Pickle problems

Even though it’s mean to laugh, I couldn’t help myself.
Watch here.

Part Two

Another segment, featuring text messages from my phone:

I am aware and unafraid my slutty friend.

In therapy. I’ll call you in an hour.

You’re a whore!

Do babies and little kids sweat?

Two birds exchanging words. But are they saying anything? Poetry. You wouldn’t understand.

Thanks for having lunch with me… That was really nice.

The eagle has landed and I can smell the toilet.

Yummy La Salsa. So good.

Chickenfucker.

Smelly poo Smelly poo what are they feeding you?

Saying goodbye is never easy

Ivana, Kate, Melissa, me

Kate has sold Café Royale, and she is off to grad school in Chicago. Sunday night she threw a private farewell party for 50 of her favorite people, and we were honored to be a part of the celebration. The food was amazing, the cake Erik made was unreal and the bar was open. Wide Open. I haven’t been that drunk in a long time. Melissa and I drank flute after flute of champagne, continuing to try and keep up with one another. The last count that I can remember was 5, although she claims 7. Either way, I know I saw three of her at some point, as I vaguely remember saying, “All of three of you need to become one again please.” We talked and laughed all night about silly, insignificant things, and enjoyed the ambience, the edibles and the impromptu jazz session. Marcus Shelby and the usual suspects arrived with their instruments and as the night wore on, some beautiful music was played. At one point we even saw Erik playing the stand up base.

Kate read a very touching speech, and included Max and I, and Melisa and Erik. It was hard to hold back the tears. She has been a real anchor in this neighborhood, and the Café has become a staple art venue for San Francisco. It is sad to see her go. But on the flipside, it is so inspirational to watch Kate work and move forward into this new chapter of her life. She is a dynamic woman, with a lot to offer the world. Observing her from the sidelines has been so informative, and perpetuates my resolve to continue this life as a creative person.

I can’t wait to see what she does next.

Photo album here.

Digital love letters

The longest day of the year

Last night I went for dinner with Deborah and Max before a Built to Spill show at Slims. I actually don’t like this band, but they do, so I decided to join them. Deborah suggested a new French restaurant near CCA called Couleur Café. The weather was amazing and warm, and we sat outside under a beautiful summer night sky. There was such a good vibe, and the food was excellent. I give my meal 8.5/10. As always, Deborah told some awesome stories with the animation and excitement that (in my opinion) only a fellow Sagittarius can. There were arms flying, fingers wagging, eyes widening. She cracks me up!

The concert felt long to me, and probably longer still because of the TERRIBLE arwork slideshow the band had rolling during their performance. I’m serious. Paintings that will probably give me nightmares. I explained to Deborah that I am a late bloomer with music. After a few years of hearing Max play Coldplay I finally decided I liked them and wanted to hear more. Same thing with Modest Mouse. Same thing with Dave Matthews. Max is truly a pioneer with his musical taste, and so I really wanted to like the band and the music, but I’m afraid this did not happen.

Nonetheless, it was nice to go with them and have that fantastic dinner. Three cheers to Big D for recommending this new find! We will definitely be going back.

I loved that keychain!

“The body of my Asterix keychain is gone!”

“I found it yesterday. I can reattach it.”

“Where did you find it?”

“It was in my backpack. I have no idea how it got there.”

“You broke my Asterix keychain?!”

“I did not break it. He snapped his own neck when he heard you’ve gone vegan. Then he threw himself into my backpack for a better culinary afterlife.”

Those moments that make it ache

Whenever I get out of bed first(which is most of the time) he automatically rolls over and buries his face in my pillow. Sometimes he isn’t even awake, but it’s a natural movement somehow. He claims it’s because my pillow smells good – smells like me. I walk around the apartment quietly, getting dressed, brushing teeth, boiling the kettle. I peek into the bedroom as I’m doing all this, and watch him sleep. He looks as is to be expected: peaceful, young, angelic.

In these moments I think of how much love there is in my heart for him, and it aches a little. There is nothing better than that love. Nothing.