I have recently embarked on two beautiful journeys. Well, at least they’ll be more beautiful as time progresses. One will make my roommates love me and the other will cause much disgust in the house. As much bountiful beer spills from my home-brew they will flock to my pot to have their cups filled. But, a distaste for my presence will soon be acquired because I am the proud, new owner of a practice chanter for the Highland Bagpipes. This pretty much means that I’m gonna sound like a dying duck for the next 2 months or so, but thus the home-brewed beer. Through what I plan to be a successful trade, I will be able to play my chanter without having to find a new place to live next month. 

So I know this guy. I won’t impose upon him and say he’s my friend, but he’s definitely a familiar face on 16th street and I hope I’m a familiar face to him too. He told me to call him Bird, or Bird man. The dude’s rad. Still rocking the bandana, he sits in front of adobe books smoking cigarillos all day. He writes a weekly or so paper on a typewriter in the shop and makes copies to sell. He’s his own Street Sheet. They’re usually a stream of his consciousness, unfiltered, unedited for those who will stop for a moment. The dude just does his thing, hangs at adobe by day and sleeps around the corner in the doorway of a closed corner market at night. 

Tonight I walked past his familiar silhouette on the stoop and theres a group of dudes walking past him. They hesitate so I in turn and hesitate against my better judgment that tells me to keep walking at 1230 on a weeknight when its 6 against 1. But I stop. Dude shakes a spray can and tags Birds sleeping bag like hes a fucking brick wall. Without the bit of alcohol still circulating through my system I dont know I would have had the courage to call the guy out. “What are you doing? You can’t do that to Bird! Leave him alone”

The guy wasn’t the first tag on Bird and replies, “Hey man I’m just shouting out to that other tag.”

“Thats bullshit” I yelled. He ignores me. I Walk away looking over my shoulder. I got to 16th and Guerrero and ran the last block home just to make sure I wouldn’t run into the same guys.

Lot of good I did right? 

To truly love Bird is so much more than that, but my hands and feet are slow to move.

When you have a kitchen compost bin in a house of four men it is rarely dumped at the proper intervals. This lack of compost coordination causes an excess of decaying organic matter which in turn gives rise to the infamous San Francisco fruit fly. My roommates, instead of emptying our compost, decided to move it outside. After 2 weeks of an inconveniently located compost I made the decision that any true lover of all things green would make. I bought a carnivorous Sundew plant, Drosera Capensis. After watching it catch fruit flies in my friends Nate’s house I knew it was the most circle-of-life-friendly solution to our problem (cause who’s really gonna dump the compost in this house anyway?

Problem, Sundews need sun, if it was not already manifest in the name. The kitchen doesn’t get much direct sun, about five minutes total per day. So, Sundude sits on the window sill until the flies begin to fornicate and accumulate in the kitchen. But, I find that i don’t have the patience to wait for Atropos to have her way between sticky plant and silly fly. So, I just chase them around the kitchen with Sundude in hand.

Ten years ago I chased flies around the house with a swatter, now I just chase them with plants. I think I like my life.. a lot.

I’m pretty sure your just like me. There was once a time in your childhood when you’d had it up to here, “here” being the top of your overalls or maybe your cowboy hat, with having to eat peas. In that moment you decided that when you were in charge you would eat whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. I instead puked and later tested positive for an allergy to peas. Yet, I dreamed the same dream but bereft of force-fed legumes. This dream was in part realized by Cookie Crisp cereal, a small victory in the fight for freedom. I was never privileged to eat Cookie Crisp as a child. The deficit of the blessed CC had snuffed-out any hope within my small child heart. Yet, unbeknownst to me till this night, I find that small heart beating steady within me.

Tonight as I strolled from class I popped a can of TJ’s simpler times lager. El Buen Sabor was the next stop. Burrito in hand I strutted over to bi-rite’s soft-serve line barely in time to consume the last Salted Caramel swirl of the night. I then sauntered over to dolores park, sat in the wet grass, finished my cone, engulfed half a burrito, and then just lay there and let the grass have its way with my back.

Tonight didn’t have much to do with eating cookies for breakfast, but it does have everything to do with eating half a burrito for breakfast. I have come so far.

Sometimes I’ll be walking down a street in San Francisco and something will stop me. For a moment I catch a glimpse of the past. The city sings and I feel like I could see Harvey Milk running across upper market as the F rumbles down the hill, Dashiell Hammett walk out of his old apartment in the tender-nob for some coffee, or Mark Twain sitting on a strangers stoup and smoking his pipe. Those are good times, times when I can see past the litter and gum spots on the sidewalk and smell the trees and ocean salt in the breeze. So much more story to be told.

I have a tally going and the count is three. Three women who’s faces I have assaulted… on accident of course.

Victim #1 - My friend Laura who received an elbow to the face on my 21st. Drunken Michael + Dancing with Flailing Elbows is a perfect recipe for a black eye.

Victim #2 - Random woman on a packed 8x headed up through the stockton tunnel. I tried to grab one of the bars and accidentally smacked your face. You were chill and accepted my apology with a smile.

Victim #3 - Girl 2nd to the top row of the Harry Potter 7p1 premier. I went to hug my friend, slipped, and poked you in the eye. You were mad. I could hear those comments under your breath. You may have only enjoyed the movie half as much but Harry has no parents. Your suffering pales in comparison.

I hope to keep this tally to three, but who knows when these awkward arms will strike again!

I havent used this ol’ girl in a bit, but now I have a computer! (Thank you Chris B and John B) My life is slowly piecing back together as far as material possessions go. Sitting on a free couch found by Luke aka “The Craigslist Hunter”. I got a new litman stethoscope. I can hear my heart again! I have also made some new additions to my collection of stuff. I am now the proud owner of an un-crashable word processor, so long as I treat it right and keep a well inked ribbon between the typebars and paper. Also, I now have a working record player. Both the former are the work of my wonderful love, Katie T.

I like stuff, but in the end it is what it is - stuff. The things that matter most are my friends like Chris, John, and Katie. They will not rust. They cannot be stolen. They will not break. Their value will only increase with age and my love for them will continue to grow. For them I am eternally grateful.

Well, my apartment burned down on the 20th. everything I own is sitting in this room with me. My roommates and I are being overly loved through all of this. Clothing donations, hygiene stuff, candy - more than we could ask for. I’ve had these shoes in “my box” of stuff for a few days. I haven’t worn them except for around my pastors apartment. I just don’t feel like they’re me. They’re a little loud. 

Every time I look at my box there’s these bright red sambas looking at me. They tell me that my hippie days are over and to embrace my new, donated, better-and-cooler-than-you-had-before-wardrobe. Theyre the kind of shoes that have have the laces neetly tucked in on the sides untied, the kind you just slip on. They have a slight squeaky foam feel to them. After multiple attempts to feel at home in them Ive decided something. 

Im the kinda guy that straps his shoes on in the morning. I pull them laces tight. I like my shoes to feel me and I like to feel the ground. I dont know how these loud sambas would feel if I strapped em down. I mean, theyve had a pretty good life being the laced slip on kind of shoes. I feel like I might hurt them. Dont get me wrong, I have a pair of pretty loud purple converse, but weve built a history together. They started with me in highschool when I was self concious about the big grapes on my feet and its been four years since then and were pretty good friends. 

Maybe I should give the kids a chance. The purps might get jealous though and I dont know if I can handle more than one pair of loud shoes in my life. Well see how things work out.

well, if you haven’t noticed, which you shouldn’t have, there is nothing on this blog. Except for these lines. I don’t know if I really like to blog. the end