tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70975582010-05-04T14:24:40.791-07:00avtSquirrels.annienoreply@blogger.comBlogger584125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-69324282800312946002010-04-27T00:41:00.000-07:002010-04-27T00:41:25.674-07:00You can go home...kind of. <br /><br />I hadn't been home since September, and I wasn't home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It's strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.<br /><br />For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie's Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn't as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn't gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I'm a depressive. But if I can't be sad about this, what <I>can</i> I be sad about?<br /><br />I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don't miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because <I>this is where we go and have gone for 10 years</i>. There is always a friend there. I don't have that in SF, not even after almost three years.<br /><br />One thing I've learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years' time.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-6932428280031294600?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-68368131067815783852010-04-19T23:59:00.000-07:002010-04-20T00:00:37.081-07:00He do the librarian in different voicesThis weekend, the city felt different — foreign, almost. Maybe it was because of the sunshine and warmth, or maybe it was just that I'd been cooped up all week and was grateful to get outside for a little while. Whatever the reason, walking around felt like being somewhere else. I watched strangers dance with each other by the BART station, bought a burrito, then picked up some books from the library.<br /><br />I know this is a silly thing to notice and I'll seem vaguely anti-lady by bringing it up, but: The exterior of the library has a dozen or so authors' names carved into its stone. Dickens, Twain, so on and so forth. But what's odd is that at the bottom of one list, it says <span style="font-variant: small-caps">geo. eliot</span>.<br /><br /><a href="http://sfpl.org/index.php?pg=2000082701">The library was built in 1915</a>, the same year T.S. Eliot published <i>Prufrock</i>. I like to think that some stuffy librarian didn't like this shady T.S. Eliot character's nonsensical yip-yap, and before those names were carved, he or she rushed out to send the construction crew this message: "No, wait! Make sure it says GEORGE, so they know we aren't talking about that sexually frustrated poet!" <br /><br />In this daydream-history, the uptight librarian felt the need to tell the world that at the Mission District library, one could expect Serious Literature such as <i>Middlemarch</i> rather than looney-tunes silliness about singing mermaids and peach-eating. There's probably a logical explanation behind the <span style="font-variant: small-caps">geo. eliot</span>, but this speculation is infinitely more dramatic and funny, no?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-6836813106781578385?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-63596976360327643432010-04-16T22:52:00.000-07:002010-04-16T22:52:28.396-07:00Next girlIt has been quite a week. Regular-ish updates to resume shortly. <br /><br />In other news: I am participating in the 826 Valencia 5-Minute Volunteer Reading Series next week. I'm tired of suffering for my art. It's your turn.* The event is at Amnesia on Tuesday, 7pm. To be followed by an excursion to the monthly emo night, because as we all know, nothing says "party" like listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. See you then.<br /><br />*Good writers borrow, great writers steal. (Thanks, AS.)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-6359697636032764343?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-26188795320881403642010-04-12T22:21:00.000-07:002010-04-12T22:21:39.619-07:00Choose your own adventureI went to the café tonight. Across the room, a man sat alone with a pot of tea and a glass of water. He had no book, no phone, no newspaper, and a direct view of the door. He sat quietly and patiently and looked toward the entrance with a steady look in his eyes. It was ten to 9; he must be waiting for someone, I thought. <br /><br />Nine came and went. He remained alone, quiet, looking — not watching, <i>looking</i>. Every so often I'd glance up and he was still doing the same thing, as though waiting for something without knowing what it was. He didn't look miserable, but his face was slightly melancholy.<br /><br />So now is the part where you get to guess what happened next!