pictures are all i have for you today

Just a few of several. As always, album here.

Bad day today, you guys. I’m sick to my stomach with worry over getting a job. I’m so damned tired of feeling guilty over spending money on a haircut. My resume screams flight risk, my fields are all over the place, I’ve moved 5 times in as many years… It’s all feeling a bit hopeless and overwhelming. I’m smart, I’m energetic as all get out, and I’m capable of doing ANY job really, but I feel like I’ll never get my foot in the door.

I really, really, really need a haircut.

i want to have a baby just so someone can knit me this

ee!

Full article and more pictures here. (Thanks, Ian WHO IS VISITING ME IN 6 DAYS.)

photo time!

door does what now?

Lombard Street

Lomard Street's for regular driving! Not your FANCY driving!

Castro cafe - fresh, seasonal sangria!

out of doors

sunflower

Alan at the Castro Theater

some other bar ... from out getting out of the army barhop

a trinket from my prison days.....

yes, do.

popcorn and lapdances?? Those are my favorite food groups!

STOP THE PRESSES

case of wine-OH!

?

hiking

monkey

like the trees from Splash Mountain

the two pointy things are our school

cheers

Full album here.

HUNG out to dry

as those of you who follow me on twitter already know, I played hooky from the job search and spent the day at a nude beach. In the short 5 hours we spent lounging on the sand, I feel I learned a lot about the nude beach personalities.

First off, all dudes. There were maybe six other tits on the WHOLE entire beach. By contrast, there were about 80 testicles.

Second, this is the beach:

It’s that long thin north-south running strip of sand there (for those uninitiated with beaches… yeah, I don’t know why I felt the need to specify. moving on!). The southern end is where the tourists bring their dogs. Families, with children, couples, the whole bit. The NORTHERN end, however, is where all the testicles are. Just waving in the air like they just don’t care. And ALL DAY LONG, unsuspecting non-pervert tourists who were taking their ENTIRE ENORMOUS JAPANESE FAMILY VACATION COMPLETE WITH PINK PARASOLS IN SOME CASES on an innocent walk down the beach to get a better look at the infamous Golden Gate Bridge, of which you can get great pictures from atop the rocks at the far north end, suddenly found themselves amid a SEA of sun-tanned til beef jerkied, alarmingly gay, beer belly you mistake for 8 months preggo, flapping in the sea-breeze, half drunk and stoned by 11 a.m., FRIGHTFULLY NAKED OLDER MEN. And me.

Fucking AMAZING. Apparently, in San Francisco, it’s not illegal to be naked on the beach, so long as you’re not having sex or harassing anybody. So, politely, the nudists naturalists stay north. But I like that about living here. When you get to the beach, there isn’t a sign that says NO BOTTLES NO FIRES NO DOGS NO SWIMMING PAST SIGNS NO SURFING. There’s A SINGLE sign, it warns you of the strong tides, and the rest is up to you. That theme extends to the parks, too. Sure, take your dog off leash, but it’s ASSUMED that it’s your responsibility to keep him in check. If you’re going to make a bonfire, do it upwind, stay away from the crowds, and clean up after yourself. If you’re going to be nud natural, have the courtesy to stay at the far end of the beach. If you want to drink, don’t get rowdy, and throw your shit in the garbage. The most miraculous part is that everybody abides. I challenge you to come here and find garbage on the beach, or dog shit in the park.

Anyway, I digress. I also noticed that there are a few distinct types of naked dudes.

The lazy ones, who park in one spot and soak up Vitamin D, smoking and drinking beer, until their leathery hides ACTUALLY burst into flame. They’re the harmless ones. Every now and then, they might get up and stumble seaward, pitching and yawing with the sudden exertion against gravity, until they reach water and their core temperature returns to somewhat normal. Then back to the blanket.

THEN, there are the wanderers. These are the dudes just REVELING in their nakedness. They walk up and down the beach, as South as they can possibly go without standing atop some poor tourists’ picnic, but CERTAINLY far enough to be in full view. When some unfortunate, unknowing couple strolls too far North, he’s there to lumber uncomfortably close behind, just so they’re aware of all the layers of clothes on their fragile pink bodies. They climb rocks like squishy pink “naturalist” spider monkeys, stand, arms akimbo, in the most obvious of places, just staring into the horizon, shriveled unmentionables frolicking up and down like Mexican jumping beans. Every now and then they saunter over in your direction, and you worry that they’ll talk to you, but they won’t. They just want to make sure you know they’re naked in broad daylight, AS IF YOU COULD MISS IT.

