Display by Label: San_Francisco

C and I have been in California on a ten-day road-trip up the coast. Our first stop was LA, where we participated in Frank's wedding at the posh Hotel Bel-Air. I was one of the groomsmen and had the responsibility of holding on to the rings and producing them for the bride and groom during the ceremony. I was not nervous about this task before the day of the wedding, which proved to be an oversight on my part. The wedding planner quickly set me straight. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, she'd stop me every 15 or 20 minutes and say, "Show me the rings!" And it was clear from her demeanor that if I did not have them, she would, in all probability, breath fire and unleash a swarm of locusts on my ass. So I'd dive my cold, clammy fingers into my interior jacket pocket with no small degree of panic, convinced the rings had somehow disappeared between that time and the last time she had stopped me. Because, as you may know already, when things are out of my sight, they basically cease to exist to my brain. Thankfully, the two silver bands remained in my pocket up to and during the ceremony and when the crucial moment finally came, I was able to take them out and set them carefully in the hands of the betrothed without dropping them.

As it turns out, though, I was not able to recite the ee cummings poem that I was tasked with reading without banging the microphone with the clipboard on which the poem was attached. In retrospect, I think the subsequent loud boom which echoed across the lovely green served as a nice counterbalance to the somber poem, which I otherwise read exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'd love to think I have the kind of voice that could bring a woman to tears, but it would have been horrible if one of the bridesmaids had actually started crying, or swooned, or collapsed at my eloquence. So, a little boom of the mic stand. You're welcome.

At the wedding, I reconnected with the groomsmen I had hung out with in Vegas, which was cool. While in mixed company, nobody discussed the bachelor party. Which was good. We just stared at our shoes and shuffled our feet a lot.

After the wedding, C and I went down to Laguna Beach and stayed at her sister's boyfriend's parent's cottage. It was beautiful and magical and all those other adjectives people use for locations like that. We sat on the beach and went to art galleries, and I can say with certainty that, for both of us, the earth moved. Literally. We experienced our first earthquake. A 4.7, which was not quite on the scale of wetting one's pants, but still enough of a shaker to be thankful that you're still of an age where you have reasonably good control of your bladder. We were sitting in a little Mexican restaurant off the main drag. Enjoying our second margarita on the second floor. Then there was a loud rumbling noise and things started shaking. When I say "things" I mean heavy things. Things that don't normally "shake." Like our table. Like my soul. Then there was a little heave thrown in, and just a tinsy bit of ho. As in give her the ol' heave-ho. Like the earth was feeling finicky and just decided to move the building a smidge to the left. On a whim. Just to scratch an itch. It's a strange sensation to feel that the building you're in is moving, especially given the fact that buildings should not, you know, move. The rumble and the shake went on for a good five seconds or so. We looked at the other people's faces in the small restaurant. It seemed to sink in for everybody at the same time that holy shit, this was a fucking earthquake! A few people stood up and started for the door. Then as soon as it had begun, it stopped, and the relieved waiter shouted out, "Tequila!" And we laughed uncomfortably.

For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. For a little while, anyway. (I'm not that great at maintaining "perspective.") For those who are keeping track, this is the third time I've lost a phone this year. It's still early, though. So don't cash in your bets yet. I have an old Palm Treo which still sort of works and which I have begun using as of yesterday. It doesn't have a holster so there's pretty good odds this one will end up disappearing before too long. Incidentally, if you've texted me over the past week, you may have received the ominous reply "Message Deleted." This is not due to the fact that I hate you. At least not entirely. It's mostly due to the fact that my phone has been deactivated and for some reason this is the response it sent back to C's test text last week.

Onwards ... there was a stop to visit two warm-hearted, lovely women we met four years ago in Costa Rica. They live in the Hollywood Hills, in Laurel Canyon, which has been home to many rock stars and is about as great a location as you can want. A wonderful steak meal. Even better conversation. And Chet Baker on the stereo.

Then we met up with our Dallas Buds, Jeff, Eric, and Kim at LAX and hopped in a rented van we named "TheMitch" for a drive north up the coast. The name has a back-story, but I think it's something I'll leave untold. For mystery and, you know, intrigue and shit. I will say, however, that it had nothing to do with my good friend of that same name and everything to do with a good several hours of hard drinking. Oops. I meant "thinking."

