A New Kind of Sick

I always loved the beauty of San Francisco - the architecture, the craziness of the streets, the weather - and yet, after being here for six months now, it's weird how you start to take things for granted. Since it got cold, I stopped exploring different parts of the city, content to embrace the daily things that were familiar to me - particularly the walk up Mason to work, and then down Polk Street in the evenings on my way home, past all the tweakers in the different doorways, stopping a few times a week at Nick's Crispy Tacos, but not interested in branching out anymore.

Wednesday night though, I hiked over to the Fillmore. I have a bunch of new stories running through my head, and as I try and work through the particulars, going on long walks are the perfect remedy. At first it seemed like a journey, but once I got moving, it was a piece of cake. Just like Polk from Broadway to Chestnutt, and Union Street down in the Marina, Fillmore is filled with all kinds of cool cafes, restaurants, and boutiques - not to mention interesting people, and the further along I went, the more my adrenaline kicked in, and I just had this surge of feelings take over me, a catharsis really, and I haven't felt this good in weeks.

This morning, it looked like it was going to rain, even though it's back to being warm again, and yet, when I started up Mason, past the Fairmont and the Mark Hopkins, as I turned to the downtown area, and saw the Transamerica Building and the Bay Bridge and the ocean in the horizon, I was struck with this tingle down my spine, and was just overwhelmed with the physical beauty of the city. The maroon and purple in the sky, the architecture of the different hotels and apartment buildings, the women going to work with their scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, the Academy of Art students rushing by with their portfolios under their arms, hell, even the German tourists with their Umlauts riding the cable cars were less annoying this morning.

It's weird how you become complacent with your life once you begin to develop a routine. You work all day, then come home and have to deal with laundry, going to the supermarket, picking up prescriptions, and all the other bullshit that occupies a disproportionate amount of our time. But then when you least expect it, you notice all these little things that make it worthwhile again - or at least you tell yourself this in the moment just to feel the beauty of the world for a few seconds - and well, this morning was just so lovely.

Last night I watched Naked for the first time since 1993. This was a period when I really began to get into cinema, and my friend Greasy and I saw this film in the theatre. It was one of those classic moviehouses in Sacramento, where they only show art films and foreign stuff, and when we were ordered drinks - which I had to pay for because Greasy was so broke, the guy behind the counter asked if we'd rather have one large drink - with two straws, instead of the two separate cokes we had ordered. The suggestion was that, since it was a Saturday night, and two guys were there together watching a British film, we had to be a couple. I remember pausing for a minute and then laying into the guy, but I was loaded too, and self-conscious about making a scene, so I ended up letting him off easy. Now I look back and think how funny the comment was. Of course I was 19 then, and I'd like to think I've grown up some since then, and I'm definitely more comfortable with who I am, and have just learned to embrace the absurdity of the world. But still, the guy deserved a backhand just for being a fuckwit.

Anyway, Naked was disturbing and funny and brilliant, just like I remembered it, and yet I'm struck wondering why it took me so long to watch it again? Did I just have a negative association because of that dumb kid at the counter? Was it because the main character was so loathesome? Who knows, really, it's just weird remembering a time that doesn't seem that long ago, and then reminding myself, dear lord, it's been thirteen fucking years.

Yesterday a package arrived from my mother, which, along with various Parade Magazine articles about how to avoid the flu, as well as these pieces about "laughter" being the perfect anecdote to cure depression and ensure that we live long, healthy lives (which always strikes me as odd, considering a sharp sense of humor is one of the few things I do have), there was this article on the Sacramento rap scene, and how popular several artists were across the country. Five of the eight rappers featured in the story I know well, I mean most of these guys I grew up with, played high school basketball with, did dirt with, and it was amazing to see how famous they now are. Of course these guys are gangsters, but it was hard for me to not see through the facade of the pictures and quotes and say, dude, this guy I've known since junior high, this one was on my 4th grade soccer team, this guy used to drive me to speech and debate tournaments in his old Cutlass, this guy once saved me from getting my ass kicked at an Asian basketball league dance.

Tonight I might go see Dead Meadow at The Independent, that is if Casey comes to town as promised. If not, well, we'll figure something out. Tomorrow, I'm working on a new story, and then going to the East Bay in the afternoon. (I might even check out the Bill Viola show at the Oakland Museum, if I'm really motivated.) Sunday, well Sunday I'm sure I'll be watching a lot of football, and getting some new prints framed, and perhaps even finishing the roll of film that's been in my LC-A since the Stones concert.

That is all for now.