Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Pandora’s Box

wow, things have been quiet here at the ‘hut.  Not only are visits down, but most all of them seem to be brief, random websearchs for various weirdo stuff I’ve mentioned over the years.  Of particular interest lately: a speed racer image, the Very Berry cereal box, the Black-and-Mild cigarette box, and people searching for “schvitz Cleveland.” By repeating these phrases, I am likely to double my traffic today.  But not my readership, because I don’t think any of these folks are actually reading the site.  They’re just window-blogging - like window-shopping, but on line.  Anyway, I’m basically now doing the literary onanism thing - self-satisfaction through literature, or whatever it is I’m posting here.  I write for myself; if you’re here to read it, I hope you enjoy it.  And on that subject:

He said it was his sister’s car.

We were shopping to replace one of the old red soobs - we’d been up and down the bay, checking out any number of questionable people selling even more questionable vehicles, and I was getting pretty jaded. It had gotten to the point that I could count on being lied to, misled and tricked.  The world seemed to be full of slimeballs selling scuzzbucket cars, and we just kept our expectations low as we went from one to the next. 

My daily commute home takes me past one particular place we visited to see a car during those dark days.  Of all the sleazemongers we met during that journey of automotive inquiry, I think the guy we met that evening was the sleaziest.  In fact, I bet he’d have been proud to have won that title, that’s how sleazy he was.  He was swarthy and his skin sort of shone with a sheen of sweat and grease.  Black hair fell in gloopy shocks over his face and an anemic moustache sputtered its way under his thumb of a nose - a moustache that mostly served to accentuate his round wobbly jowls.  His eyes were dark and shifty.  A paragon of credibility was not the first thing that came to my mind when I laid eyes on him that night.

We’d arranged to meet him after work at an auto body shop on Geary between the ‘loin and the civic center, a sort of orphaned district without an actual name of its own.  I think I was sort of ‘dressed for success;’ he was in a blue-grey jumpsuit with somebody’s name stitched over the breast.  Even at the time, I doubted it was his. 

The car in question was not noteworthy in itself - another in a string of pre-owned four-door station wagons, hatchbacks and small vans. It was a bit more tired and worn-out than most that we checked out, as I recall, but it was also priced to sell.  I wanted to believe it wasn’t a deathtrap money pit.  At least, to give it the benefit of the doubt, we took it out for a spin. 

Kel sat in back, I drove, and the dude in the jumpsuit rode shotgun. We pulled into traffic neatly enough and puttered around the neighborhood for a few minutes.  I’d asked my stock question, “why is this car for sale?,” and he was telling me about his sister, how she got it for grad school and now she didn’t need it anymore, or something; he’d checked it out for her when she’d bought it a few months ago and she really hadn’t used it much since then, or something; and anyway, he was definitely telling us it was his sister’s car. So we could trust him.  I mean, he’s a brother, and all. 

We’re stopped in traffic. I ask about the paperwork on the car - registration, insurance, all that.  He pops the glove box to show me.  The plastic door drops open; several empty lowbrow beercans fall straight into his lap and roll to the floor.  Behind them tumble several familiar plastic sachets, flat and square, linked end to end - a floppy little chain of cut-rate condoms cascades in an accusatory prophylactic gesture toward his crotch. 

He giggles, embarrassed, and tries to stow the evidence, but it’s too late for that.  We’ve seen it all. And how can we buy this car from this man now?  He had proven himself, and by extension, his car, unworthy of any credibility.  After all, his sister is obviously a total slut. 

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Ocular Gluttony

Man, that was a fine long weekend for ol’ Chuckles.  I got a nap most every day, ate my fool head off, and enjoyed many sterling moments with family, friends, and good architecture.  I won’t bother you with too many words about it all because I don’t feel like writing a whole bunch right now and the photos are better evidence anyway.  But let’s start at the beginning. 