And last, there’s the click. I’m pretty sure these dudes live there. Oh wait, there was one chick with them. When we first got to the beach, there were like two dudes over by the rocks, doing naked yoga or something. It seemed they had constructed a jaunty structure out of only driftwood, not dissimilar from the beginnings of a crude house. From it hung several blankets and towels and things, that they were using for shade. As the day wore on, more and more people showed up until it was a veritable commune with beer and comestibles, parked under an array of makeshift tents and umbrellas. Really, I think they live there. They sent some of the clan out for food, and the rest stayed behind so nobody destroyed their hours of naked laboring.

I loved it. Nobody bothered us, nobody cared. A few tourists were ogling us, but who cares, really. It was a weird bonding moment for us, after so much time with so many people telling us what we can and can’t do, to just F* it all, head to the beach, and lay there all risque. Not to mention the DOLPHINS SCAMPERING AROUND IN THE SURF. There were mad of ‘em! It was amazing! And at some point, a dude came up to us and asked if we’d seen the dolphins. Alan asked if they are always there, and the guy told us yes, and that you can also watch hawk fights and see coyotes on the rocks. Then he said it was a nature extravaganza. Then I realized I was talking to a fully naked male adult, and I had no top on, and none of us cared.

The most touching moment, I think, was a slightly older couple – maybe late thirties – with a toddler. The mother was the only female I saw on the whole beach get completely nude, and she looked BEAUTIFUL. Radiant. A perfect female form, with a perfect female child. And the child? Completely dressed. Sun hat, everything. They had such a wonderful time as a nude family, just playing with their daughter, running into the water with her, picking up shells and rocks…..

I mean, it’s hard for me to imagine a family that happy to begin with. ESPECIALLY naked. And I really like that they let the kid have shame. I liked that, just because they were nudists sorry, NATURALISTS, didn’t mean they wanted to force it on their daughter. I loved them, truly. I was thrilled to see them.

i apologize for the thigh shot. nice bridge tho!

If you look closely, you can see some naked guys in the background…

best. butt. ever. can i get an amen?

does this sound desperate enough, or should I attach a headshot and some decorative soaps?

Dear Hiring Manager OF THIS WONDERFUL INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORE ON MY STREET,

My name is Amy [last name redacted] and I am very interested in working for this bookstore.

Highlights of my relevant experience include a year working as the Training Supervisor at Borders Books and Music, where I was responsible for hiring and training all the new employees, a year as a manager of an FYE, where I was responsible for all shipping and receiving duties, and my annual stint as a Barnes and Noble seasonal employee, where in one short month in 2007 I placed in the top 5 out of the whole store for Holiday book donations.

I moved here recently from Louisiana, where my husband was stationed with the Army, which explains all the jobs in all the cities on my resume. He got out of the Army on August 1st, and San Francisco is where we’ve chosen to make our home for the long-term.

Other reasons you should hire me include but are not limited to: I can type over 80 wpm (more like 100 if I’ve had enough coffee), I’m an expert at spotting shoplifters (I once pegged a 70yr old woman with an Ozzy Osbourne boxset under her Christmas sweater – true story), I got all the way through Calc II in college (so my drawer will never be over/under), I can deadlift 150 lbs (in case you need help in the stockroom), I read more than I sleep (easily two books a week – less when I’m properly employed), I live two blocks from here (three? I’m not sure I just moved, but I know I have reliable transportation), I’m articulate, detail-oriented, I show up on time (often early), and I’ll be glad to work nights and weekends (in fact, I prefer them).

Thanks for your consideration!

Cheers,

Amy [last name redacted]

[phone number redacted]

[address redacted]

[personal email redacted]

a sfw nerdlol (funnier if you worked at a bookstore)

you HAVE to see this. I almost died @ The Masticating Vicar.  If you’re a fan of NPR on facebook, the FB ones are hysterical too.  My submission was The Diaphanous Bandana.

more photoz:

At midnight last night we were at a wine bar in the Castro drinking champagne. He stood up on the barstool and announced to everyone the occasion to which we were drinking. They clapped and cheered, I blushed, Alan toasted, it was magic.

arboretum or something in GG Park

flower clock

ghost school

views

spooky

not a bad place to play tennis

buena vista park hike

i REALLY NEED a haircut

rickety

stay hungry

At the stroke of midnight, I, officially, will no longer be an Army wife.

