I was at work later than usual last night, and I knew I had to run to Safeway for some groceries and Petco for some dogfood when I got home. I got home at 6:45, gave love to Pepi and Los Dos for a few minutes, then ran out the door at 6:55, because for some reason I am obsessed with not missing Judge Judy at 7:30 EVER. EVER! Somehow, I made it to Petco, Safeway and back in 30 minutes (pretty amazing on my part!) and pulled into the driveway at 7:25.
Unfortunatley, as I pulled in, I saw Miss Millie leaning on the apartment balcony overlooking my front porch. This means trouble, because Miss Millie loves to CHAT CHAT CHAT, and she also loves to have me come up and help her with something (like getting a pot down, or getting something out of the trunk of her car). So I load up with about half the grocery bags and head for the front door. Of course, as soon as I hit the front walkway, Miss Millie says "Oh Hah There! How we doin' tonite?" Usually I am not good about shutting down the conversation, but my Judge Judy obsession has gotten so out of control that I said to her "I've got five minutes to get these groceries inside and get Judge Judy on." I drop the first load just inside the front door and run down the walkway to the car, and run back to the porch with the rest of the groceries, and as I run up the front steps, Mildred says to me: "You're runnin' for the Judge!"
The night went on to be excellent. I made chicken taquitos and guacamole for dinner, Survivor had to be one of the best ones ever (how dumb can James be to not play either of his two immunity idols!) and Kathy Griffin's new special was on (I know, very gay of me, but still) and it was high-larious. Oh, and in fantasy football, I have to win this week to make the playoffs, and my opponent had Brett Favre playing, and he went out in the second quarter with an elbow injury! So I am already up 18 to 2. Good night all around it was.
Let me preface this post by saying that the following incident involved the absolutely worst bad breath i have ever, ever, ever smelled. also, i am missing judge judy to compose this post, so i hope this demonstrates a newfound devotion to my blog. also boo to america for not keeping jenny garth on dancing with the stars.
it is wednesday night. night before thanksgiving. this year it's just me and tony here on apgar street for thanksgiving. i'm making a small, simple thanksgiving dinner. roast cornish game hens with wild rice and mushroom stuffing, and an acorn squash gratin. i thought i'd go ahead and make the gratin tonight, since i got home by four. did all the work, all set to pop in the oven and i realize i am out of aluminum foil. i thought i'd just walk down to the corner, to al awdi's market, but their foil is paper thin (Western Family brand) and when i looked down the street towards the store, there was a pretty unsavory group hanging around outside. so i decide to make the quick drive over to longs drug.
ok. so i get to longs. not too crowded. i get my foil. i head up to the one open register and get in line. there are two people ahead of me. the first one is checked through. the line behind me has suddenly gotten long. the cashier is ringing up the young asian woman ahead of me, who is buying a can of pumpkin pie mix and a box of brown sugar. then someone taps my shoulder, saying "excuse me babe, i need to get by." it is this short, older black woman, in a pork pie hat with really bad breath. i don't know why she thinks she gets to cut ahead of me, but me being me, i don't utter a word. so the asian lady is rung up and on her way. pork pie pulls out a receipt and puts it on the counter.
"i left my baco bits," she says.
"excuse me?" says the cashier.
"i bought some baco bits but i think i left them on the counter" says porkpie
the cashier proceeds to do a quick hand and eye scan of her register area. no baco bits. but there is a box of tampax and a duraflame log.
pork pie has her receipt out on the counter and keeps pointing at it, saying she didn't get her baco bits.
the cashier is looking at her receipt and says, "you didn't buy no baco bits."
pork pie: "i did buy baco bits. it's right here on the ticket."
cashier points to the receipt: "you got cake mix, cake mix, sugar. total seven nineteen."
pork pie studies the receipt for a minute, then tucks it back in her jacket pocket.
pork pie: "oh shoot, i must have done got the baco bits at walgreen's and left them there"
then pork pie turns to me, directly behind her in line and says:
"life in the fast lane!"
and i almost melt from the horrific odor of her breath.
I went to do some grocery shopping at Safeway last night (Tony requested Mexican Chicken Soup and I highly recommend Ina Garten's recipe for it on foodtv.com). Upon my return, as usual, I transferred all the grocery bags from the car to the front porch. Then I opened the security door and the front door, and bent down and transfer the bags from the porch into the house. As I was doing this last night, excitement occurred!
