Monday, January 28, 2013

Theater Cats

A moment from Jack, my [new] favorite weirdo at work.

(I'm walking by Jack's cubicle and he yells to me.)

Jack: Ryan!  Hey, how was your weekend?

Me: Oh, good.  You?

Jack: I saw Zero Dark Thirty, in a theater, and it was good.  So good.

Me: I've heard that.

Jack: And I hate going out.  I'm such a shut-in, you know.  Theaters are so gross and you have to sit next to a bunch of people who talk.  And you can't bring your cats with you.

Me: Hm, that could be fun.

Jack: Wouldn't it though?


Friday, January 18, 2013

Unit Poetry

In the garage of my living complex there are storage units.  Tenants are each assigned one storage unit and are given the option of renting additional storage units if available.  Some of the units recently became available for lease and I have transformed the short string of emails discussing this into poetry.

From property management (Grace):

Dear Board.
Storage unit #10 is ready.

For rent.

The notice to the general membership
There are lockers
For rent.

Will be mailed along with the next

Thank you Grace.

Reply from HOA busybody (Cheryl): 

Grace I found
In the storage units.

It was poop.  

Both squirrel 
and raccoon.

Reply property management (Grace):

Cheryl OH MY!
Would the Board approve a pest
Control company?

Reply from HOA busybody (Cheryl):

Could you find out what it would cost 
or get some bids?

To stop.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Marlena's Bathroom Mintue

Jon and I went to the symphony on Saturday night which has nothing to do with this story except that we were in the same neighborhood as Marlena's, a dark and divey San Francisco neighborhood haunt in Hayes Valley that recently announced it is closing, or more specifically, changing owners.  It's the kind of place where cross-dressers don't try too hard (to pass) and the rest come for drinks and story. 

After Jon and my thing, our good friends invited us to join them at Marlena's for a drag show, to say goodbye (and 'hello' since we never go there) before the doors closed.  It was a riot--close talkers falling off bar stools, just okay performers whipping their wigs for dollars, 90s fashions pickled in time--and the fact that Jon and I arrived in our suits and shiny shoes after the Marlena's scene had bloomed (and was wilting) was even more of a feast.  But really, it was a party, where the hardest part of the evening was knowing where to look and point first.  I was in sloppy heaven. 

A quick word about bars in San Francisco: all the strange, all the unrefined watering holes in the city are sadly going extinct.  If you find a tragic unique spot like Marlena's, treasure its character and go there for a nightcap from time to time, or you might find it replaced by a glossy joint with $15 cocktails and uncomfortable seating.  Or worse, Gap.

(In Marlena's restroom.  There is one urinal with a small dirty sink adjacent.  The floor is wet.  The light flickers.  The walls that aren't covered with tags and old club flyers are sticky.  There is also no lock on the door.  I head in to use the urinal and a drunk man follows.  I turn my shoulder and face away from him as I begin to shake the dew off the lily.)

Man: (hushed tone, leaning in)  Let me see your dick.

Me: Uh, no.

Man: Are you shy?

Me: I'm peeing.

Man: Just show me.

Me: No.  Pig.

Man: Why are you dressed so nice?

Me: Go away, geez.

Man: I'm washing my hands now, see?  Not looking.  (begins washing his hands in sink, straining neck to see what I'm hiding)  Can I at least see your face?

Me:  (I snap around and grimace at him, then back to my business.)  There, that's my face.

Man: You look like Michael Bublé.  I bet you get that a lot.

Me: Nope.

Man: Really?

Me: Never.  You're the first.

Man: Can I see your dick now?

Me: Nope, just face, that's all you get.  Show's over.

Man: Geez, loosen up, Michael.


Monday, January 14, 2013

Hey Squirrel Friend

(Jon came home and found a dead squirrel in the garage of our complex.  He called me at work to tell me about it.)

(On phone.)

Jon: There's a dead squirrel in the garage.

Me: Really?

Jon: Yes, it's by Carol's spot and it's belly up.  I think you need to call property management and have them remove it.

Me: Can't you just go pick it up with a paper bag or something?

Jon: That's not going to happen.

Me:  Com'on!

Jon: No.  It's really scary.

Me:  Okay.  I'll email property management.

Jon:  Good.

Me:  And if it's still there when I get home I'll scoop it up.

Jon: Good.

Me: With your jacket.

Jon:  That's not going to happen.


Monday, January 7, 2013

Warsh Your Hands!

Momma Told Me Not To Come

(At home with Jonathan, my gullible love, I discover an issue of Real Simple magazine, a vanilla home-nesting rag I received for Christmas.)

Me: (picking up magazine) Jon!  There's an article in Real Simple that's Ten Things Your Mother Never Talked to You About and number eight is fellatio.

Jon: What?  Really?  Real Simple has turned a corner.

Me: ....

Jon: ....

Me: I was joking.

Jon: (red-faced and laughing)  Oh.