If you’d asked me the day before I got married, “Hey, Amy, think you’ll ever get married?” I would have been all BROKEN MEANINGLESS INSTITUTION THAT DEGRADES WOMEN blah blah blah. Then the next day I got married.

And boy was I unprepared. Not only for the wife part, but for the Army part. Six days after the ink was dry, he deployed. So I had a cool 13 months to still be “me” while still knowing absolutely nothing about the Army wife lifestyle.

Only I wasn’t me anymore. I wasn’t plugging along with nobody to answer to. With someone out there whose future was linked to mine, I couldn’t have no plan, no savings, no ideas. It mattered, suddenly, that I didn’t know what I wanted to go back to school for, or what I wanted to be when I grew up (AS IF THAT WILL EVER HAPPEN). I was dragging someone else down with me. But I didn’t realize it yet.

Instead, I panicked. That year+ was a FLURRY of employment. I had 5 jobs that year; at one point, I had 3 jobs AT THE SAME TIME. I couldn’t work enough. I couldn’t earn enough money to take away the guilt of using what I still considered to be HIS money to pay down my credit card debt and take a trip across country, despite his constant refrain: “Honey, I love you, do whatever you need to do to get through this year.” I’d been on my own damn near since the day I was born, and I couldn’t handle having someone to lean on. It was a shot to my ego, even if I’d never admit it.

I thought once he got back, that would all be over. I thought I’d get a job and be an equal contributor toward our marriage. I thought I’d be instantly happy. And as so many of you readers know, you’re NOT instantly happy when they re-deploy, not by a LONG shot.

When he came back it was clear as day what I’d been doing for 13 months. Avoiding it. Avoiding the worry and anxiety in my typical JUST KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU GIVE OUT fashion. I just worked all the time, and when I ran out of work, I’d go to the gym and workout furiously and without regard to my body’s arguments, and then call everyone in my phone (or usually just Jeff or Trude) and go out and get shitcanned drunk somewhere. Rinse, repeat.

And when he got back, every feeling I’d denied myself hit like the first credit card bill after Christmas. I cried everywhere, all the time, for any reason. I was angry at myself and frustrated with my husband’s seemingly seamless re-introduction into society. His apparent zen put my suffering totally under the spotlight, and I didn’t even know why I was suffering. Worse, I couldn’t find a job, because I went around stupidly declaring to employers that I was an Army wife, unaware at the time of the horrific discrimination we face. Without a job, I never allowed myself to feel like I was balancing the burden of our money woes. I constantly thought I was failing our marriage.

While I did manage to find a decent-paying job in Alaska that I liked enough to show up to every day, I still felt like I was stuck. I still had no master plan, and our future was so uncertain I couldn’t even draft one. As always with Army orders, the rumors change with the breeze, which is pretty often in the Alaskan valleys. We heard everything from he’d get stoplossed and go to Afghanistan, to an assignment in South Korea, to we actually got orders to FORT BLISS WHILE ON LEAVE THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS (which resulted in my running out of the house, tears freezing on my cheeks in the sharp New York December wind, driving off into the night wondering what I was ever thinking getting mixed up in a life like this) to our eventual sentence to purgatory in Fort Polk….

In time, I calmed down. He held me through all the pain and confusion, helped me get to the core of why I was inconsolable most of the time, talked me through the underlying issues. I see clearly all the things I missed. Jeff said one thing that I’ll never forget, and that I still say to myself often: You can’t compare human suffering. I felt horrible because I thought I had no right to be doing all the crying. He was the one in the dust and sand for 13 months, literally wading through rivers of dead bodies. He was the one without the constant support of my amazing in-laws. He was the one who couldn’t drink it all away 4 nights a week or better. What did I have to be so sad about? But Jeff was right. You can’t compare human suffering.