<br /><br /><b>Was it...</b><br /><blockquote><br />I don't know what came over me, but I walked over to his table. "Hello," I said. "Are you waiting for someone?" (SO NOSY.)<br /><br />The man looked surprised. "No," he replied. <br /><br />"Are you all right?" I said.<br /><br />"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay." <br /><br />So I smiled and wished him a good evening. Then I trudged back to my table and felt like a royal jerk. He continued to sit and stare alone, and I returned to stringing words together.<br /></blockquote><br /><b>Or is this what happened?</b><br /><blockquote>The minutes ticked by. He removed his sweater, got up for some water, and put the sweater back on. Finally, at 9:13, his eyes focused and brightened. I followed his gaze toward the entrance, where a shortish woman in a corduroy skirt and wool jacket was dragging a suitcase behind her. Their eyes met; the world disappeared around them. When she reached his table, she cupped his face in her hand and kissed his forehead. <br /></blockquote><br />I report, you decide.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2618879532088140364?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-60607619743412982982010-04-11T23:46:00.000-07:002010-04-11T23:46:28.613-07:00When I was young and moving fast<center><img border="0" height="225" align="center" src="http://annie.newdream.net/uploaded_images/smart-798494.jpg" width="400" /> </center><br />Because I grew up in the country and have lived in cities as an adult, suburbs simultaneously fascinate and confuse me. It is strange that suburban San Francisco bears much resemblance to suburban Chicago, all chain stores and wide intersections that lead you to cloverleaf exchanges. <br /><br />Yesterday I drove to Mountain View for the first time. No mountains were viewed, but the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/13352160@N03/3999757079/">psychic cleaners</a> sign made me laugh. I saw it while driving around like a slow-witted crazy person trying to locate my destination. Found some irony in Google Maps giving wrong directions to its own town.<br /><br />I'd rented a Smart car not because it was cool, but because it cost half of what other rentals did. (Miser.) Word to the wise: If the bulk of your trip involves highway driving, you may want to rethink this plan of action. It had been a couple of years since I'd driven a Smart, and what I remembered as quirks turned out to be terrifying safety hazards.<br /><br />For instance: Most cars will shift from first to second gear rather smoothly. You press the gas pedal, it crescendos into a vroom and then gently slides into another one. Easy, seamless, fast. But in the Smart, this is the acceleration process:<br /><br />1: Press gas pedal, maybe even all the way to the floor.<br />2: Wait one second. Slightly panic when car does not respond at <i>all</i>.<br />3: Second gear kicks in.<br />4: Wait one more second, hope air bags work, and then feel the car finally thrust forward.<br /><br />Essentially, it's like working a manual transmission in slow motion, except the rest of the world isn't slowing down with you. That is some <i>Quantum Leap</i> stuff right there. <br /><br />The other thing to note with Smarts is that other drivers — especially those in Hummers and other house-sized vehicles — tend to marvel at its wee size. I caught a few drivers looking at it with peculiar expressions, but they were probably laughing at the tiny car instead of its tiny driver who was howling along to its tiny stereo. On the way home, I discovered that anything past 85 miles per hour is pushing it a little too much. (Cars are not supposed to wobble and vibrate, right?)<br /><br />Final verdict: the car was entertaining/terrifying enough for Saturday's suburban jaunt, but squeezing four grown women into a Smart (see above) provides more oh-god-we're-gonna-die thrills.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-6060761974341298298?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-10447865790864124462010-04-09T20:51:00.000-07:002010-04-09T20:51:00.014-07:00Bright skies<center> <img border="0" height="320" src="http://annie.newdream.net/uploaded_images/4497604977_224c0387cb-730784.jpg" width="320" align="center" /> </center><br />The sun is different in California. I said this to JC last year, and he didn't believe me. "The sun's the sun," he said. But when he and Alex visited and the morning light roused them, he reconsidered. Other non-Californians have said the same thing: the light is softer somehow. <br /><br />While walking around in the mornings, I like seeing how the light bounces off buildings. I enjoy watching pigeon shadows soar over