On the right side of my house is a four-unit, ugly pink 1970's West Oakland style apartment building. Between my house and the apartment buliding, there is a fence, and on the other side of the fence a narrow driveway that runs between my house and the apartment buliding. So I am doing the porch to entry hall bag transfer, and I see Barry with a flashlight walking down the driveway towards the rear of the apartment building. About 30 seconds later, I notice Barry come back up the driveway and then turn left, walking down the street towards his house. Then I hear the BANG BANG BANG BANG (pause) BANG BANG of gunshots. It sounded like it was right next to me. It scared the willy wonka out of me. I swear I had a borderline heart attack. I immediately jumped into the house and pulled both doors shut, then ran to the living room window to see what I could see, which was nothing. Of course I immediately thought "someone shot Barry!" because he had just rounded the corner onto the street right when the gunshots went off, and they sounded like they were that close.
I was watching the street, but there was no activity, no cars, noone running away from the scene. This is mean, to put it mildly, but I have to admit I was kind of hoping someone shot Barry. He's a real asshole and he has lots of enemies, so it kind of makes sense. I know that's really cruel. I'm sorry. But it really seemed like a distinct possibility. So about five minutes have gone by. I decide I need to go outside and look at the sidewalk - I am fully expecting to see Barry sprawled out dead or dying. Everyone else in the neighborhood is behind closed doors, lights off. Luckily Tony isn't home, he'd never allow me to go outside just five minutes after hearing gunshots. I open the front door and tread down my front walk, to where I can peer down the street in the direction I saw Barry last. And there he is, standing on the sidewalk talking to someone in a car and pointing down the street. Alive!
I headed back for the front door, just as I heard Miss Cassie coming out of her gound level, front apartment in her bathrobe. I listened through my security door as she asked Barry what happened. He said something about some guys up the street, I couldn't really make it out. About five minutes later, three police cars cruised slowly up and down the street and then took off. Then it was time for Judge Judy.
I've been commuting to and from work on BART for about 12 years now, and I've witnessed many personal grooming rituals on the train, mostly clipping of fingernails (yuck) and application of makeup. On yesterday's commute home, I witnessed a first.
I was sitting in the first front facing seat (the one that is up against the elderly/disabled seat next to the door that faces the center of the car). An immensly built black guy (not fat, just tall and broad - a big guy), sat in the elderly seat next to the door, so he was basically three feet away from me, if that. He had on a newer suit, but it was one of those cheap ones you see in the stores in the Mission - shiny black with a textured mini-basket weave pattern, and an white open collar shirt, new, but very cheap shoes. So he sits down and makes a call - leaves a lenghty voicemail for a woman named "baby doll," with lots of "I'd like to see you again baby" and "it's been too long baby" and "we should get together for a drink some night, baby." The train was only about half full, and everyone heard this long, cheesy message. He seemed, in general, quite taken with himself.
So we enter the tube heading for Oakland, and about halfway through, he takes out a toothbrush and toothpaste, and starts brushing his teeth! I was pretty immersed in reading my book, so it took me a minute to figure out what was going on. I heard this vigorous brushing sound, and at first thought it was the train, But then I looked up, and there is this giant black man in his shiny suit brushing his teeth in the transbay tube. Ane he was quite a voracious brusher. The excess foam that he was generating at the sides of his mouth was periodically wiped off with a paper towel, but he never stopped brushing. He brushed all the way through the tube, through the West Oakland stop, through 12th Street/City Center, and right into 19th Street station. At 19th street, when the doors opened, he ran over to the open door and spit out everything. He sat back down, wiped his mouth with the paper towel, wiped off the toothbrush, and put them in his bag. We are talking about a 15 minute long tooth brushing session. Then he pulled out a tube of something, some sort of cream or lotion, and applied it to his (shaved/bald) head. He spent about 5 minutes vigorously rubbing this white cream into his scalp, then sat back and started to dial another call, just as the train pulled into MacArthur and I had to get off.
I wish I had the nerve to take a picture of this guy brushing his teeth, but of course I didn't.
I don't generally like to post about my many interactions with the homeless folks on my daily trudge up and down third street fin the city rom the bart station to work, but given that the Chronicle is doing all this front page coverage of the homeless problem lately, and soliciting reader experiences, So I've been reading lots of the commentary, and I tend to fall in with the majority - about as liberal as the come, way sympathetic with people's situations, but at a point where it can be pretty unbearable at times. Mainly what gets me is the people that really should not be out on their own - obviously mentally unstable and a danger to themselves and others.
I got off the BART train yesterday at Montgomery and headed up Market towards Third Street. I get off the train in SF at about 7:20am, so the streets are not very crowded yet. I see this homeless woman with a dirty blanket draped over her shoulders walkling briskly in my direction, staring creepily right into my eyes as she rapidly approahces. I'm expecting the usual "spare change" request, but when she gets up close, and I mean close, she leans in, her eyes are locked on mine, and she starts crazily and rapidly peppering me with questions:
"Where is the location?"