There were stops in Santa Barbara, Avila Beach (I highly recommend this hotel), San Luis Obispo (known to LA'ers as "SLO"), Hearst Castle, Nepenthe, Carmel, Monterey, and finally the San Francisco Bay area, where we spent three nights at C's parent's house. They tried to culture us with a trip to Sonoma and Napa, and I think it may have even worked. We drank plenty of wine. And some brandy. And a few ports. Oh, and an ice wine. And we brought back six bottles from Ledson and two Mondavi Moscato d'Oro, and some fancy vinegar from B.R. Cohn.

Andy and Sabrina met all of us in the city our last day and we walked around North Beach and drank and laughed and talked. And it was just good, is all—to be in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

Three hours sleep the last night. One of those morning alarms that confuses you. Like, why in holy hell is that thing going off and what is it anyway? A long flight back to the Garden State by way of LAX. Hasty pasta followed by dead sleep. Picked up Honey the next morning at her friend Chubby's house. Chubby is a dog about the same size and temperament as Honey only she's black and white, with longer hair, and a curved tail. They roughhouse and chase and smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their owners. I think Honey had about as good a time as we did. Eating cat food and all kinds of treats from the fingers of a seven-year-old girl who, for those ten days, along with Chubby, became her new best friend and let her sleep in her bed.

And Honey didn't know or care that C and I had spent ten relaxing days on the west coast, or that I had lost my phone, or that for five breath-stopping seconds we were in the deep rumble of an earthquake, or that for days after the earth moved and we along with it. And that's why, I guess, it was so good to see her.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  San_Francisco  Friends  Family 

It was a barnstorm of a weekend in San Francisco, where we flew for the wedding of a close friend ... C's first wedding as a "groomsperson," and she was dang cute in her suit and tie. Friday was a 26-hour day that began in the dark hours of morning at Newark Airport and ended at a North Beach strip club. The devil built Columbus and Broadway out of discarded bottles of original sin, brother. And he called it good. Believe.

And I woke up Saturday morning at a time that was afternoon back home, and read some news about a little hurricane named Ike that had bore down relentlessly on a town called Galveston. And thought about how, at the same time, 2,000 miles northwest, the g-stringed pelvis of a little stripper named Mia had bore down relentlessly upon the struggling remnants of a soon-to-be-married bachelor's soon-to-be-arrested libido. Flooding streets. Flooding veins.

And the soundtrack was Telephone Call from Istanbul, man.

Sunday ceremony out at Stern Grove by the Golden Gate. A wedding officiated by a pirate. Drove home via the 280, recovering from an 11:30 am Bushmills buzz, with the fog sticking to the trees like cotton on broccoli spears, carrying my love for this city on its back.


A red-eyed flight back to the Garden State to pick up a hoarse Honey at the PetSmart. Thinking about our next transcontinental wedding trip in May (these things can be habit forming). This one in LA, where my college roommate will be hitched. And this time I'll be the groomsman, and the lap dances will be ordered somewhere on the Las Vegas strip, and sleep will be put on hold for a more convenient time.



link to this | comments (0) | File:  Weird  Weekend  Travel  Friends  San_Francisco 

Things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving:

1. Parent-in-laws who live in the San Francisco Bay Area
2. Crazy sleep-deprived sister-in-laws with fully-loaded leeks
3. Playing with Photo Booth on the MacBook Pro
4. A wife with a sense of humor
5. Football on TV 9:00 am to 9:00 pm (Pacific time!) in 70-inch HD goodness
6. Romo starting for the Cowboys
7. Plummer's last starting game (fingers crossed)
8. 33rd birthday eve

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Thanksgiving  Football  Family  San_Francisco 

I set my phone on vibrate last night so no east-coast phone calls would wake me up early this morning where I slept in Santa Clara, California. Turns out I didn't need to worry about that at all. The jet lag had me up, bright-eyed, at 7:15 am west-coast time, which of course was a decadent 10:15 am back in DC. I heard my phone vibrating at 7:30 and thought about answering it, but let it continue to rumble. I waited until 8:00 to return the call.