sidewalks, and I love the days when the fog rolls in elsewhere but I'm standing in sunshine. <br /><br />This week has brought happy news from friends: a pregnancy, an engagement, a new job. These things made me smile, choke up a little in the good way, find a moment of quiet pride for them. "There is magic out there in the world," one commented. <br /><br />There is, and during my morning and evening walks I usually look for a little of it. Sometimes I literally stop and smell flowers, which is so maudlin, but since my dad died, I try to appreciate things like that more. And I am trying to shift my viewpoints overall. Lately I'm trying to find different perspectives by radically redecorating my room, finding new routes to familiar places, and looking at the city as though I were a visitor. I keep going back to an Einstein quote that Toby sent me a few weeks ago: <br /><br />"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."<br /><br />Monty, I'll take door number two. 2.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-1044786579086412446?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-84629230577096321732010-04-08T16:38:00.000-07:002010-04-08T16:38:11.683-07:00Life lessonsWhile walking north on Valencia just now, I saw a well-dressed woman talking to a tree. This in itself is not noteworthy, because people talk to inanimate objects more often than you might expect. <br /><br />As I got closer, I saw that she was talking to a boy, maybe five years old, who had climbed the tree and wedged himself into a crook of the tree. He was wearing brown corduroys, a striped t-shirt, a devilish smile, and a light blue bicycle helmet. (No bicycle nearby.) He had a bad case of the giggles. <br /><br />"Now _______," his mother said as I approached. "What do we always say is the most important thing to remember?"<br /><br />The boy paused to think for a moment. Then, in all earnestness: "DON'T POOP IN YOUR PANTS." <br /><br />I burst out laughing, the mother sighed, the boy looked vaguely confused, and we all carried on with our afternoons.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-8462923057709632173?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-74648818222760519412010-04-06T23:59:00.000-07:002010-04-07T00:09:40.492-07:00Magic mind control!So I have this running joke that if you complain about something, it magically gets better. For instance, if you tolerate a noisy car alarm for a while and then grouse about it, it somehow stops honking the second you finish your sentence. Sounds silly, but time and time again, voicing a well-timed and valid complaint seems to work. (This belief has been proven so often that one of my colleagues says that I control the world with my mind. I wish.)<br /><br />But:<br /><br />While we were walking down Guerrero tonight, Craig found a file folder holder on the street. "Crazy," he said. "Just yesterday I was saying I need one of these." So he picked it up. <br /><br />Then, as Meg and I were discussing the home organizer's belief that our new feng shui-ed out kitchen setup would bring more money into our lives, we stumbled upon some cash on the sidewalk. (Meg used it to leave a generous tip at the ice cream parlor.)<br /><br />Yesterday, I said that I wanted a cupcake; an hour later, Sabrina, not knowing of my cupcake lust, IMed me to say that I should come over and grab one of the treats she'd baked. Bingo! Cupcakes. Today, I wished I had a better umbrella because mine is broken, and one randomly arrived in the mail. <br /><br />I don't believe in <I>The Secret</i> and all of that new agey manifestation stuff, but I do love odd coincidences like this. Tomorrow, I will wish for Ryan Gosling and Kate Moennig to deliver a bucket of kittens. Will provide updates when this inevitable event goes down.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-7464881822276051941?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-74532973595249185762010-04-05T23:11:00.000-07:002010-04-05T23:18:04.128-07:00From beneath you it devours<img border="0" src="http://annie.newdream.net/uploaded_images/lady-786020.jpg" /><br />Tonight, down in the bowels of Powell Street station, a very skinny woman with wild hair and wilder eyes was talking with a man. Talking at him, more accurately, because he had that polite but uncomfortable "mm-hmm" face. The thought bubble above his head read "Please, god, get me out of here." <br /><br />She wanted money and, as you might guess, he did not want to give any to her. "Give me a dollar and I'll go away," she bellowed. She had a voice like a dying bullhorn. He tried to reason with her. "Gimme a dollar!" she continued. His train arrived and he darted away. <br /><br />The woman slowly spun around on her bird-legs, her glazed eyes scanning the crowd of people. The trains were running late (thanks, MUNI) so the platform was more crowded than usual. As she made her way toward the bench where I was sitting, I stood up real casual-like and quietly walked about 10 feet away. It felt like backing off from a puma while wearing a coat made of filet mignon. <br /><br />The woman accosted two more people before coming my way. She almost didn't; she walked past me, then turned back to begin her pitch. She stood maybe 18 inches away from me, a little closer than I like most people to be. Up close, her face was even sadder. It was gaunt, deeply wrinkled, and pained. There was an inch-wide gap where four of her bottom teeth should have been. Even covered with a layer of glassiness, the bright blue of her eyes hinted at past beauty. <br /><br />Here we go, I thought. <br /><br />"Hey, miss! You can help me," she said. "I need money."<br /><br />"I'm sorry, but I can't help you," I replied.<br /><br />"You know what your problem is? You can help me but you don't want to give me your money," she yelled. (She had a point.)<br /><br />She started sticking her index finger in my face. "I'll tell you what's wrong with you," she ranted. "You won't help me and you're dirty inside, sick soul, sick sick soul! You don't listen to me but I can see where you're going, I see the darkness in you. You can help me and you won't, you black heart."<br /><br />A smarter person would have just let that ride, but having witnessed her badger that man, I realized that being polite would get me nowhere. So I decided to pull the alpha female card and hope that there wasn't a shiv hiding in her sweatshirt.<br /><br />"I'm sorry that I can't help you, and I'm sorry that you've got me all wrong," I said in a loudish and firm voice. "Please leave me alone now." <br /><br />She glared at me. "I see where you're going and it's a bad place," she hissed. "You have no idea what you're in for." Then she wandered off to approach the next person. <br /><br />A pretty woman a few feet away gave me a sympathetic look. "Cheese on Aeron," she said, shaking her head. <br /><br />"I'm sorry, what?"<br /><br />"Cheese on Aeron."<br /><br />I still couldn't understand, and I began to wonder if I was actually having a nutty dream about gouda and Herman Miller. So I asked her to repeat herself again. <br /><br />"She's. On. Air-o-in." The woman tapped her arm.<br /><br />Ohhhhh. Right. "Sad," I said. <br /><br />"I know," said the pretty woman.<br /><br />I didn't regret not giving the scrawny woman money, because, well, it was clear she needed a fix. I did feel sorry for her, though. My train came soon after she disappeared into another part of the station. On the way home I wondered how she wound up being who she is. She was a little girl once, I thought, and this cannot be how she imagined her life. How does a person go from one point to another to this?<br /><br />Then I thought about the <a href="http://annie.newdream.net/2009/10/and-i-guess-that-i-just-dont-know.html">heroin-kicking taxi driver</a>, as I often do when a cab blows by. Is he staying clean? Is he struggling? Does he imagine that a stranger is quietly wishing that he'll make it? The answers will never reveal themselves, but tonight I hoped that he sees where he's going, and it's a good place.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-7453297359524918576?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-42844577295513801692010-04-03T23:28:00.000-07:002010-04-03T23:35:20.172-07:00The purgeEarlier this week, my roommate brought in a personal organizer to help her with her office and bedroom. Or maybe the woman should be called an organizing expert. I don't know what the official job title is, but the end result is a much tidier space. Looking at Meg's freshly neatened closet made me glare at my own disastrously messy one. In my defense, mine is pretty Lilliputian. Still. <br /><br />Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.<br /><br />In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.) <br /><br />Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008. <br /><br />Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.<br /><br />I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them. <br /><br />As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-4284457729551380169?