"Tell me where to go!!!!"
"I need to know - Where is the location???"
"Which way should I go?"
I'm still walking and she is running along beside me, staring into my eyes and yelling at me.
"Tell me which way to go!!!" she pleads.
So I pointed back at the entrance to the BART station, telling her to go down there. But that didn't satisfy her.
She still kept up at my side, "Where is the location? Where is the location?" This has gone on for about half a block, and I am walking pretty fast and she is having trouble keeping up. This is when she changes to a much louder (and I have to say scarier) plea:
"DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME!!! WHY DOES EVERYONE WALK AWAY FROM ME???? COME BAAAAACK!!"
Just at that point, an older woman is passing me going in the other direction, head down, trying to get by safely and get to work. The crazy woman turns on her, and as I round the corner onto Third, I see the older woman walking briskly, with her head down, the crazy woman at her side screaming "WHERE IS THE LOCATION???"
O lny srmat poelpe can raed tihs.
i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.
Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? Yaeh and I aw lyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!
Walkiing to work this morning down third street, 7:20am and I see a really disgusting puddle of vomit. Pea green and very watery, with little chunks of something in it. That on it's own was disgusting enough. But there were four pigeons standing in the puddle happily (well, maybe I shouldn't assume they were happy) pecking away at the puddle. My first feeling was of deep empathy for the poor pigeons, but that quickly turned to complete disgust. Man, I was grossed out, and these urban deposits don't usually phase me. So I am glad I am not a pigeon.
Now I am at work, and for some reason I am in a very upbeat mood. Oddly more happy than usual about the weekend coming up. I think the rain makes me happy;. I finally decided to sign up for the GLTF's east bay mixed doubles 7.0 team, so I am looking forward to that as well. I love my new Yonex tennis racquets. Survivor starts tonight. I guess throw all that together and I'm more happy than usual. Only problem is it is only 9:15am on Thursday. I made a promise to get more photos on my blog, and during my vacation I tried, but for some reason now the macbook doesn't recognize the camera anymore.
Remember Pancho and Lucha? The wet stranded nearly newborn kittens (that's them in above, next to the palm of my hand). Well, they have morphed into Opi and Isabella and are happliy ensconced and spoiled by a very nice, well-to-do gay couple on the peninsula. And this is them now (I hope Jeff doesn't mind me posting his picture):
And I'm not talking about my loveable little Yaris.
I thought I should get this in writing so I would havce at least a couple witnesses should I be found with a bullet through my back or a tire iron (more likely) embedded in my skull. Well, I'm probably being a little over dramatic, but still.
Let's start with Barry. Barry is the guy who lives on my street, in a rented basement in the pink house about 4 houses down from me. I have a wierd history with Barry. He is not, to say the least, a friendly guy. Barry doesn't work. He spends a lot of the time on the street, talking with people. But if he is talking to my neighbor Walter and I happen to arrive, and Walter says hi or starts talking to me, Barry will go erect on me. Not his penis. He holds his hands stiffly behind his back, raises his head skyward and just stares straight up/ahead and does not speak, make eye contact, or in any way acknowledge me while I am still on the scene. It's fine, I don't take offense. He either dislikes me for some reason, which may or may not be the color of my skin. I've certainly never done anything to make him dislike me. When we first moved in in 2000, I'd see him on the street a lot and I attempted a few hellos, but always got the same treatment. Barry actually seems like a pretty good guy. The neighbors seem to enjoy talking with him. He does auto repair (on the street) for people at bargain prices. When OVNI's car broke down, he even fixed it for practically free. He cleans the entire street every day, picks up trash, sweeps, etc. The entire street - except for the exact 35 feet of street in front of my house. I get the message Barry.
But at one point about 3 years ago, Barry suddenly started talking to me. I was walking down my front steps in my head to toe nike tennis attire, tennis bag over my shoulder, heading out to my regular tuesday night match. I see Barry on the other side of the street tinkering with a car. As I am putting my tennis bag in my truck, he comes over and goes into this diatribe about how just because he is black, I shouldn't assume he can't play tennis. He could beat my ass on a tennis court anytime. I am summarizing here, but he goes on for quite a bit about how good he is at tennis and how just because I am white doesn't mean I am a better tennis player. And then he says we should play some time. I say sure. Then for the next few weeks, every time he sees me, he calls out about why am I afraid to take him on, am I afraid to meet him on the courts, etc. I always am polite and say "we should definitely play sometime." Then after a couple of weeks of this, he stopped speaking to me completely again. And hasn't spoken a word to me since. Whatever, Barry.