And then there was Louisiana. Which you’ve all been reading. I started this blog mere days into our tenure in that terrible place, because I knew I wouldn’t get a real job, and with no outlet I’d lose my mind. You can’t take a completely self-sufficient city woman who can’t sit still for more than twenty minutes at a time and plunk her down in the podunk backwoods of the poorest part of South-Central Louisiana and expect her to thrive.

Honest to Goodness, I never knew what a wonderful community was here on the internet. Sure, it’s hard for me to warm up to people on the web, and I know I’ve never been able to fully reveal and forge IRL friendships with any of you, and yes, that’s something I regret a bit. But just knowing you were out there, feeling what I was feeling, was enough for me. The life of a military spouse is a lonely one, and only a certain type of person in a certain type of relationship can persevere for a career. I know in my heart I couldn’t. If it wasn’t for you all and the weird type of support you’ve given me, I don’t know if I could have survived that YEAR. I only wish I’d looked for it sooner. I was never good at asking for help.

That said, I am always available to you. If ANY of you (and you know who you are) are EVER in my area, my couch, my air mattress, my know-how, my dog, my friends, my car… they are yours. I’d offer you my husband, but I should probably ask him first. EH, FUCK IT, you can have him too. You have my email, you know I know what you know and understand what you go through and contribute, and I love you all, in my way. I read most of your blogs, and a few of us chat via email, and I hope it never goes away. I hope you always consider me if you’re in San Francisco or New York or Philadelphia or need a few gym tips or menu tips or ANYTHING.

And Alan, light of my life, the past three years have taught me things about myself I don’t think I’d have otherwise learned. For the first time since I was… oh man, probably EVER (I was even a busy kid), I got to sit still for a year. Focus on my health and my talents (writing, flute, reading, photography), figure out what I wanted to do with my life, figure out how I can HELP PEOPLE in this world, instead of just skating by. It was a gift you never even considered a gift, which, in a way, is the only honest kind of gift. I was accountable for my actions, and I can’t tell you how great that is when the person who’s holding me accountable never bats an eye askance or invokes a judgmental tone to shape my actions. You taught without preaching, guided without leading, listened without interrupting, and I cannot CANNOT finish writing this without crying say thank you enough.

Now, here we are. I think we both agree that this month has blown our minds in ways we never expected it to. Sometimes it feels like every decision we’ve ever made has been on a whim/with our guts (marriage, not re-enlisting, tattoos, majors, MOVING TO SAN FRANCISCO AFTER ONLY HAVING BEEN HERE ONCE), and BOY HOWDY has it paid off. The Army never sucked it out of us, or we wouldn’t be sitting in this gorgeous cafe with all these Hipsters at happy hour drinking this REVOLTING organic wheat beer (huge mistake). We’d be playing it safe somewhere in the greater northeast, suburbs of our upbringing, wondering what could have been.

I love you, I love my life, let’s always stay crazy. Keep in touch, you guys.

Alan: 36,428 Amy: 0

In typical totallyfuckingunpredictable fashion, my husband responded to this Craig’s List ad for ” a male jock for an indie film. 20-30 something male jock, the scene is at Navy base and a volley ball game. Ability to play volleyball not required.”

I dug up my favorite Alan is Shirtless photo

complete with angela lansbury

and off he sent his response.

Well, of course, he got a call back. The dude is actually from a modeling agency. When he called, he managed to keep Alan on the phone for better than an hour, chatting about all the “bitches” in the industry and how he can handle a shitty looking person but not a shitty personality and how once your ego gets to big you think you’re a star but you’re not and how he needs to bring a bathing suit for the interview and not to look lewd but to “look boner” and how he doesn’t mind of you “fool around” with other guys on the set “so long as the camera doesn’t see”, while Alan giggled his charming, whimsical giggle as he always does when he’s TOTALLY FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE.

Oh. mygod.

So Alan’s there now, strutting around in this:

and an old pair of my flip flops, and I feel like there’s a fairly good chance I’m never going to see him again.

I almost forgot: we’ve had to abstain for three days so that this morning, he could jerk off into a cup, as he is 1/3 of the way through the process of becoming a sperm donor.

I, on the other hand, am here at the public library taking tests to become a math tutor.