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-20862507998381335212010-04-01T23:53:00.000-07:002010-04-01T23:58:01.768-07:00Languor rises, reaching<img border="0" src="http://annie.newdream.net/uploaded_images/lookup-705648.jpg" align="center" /><br />After work, I decided to take the train to 16th Street. It was a bit of a roundabout way to get home, but when the sun stays out later than it used to, you might as well enjoy it. My little limp comes out if it's rained recently, but the important thing is to keep walking despite the ache, and so I did. <br /><br />I have taken thousands of steps on Valencia Street, but no matter what happens there, it always reminds me of the afternoon I arrived in San Francisco. I'd been driving for days and was excited and scared to be somewhere new. Dad was in the passenger seat, taking in the details of a neighborhood he'd never seen. "I think you're going to be happy here," he said.<br /><br />"I hope so," I replied. <br /><br />Before sunset, we drove up and down the steepest parts of Russian Hill. The experience filled both of us with glee, and Dad's delighted laughter revealed a glimpse of the little boy he'd once been. Even then I knew it was a moment I'd always remember. I was freshly 29, he was 76, and while pushing our way up those inclines, we were young together.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2086250799838133521?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-38028031717910461322010-03-30T21:55:00.000-07:002010-03-30T21:55:05.199-07:00Tea for two. Or one. One.Ritual is notorious for being a Missed Connections hotspot. At any given moment, half of the people here are probably scanning the room for someone they are too scared to talk to. I can't help but think that it's weird that so many of us are too timid to say hello or merely smile. So far, I have never been a Ritual missed connection. If I were, it might go something like this:<br /><br /><I>You were the bespectacled vixen in too-tight shoes. Maybe if you hadn't tried to squeeze into a 7.5, you wouldn't look like Oliver Twist's anemic ladyfriend. Wish I'd said hello.</i><br /><br />I like coming here because I'm too lazy to walk farther, the music is usually good (not tonight, though) and the people-watching is spectacular. My favorite moments involve first dates. I love reading the couples, gauging their newness, and witnessing the connection or lack thereof. Ritual is actually not a great place to have a first date (or so I'd imagine) because it's often loud, and there's that space during which your drink isn't ready, so you wind up hovering awkwardly as the baristas whip it up.<br /><br />A while ago, one of the baristas and I talked about Jawbreaker, and from then on, I was a regular! I even got the "Hi Annie" treatment, which is the sort of tiny detail that makes SF start to feel like home after almost three years. Then he quit, and so did the girl who always flirted with me, and so did Nick with his chest tattoo, and now there is only the bearded boy with the French tattoo — and I am never sure if he recognizes me anyway. Right now, it is time to close the coffee shop, to close the computer, and to close the night.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-3802803171791046132?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-86320054502963332512010-03-30T07:56:00.000-07:002010-03-30T08:01:07.056-07:00Regrets? I've had a few.For the most part, I regret things I <i>didn't</i> do more than things I did do. Looking back, there are so many things I wish I had tried while I had the chance. For instance, as a kid I loved to act. I was a huge ham who loved to sing and perform, and I envisioned a future in which I would become a famous star who'd inspire the world. Except it wasn't a dream as much as something I just assumed would happen. Destiny!<br /><br />Slowly, though, I allowed doubts to chip away at my confidence. I didn't get a part in the high school play, so I never tried out for one again. Instead, I worked as an usher and watched other students belt out Julie Andrews tunes. In college, I wanted to try again, and I even spent 10 minutes looking at a sign-up sheet for tryouts before deciding that I'd probably embarrass myself. Looking back, I wish I'd just gone for it, because it is better to try and fail than to not try at all. Sometimes you even try and succeed.<br /><br />The older I get, the more I try to learn from my failures, particularly the most spectacular ones (of which there are many). Part of this involves looking at my own behaviors and how they contributed to the success or failure of any given event. This isn't about flogging myself; it's about recognizing habits that are causing the same kinds of trouble over and over. Essentially, I feel the need to take responsibility for my action (or inaction) instead of being all woe-is-me. Don't get me wrong, sometimes me <i>is</i> woe. But if I don't identify my part in allowing said woe to develop, it will keep happening until I learn my lesson.