So back to the story. As I said, Barry does auto repair. He also "owns" about ten completely beat up, barely running or not at all running cars that line most of one side of the block. These consist of a couple huge old '70s cadillacs, one with the front end entirely smashed in (like an accordion) and the other with faded paint, mismatched doors, many dents and with the front end covered in a tarp. An old pinto with the back window shot out and two flats. Then a number of cheap, small beat up toyotas and BMWs from the 80s. On street sweeping days, every other week, he moves all thes cars to the other side of the street, some by motor, some by pushing. Then he moves them all back. This has been going on for the 7 years I've lived there. Fom time to time, throughout the years, all the cars will be tagged as abandoned and towed. They're usually gone for a week or two, then suddenly, somehow, he has them all back, lining the streets.
Fast foreward to last Saturday. I'm turning onto Apgar Street about 10:30am, on my way back from weekly tennis clinic and lesson up in Berkeley. As I turn onto the street, I can see that something is up. There are about 10 police cars up and down the street, and the area around two vans is roped off with caution tape. These two particular vans were older types, I guess you'd say early 80s, with dark tinted windows and decorative stripes and other designs on the sides. I'd noticed them parked across the street from my house, about 6 houses up, for the past few weeks. As I drive by, I can see that almost all the windows of both vans have been shattered and it looks like there are bullet holes in the siding. I pull into my driveway, and get the scoop from the neighbors that about 10:00am, a car drove by the vans slowly and as it passed totally shot them up. It's pretty unusual to have a shooting at 10am on a Saturday morning, in fact, I don't think there's ever been a daytime shootiing in my neighborhood. As a matter of fact, in the past few years, having a shooting at all in the neighborhood is pretty rare. When we first moved in, in May 2000, for the first couple of years we'd hear one or two shootings a week on our street, or the surrounding streets. But in the past several years they have tapered off to practically nothing. Anyway, as the story goes, the two vans were there as sort of mobile drug dealing dens. Unfortunately,my street already has a drug dealer, and the vans were moving in on his territory, hence the lovely message that was sent via bullet.
So that's all background to the point of this story. A few days later, maybe on Tuesday or Wednesday, I am walking home from the BART station at the end of the day. I round the corner off of Lusk onto Apgar, and as usual, I see Barry there across the street from my house, working on one of his cars. But I also see a tall white guy, dressed very casually in jeans and a flannel shirt standing a bit farther down the street, looking around in all directions. It seems like he is looking at me and heading my way. Hermit that I am, with absolutely no desire to strike up a conversation with someone, I lower my head, stare straight ahead at my target, the front door, and pick up my pace. Just as I'm hitting my front steps, I hear behind me "excuse me, do you live here?"
I turn around, and it is the tall white guy. I say yes, I live here, and he says he is with Mayor Dellums office and can he ask me a few questions. Of course I can see Barry slyly keeping an eye on the two of us. Basically he says that the Mayor is concerned about the big daytime shooting right next to a schoolyard (do they know that the school has been closed for two years?) and wants to know what I've heard about it. I tell him I heard it was a battle for drug turf, but I don't know anything at all about who. Then he starts to ask about all the "abandoned" and "junked" cars on the street. At this point I realize that Terry is no longer where he was watching us, but is now coming out of his apartment and heading towards one of the few cars of his that run. So I go into full ventriloquism mode, saying without moving my lips "I can't talk about the cars right now." The guy says, "hey, we just want to get this street cleaned up and getting rid of all these cars is a good step." Still not moving my lips (I think there may be a spot for me on America's Got Talent!) I say "See that guy in the BMW, they are all his, but you didn't hear that from me" Now Barry has driven off, so I feel a little safer. He says he understands, that is why he is dressed to blend in, he knows that people don't want to be seen talking to people from the mayor's office or the police. We chat a bit more about the cars, I tell him, honestly, that the cars don't really bother me and that Barry has nothing to do with drugs or drinking or any criminal activity at all, and as a matter of fact he keeps an eye out for trouble and even completely cleans the street every morning with a broom and a dustpan. So the guy leaves.
A couple weeks later, I come home from work, and there are two police cars parked. They are taking down all the info on Barry's cars, so it looks like they are going to all be towed. Then I see Barry come out of his basement apartment and start talking to the cop who remained sitting in his car. It gets pretty heated for a while, I can't hear the exact words, but I can hear that Barry is pretty upset. Gradually the conversation quiets down, but I can tell they are still talking. I take breaks from dinner prep to keep checking on the situation (looking out my living room window), and he must have talked to the cop for 30 or 40 minutes. And sure enough, days go by, and the cars never get towed. to be continued....
