Monthly Archives: August 2002

pigeons (again)

another entry about pigeons seems a little excessive, but life knows nothing about my blogging…
i was walking home from BART yesterday, minding my own business, when suddenly i heard the familiar sound of a pigeon in distress. i’m used to this sound by now, given my previous close encounter with these avian feces peddlers. what are the odds that i should have two pigeon close encounters in as many weeks?

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terror in the classroom

you would think that after about 50 years in lower and higher education, a classroom would be as comfortable to me as a pair of well-worn slippers. tonight i attended a creative writing class at the Community College of San Francisco (CCSF), and found that engineering school did not completely inoculate me against stage fright.

i’ve been talking (and talking and talking) about my desire to be a writer. it’s a broken record i play regularly with some measure of self-loathing, mad at myself for never having really tried. so, when i had lunch with bernie today and he told me about this creative writing class in our neighborhood, i figured i’d give it a whirl. put my money where my mouth is. if not now, when?

this was a clear case of nice, clean logic that flies in the face of muddy reality…

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knob twiddling

the format of the primary landing page has been changed. given that i am prone to diarrhea of the keyboard, i have decided to conserve bandwidth on the splash page by only presenting teasers. this also allows quick perusal to find notes of interest (if any).

if a hue and cry is raised by my thousands of loyal readers to return to the old way of doing things, well, i guess i will…

we now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

the cardboard-box man

i see him every few weeks, sometimes more. he drives a pale, metallic green american car from the 70s. his back is stooped with age, his face hidden behind coke-bottle glasses. he’s usually wearing a powder blue leisure suit, or the equivalent, something he’s probably worn for the last 30 years…
when i see him, he’s always moving slowly and deliberately, intent on his singular mission – cardboard-box recycling.

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blah blah blah

paranoia is beginning to set in. i’m beginning to think that my social skills are degrading into near uselessness, that i talk too much and too eagerly when i spend time with friends, and that they are launching a plot to have my mouth surgically sealed to prevent further air pollution.

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the first one is free

as if there aren’t enough temptations…

this weekend was particularly debaucherous, at least, gastronomically speaking. friday night, niman ranch steak at Home (the restaurant, not the place). saturday night, monkfish and kobe beef cheeks at Watergate (the restaurant, not the hotel or scandal). sunday afternoon, burgers at in-and-out (the burger joint, not the act), followed by the thing most cherished by police and the american obese alike: krispy kreme donuts.

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the amazing mosquito

anyone who is familiar with my sleeping habits will tell you that it almost takes an act of god (or some other suitable deity) to get me out of bed. apparently, mosquitoes work, too.

a few nights ago, i was awakened in the deep, dark night by that all-too-familiar eeeeeeeeeeee sound – you know, the feeding call of your friendly neighborhood mosquito. i flailed my arms around, trying to swat my nemesis, but it was all in vain. it might veer away for a few moments, but it always came back, homing in on the precious territory right above my ear. i tried hiding under the covers, but i could still hear it, hovering on the other side of my grey flannel shield. pretty soon, i felt like my whole body was crawling with unwanted visitors; every little itch or twinge became a harbinger of bites to come.

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