So. Let’s compare. For him, that’s a $350.00 day. And what’s he done? Gave himself a HJ and flounced around in his Ranger panties. For me? $0.00, and I’m taking Pre-Calculus exams. Who wins?

welcome to san francisco

BOTH of our bikes got stolen while we were at the library yesterday. And when I was locking them up, there was a creepy dude standing against the library wall just smoking and watching me and I NEVER fucking looked at his face. My gut told me something was up with him, but I never though, “hey this d-bag could want to steal my bike”, I thought, “hey, I better hurry this up before this d-bag rapes me and kills me and wears my skin.” Sure enough, $1000 worth of bikes and one helmet, gone forever.

Maybe we’ll hold off selling that car for a while longer.

BUT IT’S ALL OKAY BECAUSE GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU.

Gay bar!

Hey you guys, I was just looking up a video for this photo I just put on facebook:

yes, that's my husband searching Gay Bars while trashed IN YOUR FACE DADT

that I saw a while ago that my bffl showed me. Ever see the movie Cabin Fever? No? Good. It’s the worst movie ever. But at the end, there’s some audition footage for the creepy albino PANCAKES kid in the movie, and for reasons never explained, he’s sort of kung-fu dancing to Electric Six’s Gay Bar. It’s WTF-style hilarious, and I thought you’d enjoy it:

Burn my Biscuits update!

gear heads

So, miraculously, we’re cutting down on our bar attendance. And it’s great. Last Friday it was cold and foggy, so we strapped on our Alaska gear, leashed up the Fry, and headed down to the corner of Castro and Market. A few days earlier, we’d passed a little section of street SMACK in the middle of the intersection with some tables and chairs that was fenced off from traffic, so our idea was to check it out, grab some coffee, people watch.

SMASHING SUCCESS. We were even treated to two COMPLETELY NUDE MEN strolling by casually. One was wearing a hat. They looked a little lost, and it soon became clear they were just waiting for a third, also naked, friend. Then off they went into the night. Titter.

In other news, our bikes are in working order, and we’re DOIN’ IT. The first day they were up and running headed off to the beach, about 4 miles away, where we intended to just laze around and have a picnic. We even brought the Fry trotting alongside, which he had never done but learned to do staggeringly fast. There were an AWFUL LOT of naysayers when we started out in our little park behind the apartment while Fry was still lunging at every pidgeon (did you guys see Up? SQUIRREL), but soon, he was pulling Alan along like a champ. And I do mean pulling him. Alan barely pedaled for the entire 11 miles. Our dog was designed for hard labor.

We went through Golden Gate Park toward the beach, and discovered a little brewery on the water that sells Growlers for $12, $8 for a refill. We got a stout, it was amazing, hung out on the beach with the Fry for awhile. Eventually, we got antsy and continued up and around the coastal trail. It was breathtakingly beautiful – reminiscent of the Anchorage coastal trail, but so much greener. And fewer bears.

There are seals on the rocks off the coast, but they were so obscured I couldn’t get any photos. Overall, the day was pretty relaxed. Tons of photos, we killed almost the whole growler just tooling around. We guess 11 miles, but who knows, could have been more. It was the best day I’ve had in a long time.

Enjoy some photos, and keep a good thought that we get jobs / the $6G the Army owes us this week!

Escher

The Castro is the "gay district"....

Trolley, caffeine vision

poised

BEACH CHALET STOUT. Perfect.

gear

fog city

regal

at rest

say what?

Golden Gate Waterfall

ruins

even made it back home, uphill!

I have to stop listening in on these things.

yesterday, I sold a Bistro Set to a man on Craig’s List. I listed Alan’s cell number, since he’s like 64,000 times better at answering the phone than I am. Alan didn’t know that I had specified cash only in the ad, so when the gentleman called, Alan reminded him.

Later, when the dude turned up to pick up the Bistro Set, Alan apologized for being rude on the phone and hammering in the “cash only” thing. The stranger immediately shot back with, “Well, honestly, what did you think I was going to bring? BOLOGNA SANDWICHES?”

And the two of us died laughing. Thank you, anonymous bistro-buyer, for the QOD.

–

For those of you out there whose husbands won’t ETS anytime soon? You have one thing to be grateful for. You might be stuck dealing with the Army for a while, but at least you won’t have to deal with being a Veteran.