All of the gays get the question from almost everyone they get to know, eventually: when did you know? I think most of us probably answer instinctually that we've "always known," which I guess is true in a way, but based on my own experience, for most of the early years it was more a knowledge of what I didn't want and who I wasn't than what I did want and who I was. I do have that golden moment when it all hit me in an instant, but we'll get to that later. For now we'll focus on my early years, what I think of as my "pre-Fat Farmer" days.
I knew from pretty early on that I wasn't like most of the other boys. At the time I don't think I was really conscious of it, but it was clear I was on a different path. It's not like I was playing dress up with my mom's clothes or playing with dolls - I never had any interest in any of that - it was more subtle. While all the boys in the neigborhood were into skateboarding, I prefered roller skates. While my brother and the neighborhood gang were building ramps and doing death-defying leaps on their boards, I was off to the side spinning circles and coreographing routines on my skates. All the boys wanted dirt bikes and I wanted a ten-speed. At recess, while the boys all went off to play an aggressive game of "socko," I preferred to hang out on the swings and monkey bars with the girls, or even worse, to play "house" under the trailers with Susan Garza and her friends. Of course, I never played the dad, I was usually the dog, or a son. I like to think that I wasn't the type of kid that everyone pointed at, saying "that kid is going to be gay." And I think that for the most part, I wasn't sticking out like a sore pink thumb. And I certainly didn't spend my years at Lafayette Elementary school fantasizing over boys - it's just that I didn't do it over girls, either, ever.
There are memories of "moments," though. I still clearly remember the funny feelings I had at one cub scout swim party. It was going to be at Chip McNeil's house. I don't think it really registered with me at the time, but looking back, Chip McNeil was one of the most beautiful - and popular boys in third grade. Actually, he was the hot guy from first grade all the way through high school, where he was prom king. Believe me, after I knew what I was after, Chip was a frequent flyer in my fantasy world. But back in third grade, I obviously didn't have any sexual feelings towards Chip. I wasn't "in love" with him, I didn't want to kiss him, or anything like that. But I do remember how I just wanted to be with him. I wanted him to like me, to be my friend, but for the most part, Chip and his gang steered pretty clear of me. But thanks to the cub scouts, he was forced to spend this tuesday afternoon with me. And since he and I were the only two from Lafayette Elementary in our cub scout group, our moms had agreed that I'd walk home from school with Chip, to his house, for the pool party. And boy, was I excited about this. If I remember correctly, it wasn't a lively conversation we were having. A little small talk, but Chip didn't seem nearly as excited as I was. Looking back, I'm sure he complained to all his friends about having to hang out with me after school, as I am sure he also made clear that this was being forced on him.
Things got really wierd in my mind when we got to the McNeil's house. None of the other scouts were there yet, but Mrs. McNeil suggested that we go up to Chip's room and change into our swim suits. We got upstairs to Chip's room and he closed the door. We looked at each other, and something was going on with me. To this day, I can't describe the feeling, but something about the prospect of getting naked with Chip was doing wacky things to me. I was scared. I was curious. I was happy. I was nervous. I wanted it to happen, but I didn't want it to happen. And it honestly wasn't that I was excited about being naked with him. I didn't pop a little boner or anything. I was simply excited that this step, getting naked with Chip McNeil, would mean we were friends. It would make me closer to him than I had been to any of my other friends. I mean my best friend Rick Blakeny and I never changed in front of each other. I'd never seen Rick naked. So this was big time for me! And it seemed like this moment lasted for ages. Each of us gripping our swim suit, looking at each other, avoiding looking at each other, waiting for the other to start undressing. And then it happened. Chip said I could use the bathroom down the hall to change and he would change in his room. I'm not sure what I felt, but I know I felt sad. And when he shut his bedroom door as I headed down the hall to the bathroom, it was the first of many doors to shut on my prospects for happiness in the years to come.
That takes us through the third grade. And the Chip McNeil incident pretty much sums up what being "gay" at that age meant for me. It was confused in my mind with being popular, with being accepted by the popular boys (who of course, though I didn't register this at the time, were all the most attractive boys). It's like the gayness was living under the guise of popularity. Consciously, I wanted to be part of the "in" crowd, while subconcsiously I wanted the in crowd to embrace me - literally! So the very thing that was driving my need to be popular was the exact thing that was driving them away from me, making me toxic to them. How is an 8 year old supposed to deal with this mess? And to think there are people who say we choose this.