I had spent the weekend hanging out with Mitch and his girlfriend - doing the sites around DC, a tourist in my own city. Which is fine by me. I never really get tired of the monuments, the capitol, the district. It's why I moved there. I love where I live and I love showing it off to people. Normally I've shown people around by foot. This time I did it by car, which was a little nicer, since it was August and too much walking means a bad case of 'swamp butt.' There was still a lot of walking, but it was good to cut out the long bits by hopping in the car. And I now know where all the good parking spots are, which will be helpful for future tour guide excursions. Also, this was my first time to really explore Arlington Cemetery, which was interesting . . . and educational. Arlington House, which sits a top what I believe is the highest point in the cemetery, and probably the entire area, has some interesting history to it. Also, it affords some great views of Washington.

My next favorite place after Washington DC, is Northern California, so it's a pleasant change of scenery to be here now. Actually, this time of year, Northern California wins, hands down. You always know what to expect from the weather here: mostly sunny, cool foggy mornings, moderate days, cool to cold evenings. You can get away with shorts during the day, and jeans and sweaters at night. Awesome. After a hot summer in DC, this seems like paradise.

Catherine and I drove down to Palo Alto this morning to have breakfast at a place called 'The Creamery,' which is your standard diner fare with some southwestern specialties. I got the breakfust quesadilla's, and no, that wasn't a spelling error. It was printed that way on the menu. We lounged around Palo Alto for most of the morning before driving back to San Carlos. My favorite part was pretending we were dot-com millionaires driving around in Catherine's dad's BMW Z4 with the top down. I held my hand over my DC Nationals hat, partly so it wouldn't blow away, and partly to cover up the team emblem, which might have blown our 'cover.'

Tomorrow we're all heading up north of San Francisco to Redwood Country. Just after we drive our vehicle through a giant redwood tree sometime around 5:00 or 6:00 pm tomorrow, we'll be rolling into a small B&B called The Myers Inn. Friday will involve more driving and taking in the great weather and scenery. We'll be back in the San Francisco area for the weekend so we can do some tooling around in the city before heading back home for what will hopefully be the end of humid, 95-degree days and the beginning of Fall in DC.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  DC  Family  Friends  Travel  San_Francisco 

About six years ago, I travelled to San Francisco for a job fair. While I was there, I met this guy selling his photos in Union Square. I found this something of a mystery. I had just graduated college and was still under the presumption that nobody could truly support themselves simply by being an artist, certainly not the nomadic sort that wandered from city to city selling their pictures on the street. Anybody pretending to do this with any degree of success was actually supporting themselves through some other means.

"What do you do to support this?" I asked.

The man did not smile. He was not sure where this was going and probably didn't want to know. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, I mean . . . how do you support your . . . self?"

The guy looked at me with something like comtempt. (Funny that I was surprised by this reaction.) "I um . . . " he took a moment to find the right way to phrase what he wanted to say to me, then said, "I do exactly this." Tired. Exasperated.

Let me back up. At that time I was waiting tables and tending bar in a restaurant in Dallas in order so that I might write. Yes. A wonderful and poetic clich￩, I agree. Nevertheless, it's true and I'm willing to admit to the sheer gracelessness in which I ultimately failed in this endeavor.

This is what I know now:
I failed because I was not ready to write.
I was not ready to write because I still had not lived.
I had not lived because all I had done was strived for academic success so that one day I might . . . succeed.
I had not defined what it meant to me, this 'success.'
And there it was.

I had actually travelled to San Francisco for a teaching job fair, because all creative writing students faced with the terrible realization that they somehow needed to support themselves after college always turned first to the teaching profession.

After the short conversation I had with the guy selling art in Union Square, I felt I had exposed to him a gnawing truth, an aching reality: I was hiding from doing what I wanted to do by pursuing something that made more sense. At first, I was guilty about this. I suffered some minor shame. Then I promptly let it go and decided there was no need for it.

Here's the funny part:
The number of hours I actually spent at the job fair: maybe 2.
The number of hours I spent wandering San Francisco, reading in coffee houses, visiting museums, talking to strangers, and occassionally sleeping: about 94.

Looking back, I think that the San Francisco trip was a success of sorts. I realized that my idea that I would embark upon teaching students that were, at that time, barely younger than me was an absurdity and I would put an end to those thoughts presently. I realized I was actually enjoying the freedom bartending gave me and I should do more of it . . and enjoy it. I realized that somehow the guy selling his art in Union Square and living out of his van was a tremendous success in his own right and somehow I wasn't quite ready for that yet.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Chewing  San_Francisco