Wednesday, September 21, 2011


Today was like I was describing to my friend Lars, similar to the time I took half a Zoloft for test anxiety: within one day I became enclosed in a bottle - with fluid in it, unable to hear, see nor feel clearly my surrounding world. I wondered who would want to feel that way, no matter how much anxiety they might want to conquer.

But more than that, it was like someone else's detached dream. Although it was generally pleasant lunching with my friend and strolling on a rare and unseasonably warm SF day, it was still someone else's day.

Then the magik happened: as we got in the normally extended ordering line at UNNAMED EXPENSIVE HIPSTER MICROBREW COFFEE - and not even the longest I've seen there - we were discussing what to get, and we finally settled on a mocha which we knew was so overpriced we would split it and consume it on site. The instant our decision was made the place fell silent for a mere fraction of a second - and the next loud words out of the barista boy's mouth were: WOULD ANYBODY LIKE A FREE MOCHA FOR HERE? lifting a cup into the air. The even weirder part - we were the only ones to raise our hand in a line of twelve people. I stepped out of the quiet line to the front to take it from him before he changed his mind, and drifted directly to a table where Lars and I sat in amazement for a second before having a taste to make sure this really happened.

It was definitely the real deal, the coveted Mocha from U.E.H.M.C. It wasn't flawed in production, tainted or defective in any way at all. Correct temperature, cocoa sweetness and froth consistency, not to mention the usually intricate foam decor.

The young people who frequent this place always stand in line very patiently. They turn to have conversations with their friends or other folks behind them with the knowledgable resignation that their sacrifice is a necessity which will ultimately yield the exquisite and exclusively appropriate cup of java.

We shared and terminated it with glee, and conversed over it for longer than I'd done in a while, taking up the tabled seating for an extended period of time.

Sunday, March 06, 2011


A phone line - texting number? - where you can call and spew all your nastiest hatred for someone/something which has been percolating inside your deepest recesses for the longest time.

Have no guilt! Just lay it on me, baby, for a mere $6.66 per call. This would relieve the most pent-up do-gooder liberals who have no such other un-PC outlet, unlike neo-cons who apparently know how to express themselves much more freely in this manner on a judgemental daily basis.

Do this before we adopt euro-like anti-hate-speech laws, as it looks like we are long overdue.

Undecided if some of the proceeds should go to some worthy cause somewhere else, considering my current placement as a good recipient.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Night Cuts

I keep waking up with cuts and scratches on my face - when I've slept alone.

Wondering what the story was...