Getting out is a CLUSTERFUCK of useless appointments in scary back-door “offices” with people who give THE MOST AWFUL advice. VA hospitals and clinics, this one especially horrifying place called “Sword to Plowshares”…

Oh man. I was fortunate enough to accompany Alan to meet with one councilor whose sole purpose was to asses Alan for PTSD. They encourage spouses to sit in, and I’m always down to stick my nose where it barely belongs.

What I didn’t know was that I’d only wind up talking for about 6 minutes out of the 75 we were there. “Well”, you’re probably thinking, “it’s Alan’s show. He’s the one with PTSD.” Right. Well, Alan? He talked for about 8 minutes.

The REST of the 75 minutes was spent listening to this salty old whale of a woman talk about herself, her Navy career, her college days, HER OTHER PATIENTS, telling us things like (verbatim) ‘my goal isn’t to make a friend for life. my goal is to get you the fuck out of my office.’, or how ‘I don’t have PTSD. I make 6 figures.’, AS IF THAT’S RELEVANT.

OMFG it was agonizing. We barely got a word in edgewise. She was loud and barely fit in her chair and laughed at inappropriate things and swore every third word…

And after asking Alan maybe 3 questions which he answered in a sentence or less, with a wave of her hand she diagnosed him as “Partially PTSD-ed.” WTF??????!??!?!!

And Swords to Plowshares?? This is an organization primarily used by homeless veterans for things like obtaining phones and finding work. Well, they have career councilors, and Alan is trying to meet with them to develop a stronger resume than I can for him, and maybe get a grant to re-up his EMT certifications. Great.

Except the councilor he meets with tells him to drop out of school because he’s really limiting himself. I was there, I witnessed this. Alan explained (again) that with the GI bill, we’ll make $x per month, which more than covers rent, and the rest is supplemental. He just needs something for right now to get through to September when the payments kick in.

This is the conversation I witnessed this morning:

“Well, really all the jobs are between 9 and 5. So maybe you can fix your schedule so that you go down to part time, or take night classes.”

“But if I do that I lose the GI bill COLA (cost of living allowance).”

“Look, I’m just saying you’re really limiting yourself by going to school full time.”

REALLY??? Everyone else in the GOD DAMNED WORLD thinks it’s a good idea to get an education during this recession, but this YUTZ is out there telling VETERANS WHO WILL GET COLA AND WILL THEREFORE HAVE IT EASIER THAN ANY COLLEGE STUDENT EVER to screw college, get a full-time job as an EMT?? Whoa. Just…. just whoa.

internet cafe

polly wants a __________.

El Capitan was my nickname in high school. Oh, wait, it was actually SLUT.

New Mission

hippies

i had a wacky tiara moment unpacking.. IT IS ALWAYS TIARA TIME

the view

nerd house (thanks, jeff!)

text

reminds me of this..

fog city

drunkards at a wine bar

pier 39

carnivale

i just liked it

wandering at night

action jackson

hipster boots? check.

gay!

SLIP AND SLIDE. They were shotgunning beers on the way down... my heroes.

green like July

little Fry in the big ocean

the clearest I've EVER seen that bridge.

We’ve already had something like four visitors and a slew of wacky stories. I’ve been power-blogging for the past hour, so I grow a bit weary. But I’ll share my favorite so far. We were at Dolores Park (Mulva?) enjoying a hipster picnic in he sunshine with our friend Hino from Louisiana, when a group of young gentlemen came up and asked for the boys’ help in tightening a line around a tree. They were climbers and wanted to pull what looked like a giant dog leash with D-rings taught between two trees and use it like a springy balance beam. Somehow it’s for climbing, idk.

So anyway, the three of them plus Alan start WRENCHING on one end in standard 1-2-3-PULL fashion. What they DIDN’T know was that the OTHER tree was slightly rotted at the bottom. So on their fourth or fifth 1-2-3-PULL, there was a thunderous crack and the tree hit the ground.

At which point the boys endured 500-or-so OTHER hipster-picnic-ers BOOING AND JEERING for LITERALLY MINUTES. One dude yelled TREE HUGGERS, ADVANCE and we were actually nervous. The other dudes were laughing so hard they were curled up on the ground. Then they sort of LET’S-GET-OUT-OF-HERE-ed, left us sitting five foot away from the evidence, and getting spat on by passers-by. Good times.

he kicked it with his ranger legs until... yeah that's not funny anymore, you're right.

