The F-Line

The Muni line that runs up Market gets a lot of tourists. The trains are vintage Italian streetcars, they’re electric and run on tracks. Today, there are two trains on the same track. A tourist approaches the one in the rear and asks the driver, “Which train leaves first?” He blinks at her, then at the train in front of him. “This one,” he replies. She climbs aboard.

Of Course

I was headed for a film festival, but had a dentist visit just before. He knocked around for a while and said, All set. Just don’t eat popcorn for a few weeks.

Things That Happen

When I was little, our kitchen sink had a bright light just above it. In the summer evenings, Mom would leave the back door open for air, and moths would come to knock stupidly against the light. One night, a moth flew into my momï¿½s ear while she was washing dishes. It was still alive, so she could feel it fluttering in panic as Dad drove her to the hospital to have it removed with an extra-long pair of tweezers.

After twenty years, thinking of this incident still provokes my gag reflex.

Transvestite on a Cell Phone

Let’s just pray, baby…
Let’s just pray about it.
Do you want to pray on the phone, or do you want me to come over, sugar?…
No, no. I’m right here, baby. I just got on the bus, I’m headed up Market. I’m right near you, baby…
On the train…
Yes, sugar…
Do you want me to bring you some food or something?
Some coffeee or some OJaaaay?…
OJ? OK. Do you want filtered or pulp, baby?…
Pulp then. I’ll bring you some pulpy OJ, you get it all stuck up in your teeth and we gonna do some prayin’…
Uh huh. See you soon, baby.

Synchronicity

I like Dave Eggers. As I’ve mentioned before, I subscribed to Might and McSweeny, I was among the hordes of subway riders who carried A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius on the commute, and I even attended a reading or two. When I heard he was starting 826 Valencia–a non-profit writing center for kids–I decided that Dave Eggers was certifiably swell. I also signed up to be a tutor. They called me in for an interview a few days ago, and I finally met Mr. Eggers.

For some reason, I was unprepared. I knew it was his project, but didn’t consider that I might see him there. He talked to me and two other tutors for about an hour, giving his take on the student-teacher bond and going through some sample writing. He had fantastic genius-hair, and seemed shy until he’d been talking for a few minutes. I listened and tried to seem more at ease than I was. On the way home, I thought about how weird it was to sit two feet from a guy whose work I’d been reading since I was 19. Then I realized my fly was open.

Thinky

We did a bunch of interviews about the future of technology for an upcoming issue. A few interviewees were talking about how data acquisition is changing. We’re coming up with the technology and storage capacity to record the infinite details of everyday interactions. I’m curious about how this will affect mourning. Right now, we can go through photo albums, maybe some journals or home movies, to remember someone we’ve lost. What will happen when we have thousands of hours worth of tapes to review? It seems like it would take much longer to break out of grief when tangible reminders of a loved one are so plentiful.

FLOWER UPDATE

My landlord lives above me and operates a small convenience store nearby. This weekend, his wife stopped me as I was headed out. I think I know who took your flowers, she said. She told me her husband had seen one of our neighbors, an old lady, milling around the area. We walked two doors down, and sure enough, all of my plants were sitting on the lady’s front porch behind a locked gate. Let me type that again: two doors down, on the front porch. “She’s a little bit nuts, so wait until her son is home to ask for your plants back. Fabulous. First my neighbor steals my plants, and then I have to administer the smackdown to some poor senile old lady to get them back. I wasn’t sure if I had the stomach for it. Fortunately, my new roommate ran into the ladyï¿½s son and explained the situation. My flowers were waiting on the front porch when I got home. I like people again. I plan to buy ice cream for everyone.

Bitter Fruit

A few days ago, the Home Depot nursery seduced me. I purchased many blooming, good-smelling things and the terra cotta pots to go with them. I hummed all the way home, changed into some grubby clothes, and planted three pots of basil, some sage, thyme, red and yellow ranunculus, a happy red geranium, marigolds, small yellow roses, and a flowering cactus thingie.

I finished potting, swept the sidewalk, cleaned the dirt from under my nails, and arranged the pots artistically in front of my new apartment. I was about to sigh with deep satisfaction when my city-girl side said, Someone is going to steal these cheery little babies the minute you turn around, dearling. I frowned. Then my sunny optimistic side interrupted, Oh, shut up. Strangers give you directions, people offer their seats to pregnant women, five people held doors open for you just today. People are basically good. Why would anyone steal your precious flowers? I set my chin, watered carefully, and went inside to primp for an evening out.

When I got back home, they were gone–every last pot. People are bad, and I no longer like them.

Moist

I was out shopping recently and decided to buy a coat. I took it up to the counter, and the cashier proceeded to fold it. She seemed a little absent, and stared forward as she worked. I was about to look away uncomfortably, but then I noticed something. A long thread of saliva was stretching from her lower lip. Time slowed as it extended from her mouth to form a small, moist pool on my new coat. She put it in a bag, and handed it to me. I inhaled, and took the bag between two fingers. She told me the price, which I paid, and then she handed me the receipt. I said, Thank you! a little too brightly and left.

Overheard

A group of old guys meets at the corner coffee shop every morning around 7 a.m. Today, they discussed pop culture:

Old Guy 1: Do you like the “Cybil”? The T.V. show? “Cybil”?

OG2:They’re not making it any more.

OG3: It’s in syndication.

OG1: No, it’s on the Oxygen.

OG2: Who’s on oxygen?

All: Heheheheheheheheheheh.

OG2: Ohhhh Lord.

THIS MORNING

A woman in a white Hazmat suit sprays down the sidewalk in front of the Castro theater.
The train smells like pepper.
A church sign reads, “Join us, pray for America.” Two men are seated on the steps below the sign. Their heads are bowed, hands in their laps. It takes me a moment to realize they’re sleeping.
A huge black garbage can overflows with blossoming branches.
A group of old women are talking on the sidewalk. The shortest one holds her cigarette like a joint.

A SMALL, GOOD THING

“We realize some of you may now defect, and while we wish you well, we also spit on your backs.” The Morning News just relaunched. Take a moment.