<br /><br />One thing I regret is all the time I wasted on people who do not give a rat's ass about me. Call it crapathy: a blend of lousy behavior and indifference. While it's not my fault that I initially got served that sort of shit sandwich, it <i>is</i> my fault that I kept asking for more, treating the crapathetic person like a Old Country Buffet of jerkiness. I need to learn how to send the sandwich back immediately and say, "Waiter? This is not what I ordered, and I will not be having it." (I know buffet places don't have waiters, but let me have my buffet joke.)<br /><br />It is easy to spot obvious assclowns, which is why they don't wriggle into my life in the first place. The task is to become an expert at spotting stealth assclowns. New rule: Stealth assclowns don't get a pass, even if they don't <i>mean</i> to be awful. Because the end result is still me feeling bad because of their crapathy, and that makes them no better than obvious assclowns. Maybe it even makes them worse, because they don't even see what they're doing. My life is hereby declared an assclown-free zone. No exceptions! Now I just need to enforce that decree, which I'm sure will be just as simple as typing those words was.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-8632005450296333251?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-25188962693716979682010-03-28T21:58:00.000-07:002010-03-28T21:58:49.638-07:00Vampire wizard ninja brothers from the moon!<a href="http://www.axecop.com">Axe Cop</a> might be my favorite web find of the year thus far. It's a comic written by a five-year-old boy with an unbridled imagination, and it's as enjoyable as it is absurd. Sorry for the phoned-in entry, but I have a gang of dinosaurs to kill.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4ZquaoUMfIc&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&showinfo=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4ZquaoUMfIc&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&showinfo=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2518896269371697968?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-65697047774408584832010-03-27T20:04:00.000-07:002010-03-27T20:19:15.069-07:00Memory infestationLast weekend, Jaime mentioned a boy I used to date. "He has such a good heart," I said, because he truly does. "It's funny, but after all this time I've forgotten how and why we broke up."<br /><br />"You dumped him," Jaime said.<br /><br />"Yeah, but I don't remember why," I replied. I knew the general idea — we were at different life stages — but the specifics were beyond recollection.<br /><br />Jaime gave me a you're-kidding look. "You seriously don't remember what pushed you over the edge?"<br /><br />Well, no. <br /><br />"Annie," Jaime said. "You dumped him because he had <i>fleas</i>." <br /><br />Oh, right. That. Visions of itchy red welts on my ankles resurfaced. Once we began laughing, I could not stop. Fleas! I had completely forgotten.<br /><br />Lately I have been thinking about the memories we retain and those we lose. I want to understand why they fall where they do. I don't have it figured out yet. One thing I do know, though: I am glad that my dating life no longer requires having the Orkin Man on speed dial, and I am happier still that I forgot it was necessary in the first place.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-6569704777440858483?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-41814250942910312342010-03-25T23:56:00.000-07:002010-03-25T23:56:00.417-07:00To a sea of starsMourning is a cycle, spinning over and over, and I'm not sure when it will stop. The five stages of grief exist, but they don't necessarily happen in order, and they don't happen just once. They keep moving in a general loop, yet they're unpredictable; the intensity sometimes fades, but the pattern keeps repopulating itself. <br /><br />I am able to reach acceptance, but there's no triumph in that accomplishment. It is a sad place. It isn't a place I really want to be, so I slip back into denial. Then I have to plunge into the icy water of reality, mentally replay the loss, and sit with the absence for a while. It's lonely. <br /><br />I am not yet used to how different things are now, and I have to frequently remind myself to create new behaviors and responses to replace long-established habits. For instance: When I travel, I instinctively look for a postcard to send to Dad. It is OK to think of him, of course, but it still takes me a few seconds to remember that I can't really send him a card. Or if I did, it would never reach him, because he is gone.