Rest of the photos here. Another Burn My Biscuits update! Check it out!

people tree

I left early from the bar the other night. For some reason no matter how much I drank I couldn’t get drunk.

It was about a little more than a 1/2 mile walk to the apartment, mostly uphill. The weather was pleasantly brisk, and somehow, I had the perfect amount of clothes and the perfect amount of walking to do. Like the third porridge, I was just right. Also, since living in Philadelphia, I love walking through cities at night. I was born for city life. I feel invigorated just being around so many people I know nothing about. My senses sharpen and I am elated to be a such a tiny piece of the world.

I could hear a party rumbling in the apartment next door as I fumbled for my keys on the landing. I didn’t bother to shut the door behind me as I entered; I grabbed the dog and his leash (and a plastic bag) and turned right back around. Fry lunged at something when we got to the front door again, and it turned out to be a man leaving the party. He was a little older than me, maybe in his 40s. Tall, thin, balding. Wedding ring. Cigarette in one hand, beer in another.

“Sorry you get stuck next to the party house.”
“I am unfazeable. Sorry about the dog.”
“Oh, it’s no problem.”

He held the gate for me, and off I went down the street with my dog. There’s a park about two blocks down where I generally bring Fry, but for some reason, I just felt really uncomfortable that night. I had a weird urge to stick within a block of the building. So I meandered until Fry was finished, and headed back up.

By that time, there was a small crowd of party smokers gathered outside the building. My tall friend was off on his own, closer to me. As I approached, we began the standard dog conversation. What kind, where’d you get him, how old, blah blah. Then he said, “My wife and I just put down our Dalmation. He was our best friend for ten years. We’re devastated.” He just stood there smoking and gazing at my dog.

Suddenly there was screaming from the corner. We looked up to see the group of about 20 homeless kids, who are a permanent fixture on the tourist-choked corner of Haight-Ashbury, jumping and gasping because one of their dogs had run into traffic. The pit-mutt made it back fine, and they, all 20 of them, gathered in a circle petting her and cooing. I know the kids – they all look my age and younger. I recognize them by their dogs. They ask me for change every single day.

The party smokers expressed various sounds of relief and went back to their conversations.

My friend said, “I always worry about those dogs they have with them. Are they getting fed? Do they have worms? Those kids can’t be taking care of them properly.”

“I’ve thought the same thing, I –”

And just when I was about to say something about the queerness of worrying about the dogs when human kids are sleeping in the park every night, more commotion from the corner. This time, two or three of them – it was hard to tell in the dark – threw another one up against a building and started beating the ever-loving piss out of him. They just hit him (her?) furiously over and over in the stomach and chest and for ten seconds I was stuck staring and couldn’t even breathe. The rest of the kids sat silently, watching. When the kid fell to the ground, they just started kicking him.

The party smokers paused long enough for their collective brain to register what was happening, then they quickly turned away and went back to their chatter, a little quieter than before.

My friend briefly looked, and then went back to patting Fry. I heard myself say, “Please don’t kill that kid. I don’t want to watch them kill that kid.” But I had no awareness of speaking. The only way I know I said it out loud was that my friend took me by the shoulder and said, “Come on, let’s go upstairs.” I heard vomiting as I unlocked the gate. I’m sure I told my friend to have a good night, or something equally trite and required.

Within minutes the cops arrived, and they were all gone. They have since been seamlessly replaced by new kids, with new dogs. Sometimes I wonder what happened to them. I hope they’re okay. I hope their dogs are okay. Maybe for the Right Now, they’re slightly better off. In the big picture, I know they aren’t.

In retrospect, I realize I was frozen because I wanted to do something. I’m not desensitized to the human condition. I don’t ignore those kids. I see them every day, and I notice them. I listen for bronchitis when they cough and I get angry when tourists are rude to them. And, yeah, I’ve thought about their dogs. And yeah, I know it’s probably their own fault in some way that they’re out on that corner. And yeah, I get tired of being asked for change every day. That doesn’t make them not people.

What gets me is that they banded together for that dog. What gets me is that if a tourist had been around at the time, they *might* have helped call the dog back from the street, too. They might have. But when they were killing that kid, people just walked right on by. Or sat there and pretended not to notice. Or told me to go inside and ignore it.

I’ve thought about it every day since.