photographs to digital media. A highly technical task, to be sure; apparently he developed a clever means of transposition, circumventing the seemingly insurmountable physiological barriers between matter and energy by holding his digital camera really, really close to the paper.
Images akin to the one above have been flooding my inbox for the past few days, and I'm starting to wonder if this project might be a therapeutic means of dealing with the much-hyped "empty nest" syndrome I'v heard so much about. I also wonder why I'm wearing flannel. Then I remember I grew up in New Jersey, a hellish tundra so cold that in the winter they told us stories of pioneers boiling rocks just to have something warm to drink. You might think the stories of "rock soup" were just tall tales told to entertain children; I'm here to tell you that shit was real. Ever wonder why there aren't many elderly in Jersey? It's because most of them died trying to get to school in winter. They fell, cold and numb, their bodies providing a natural staircase up the hill to the schoolhouse. That's what it means to be from Jersey; it means that back in your day, you had to walk to school barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways, over the corpses of the weak. "Garden State" my ass.


I've lost thirteen pounds since I moved up here, and I managed to screw up my back so badly in the gym Friday that I spent most of the weekend hobbling about in a pose reminiscent of homo erectus with, well, a fucked-up back. I love San Francisco, but I think it's trying to kill me.

I just got panhandled via the Internet. Check out this email:



Dear Alexander Wawro,


Luis Pereira (luispereira7cv@gmail.com) would like to be paid through PayPal.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Money Request Details


Amount: €1.00 EUR

Event Date: Oct. 15, 2008

Note: Hi there, my name is Luís Pereira, unemployed for reasons of a work related accident and without the respective work fund for this cases, the thing is that my own boss just fired me before I had the chance to do something to secure my future while unemployed, now I face a pile of bills and the school monthly payments, I'm asking for a little help from you to try to keep me going through this rough fase.
Thanks for your time

ps: I just don't know what else to do...



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pay With PayPal

PayPal makes it easy to send Luis Pereira money. Click below to send this payment.


I would have sent him the measly euro if my account information was current; I respect that level of enterprise.

Gonna check out some fly rides this weekend. Also, eating; apparently I've lost ten pounds since I arrived. Huh.

So I've got this story due Monday, a piece I've yet to start concerning the recent San Francisco Board of Supervisors meeting. Cue Saturday: the smooth caress of afternoon sunshine starts me on a wonderfully groggy quest for soapy absolution; after a "quick shower" that takes the better part of an hour, I putter about the cozy nook Park Merced lovingly deigns to call our two-bedroom apartment.

By two or so I figure there might be something to this whole academia trip, and suit up to catch the 2:08 M up to the Civic Center. I figure I'll hoof it up to Japan Center via Fillmore, maybe see if I can't corral a few outspoken locals to pad out my article with a touch of colorful commentary. Check out the Festival at the Center, snap a few pictures and catch the 38 back to Presidio; shit, with luck I'll make it back just in time for lunch. My British roommate and I haven't accomplished much in the way of interpersonal communication; our few opportunities for male bonding have taken place huddled over the toaster oven, in a mad quest for glory and the perfect ham sandwich.

I hit the rail station only to find a huge line at the ticket machine, something I've never seen even at peak hours. What's more, easily three quarters of these fretful fidgeters are tapping toes clad in vintage 70's footwear; at this point, I think images are a beast far more suited to carrying a narrative of this magnitude.


The train station looked like casting call for a low-budget 70's skin flick. Not pictured: copious quantities of glitter.


Standing room only, baby. I inadvertently felt up at least three people over the course of the trip. Not pictured: angry asian man whose butt I rubbed.


Welcome to LoveFest 2008! Not pictured: the three male nudists I met. You think I'm joking; one was in line to buy a Polish sausage.


Ray Charles didn't die; Elvis ate him. Not pictured: two gold teeth.


I've had it with these motherfuckin' hippies on this motherfuckin' plane! Not pictured: my cultural relevance.


This motherfucker was up on stage in full B-for-Balanced Breakfast ensemble, waving a flag like he was 7th Company taking back Hill 355. Not pictured: any attractive women.


I guess there was supposed to be a parade? Or floats? Maybe they just had a thing for pink effelumps on wheels. Not pictured: woozels.


Apparently, a pimped-out Santa spends the first weekend in October picking up trash and preaching about the dangers of public waste. Not pictured: My dignity.

I never made it past Civic Center; LoveFest stole my weekend. The music was horrible, the stench was worse and it was impossible to walk more than five feet without elbowing a midget in the face; I'm totally going back next year.