T-grabbing was a really festive event, and we made it there on time which was a matter worthy of thanksgiving all by itself.  We cruised down to S&H’s place on the ‘ninsula, which they had painstakingly coverted to child-safety-mode on Z’s behalf.  There were 9 adults, and five of us had been born outside of the US - Greece, Greece, Iran, Iran, and (East) Germany.  It was quite a cosmopolitan crowd (though my cocktail of choice was VSOP).  As evidence, we took a short stroll after supper to clear out some room for dessert, and here’s what we found at the office complex one block down:

Happy Pagan XMas!  What says “Seasons Greetings” better than larger-than-life-sized statues of Mars and that other dude with the intact equipment?  How about a huge balloon spraying beanbag chair beans around inside of it over a pair of smiling, waving Snow-Golems?  (see tiny head of young girl in foreground for scale.) Yay holidays! 

After TG, we got home and I fell asleep like a warm rock on xanax.  The next day I woke up with inexplicable energy and we went out to the mall.  Not the regular mall down by SFSU, and not the fancy downtown mall - we went to the other fancy downtown mall, the one that just opened.  It was quite the retail palace, and Z got kind of wacko running around the shiny floors under the giant old cut-glass dome.  Had he been calm enough we could have even done some shopping, but at least I saw some good design work.  I think some other stuff happened on Friday but all I really recall was seeing Born Into Brothels on a dvd that night, which wasn’t exactly your typical holiday fare but it was really good. 

Saturday morning we got up early again and took the boy down to Ft Point to burn off some energy.  This is a civil-war era fort build of bricks right at the south tip of the “golden gate” of SF Bay.  When they built the bridge, they put in a special archway to overspan this austere martial relic.  This is a spot that gets a lot of wind and rain and fog, so the bricks and iron have taken on some really cool patterns, which I have taken it upon myself occasionally to enhance with some of the ol’ Protoshop fiddlingnesses.  To wit:

(see, it’s really under the bridge!)

(holding back the bay:)

(the front door to the fort:)

(old-ass canonballs, with a little post-production magic thrown in:)

(Zachary frolicking amidst the cannonades, courtesy of Kel:)

Saturday night we saw what may have been the world’s most modest parade.  Union Street is a very fancy shopping district in the marina; they had a “Parade of Lights” this year and we went down to see it.  There were some elves on rollerblades (and a hot little elfette too), an antique fire truck with some xmas lights on it, a pickup truck with santa in the back and some lights on it and a tree on the cab, a nice old stutz or some such classic car with the “crystal snow queen” in the back (I was looking but didn’t notice any cocaine), an ordinary black car with a man in a bear suit in the back, a pickup with no lights on it, two cable cars converted into tourist busses, an antique horse ambulance, and three horses with hussar-type riders.  I think that was it.  Took about five minutes to go past.  But it was fun to see it, so no actual complaints here - just a little snarky irony for now.  Let’s see how the season pans out.  I may return to this subject if necessary for my own self-amusement.

And finally, so far as you-all are concerned, Sunday was full of small achievements and restful silences, but after Z woke up we wound up finally making the connection with our dear friend Tanja da Bomb, who was in town with a friend who was working a crafts fair.  Tanja herself was not selling her own crafts there because it was thematically inconsistent, but if you wanna get like her, just check it out here.  Meanwhile, we got a few hours to catch up and let her fall in love with young master zaq, and who can blame her?

Other than that, there was a lot going on this weekend.  I’d have to say it was mostly really cool.  Regardless, I am not feeling overly wordacious about any of it right now so the photos will have to do.  I can’t imagine it’ll really put much of a crimp in your monday to be deprived in this way.  If it starts to rankle, apply an unguent.  If it rankles bad, drop me a line.  I could use a giggle. 

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Another Stupid List

Okay, obviously, enough with that “how lovely to be part of this glorious now” crap.  You’ve had a crawful, and I’m a little tired of not being on vacation yet.  For now, I’ve got a great banquet to attend tomorrow, a bunch of errands to run on my way home from work tonight, and a quivering fistful of holiday spirit for each and every one of you. 

For your entertainment during this time of gluttony and indulgence, I offer up a list that l have spent way too much time thinking about over the past month or so:

Names that Parents Give Children to Remind Them of Where They Were Conceived (Excluding Proper Nouns):

Otis
Ferris
Booth
Davenport
Jim
Cruz
Bertha
Cab
Carson
Ally
Piers
Hall
John
Atticus
Rufus
VestiBulah
Barnaby
Lodge
Dinah
Abby
VatiKen
MIkea
Forrest
Lon
Meadow
Eartha
Bandcampia

Always a pleasure serving you.  Wipe your chin.