<br /><br />I haven't slept well in months, and this is doubly frustrating because dreams are the only place where my mind can regress beyond denial and temporarily bask in an extinct existence. I can dream about the life I used to know, without the internal scold whipping me into looking at the cold, sad facts. I know the happiness is not real, but the escape is still welcome whenever it comes. Dream-Dad comforts me as he would if he were still here, and things feel better. <br /><br />Sometimes, if the air and light are just right, I let myself forget while I'm awake, too. Just for a minute. The last time I did it, I was walking down 21st Street on a quiet morning. For a city block, I allowed myself to pretend. The sun on my back felt like being loved, and I slowed my pace to feel less alone for a little bit longer. Eventually, I had to turn left on Mission, where buildings were blocking the light. I returned to accepting the unwelcome truth, but for a tiny sliver of time, I got away from it.<br /><br />I don't know if this coping mechanism is normal. I'm not sure it's completely healthy, but it’s not like I do it often or stay stuck in that reverie. Occasionally it is what I need to do just to get through the day, because sometimes the absence is overwhelming. I know things will get easier as time passes, and that I will be able to think of my father without feeling so sad, but right now it is still difficult. I need him, he isn't here, and so the cycle begins anew.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-4181425094291031234?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-67421056602944970042010-03-24T23:00:00.000-07:002010-03-24T23:00:22.020-07:00She's so swell<img src="http://annie.newdream.net/uploaded_images/4457725620_8980a1a4fd_m-775694.jpg" align="right"/> <br />Two Octobers ago, <a href="http://rogerkisby.com/">Roger</a> shot a portrait of a woman whose smile and style made me do a double take. She was just... dapper. (A woman with a pompadour tends to be.) So I googled Janelle Monáe and found <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUadVAgSSok">Many Moons</a>; it was easy to fall in love with her look, voice, and endearing weirdness. <br /><br />Last summer, I interviewed her, and that made me an even bigger admirer. She was soft-spoken, confident, positive, thoughtful, and s-m-a-r-t. (What's not to love about a woman who gets excited when talking about German expressionist film?) To misquote Born Against quoting Ben Weasel: Janelle is awfully bright for a fresh girl of 24. <br /><br />Meg and I caught Janelle on Monday; it was her second night in San Francisco, and the show was sold out. I expected it to be good, but she put on one of the best performances I've seen in years. She was five feet of unbridled energy, bouncing around the stage while throwing all of herself into every measure of every song. ("She's like a tiny girl version of James Brown," Meg said.) And despite her nonstop dancing, her voice was smooth and buttery on every note. I was glad that I'd remembered my earplugs (old) because at one point, the band got "You Made Me Realise"-style loud, and even with the plugs I had ringing ears afterward. But it was worth it. <br /><br />Here are two tunes from the record coming out in May, but honestly, you need to see the live show to see why I'm so fangirly about her. Anyway: <a href="http://67.159.60.53:40000/d/3weo2nmxybegzaws6usar7s75bzvmrfvwyp2d5k7/Janelle_Monae-Cold_War-2dope.mp3">Cold War</a> and <a href="http://208.53.158.136:40000/d/3ceo6noo2meszboaxj2rhlymxbyvnzc3qcqjjiii/01%20Tightrope%20f.%20Big%20Boi.mp3">Tightrope</a>. Now you know.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-6742105660294497004?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-3881784592900029462010-03-23T08:16:00.000-07:002010-03-23T14:52:57.007-07:00Just the facts, ma'amWe don't have cable at our apartment, so my exposure to Fox News is limited. Thank god for small favors, right? Still, even I know that the network is overflowing with crazy. For anybody well-acquainted with reality, watching Fox News is like tuning in to the latest updates from Bizarro World. Up is down, left is right. (Except the left is never right, because those flag-burning socialist baby killers are coming after your children to take away their religion while turning them into homosexual jihadists.)<br /><br />I am not the first or even the 26,000th person to say that facts are only somewhat relevant to Fox's reporting. Interpretation, opinion, spin, and emotion have stronger pull. Fox distorts the truth to fit its agenda, and in a triumph of evil-genius message-manipulating puppetry, its talking heads regularly complain about how the liberal media is biased, and only Fox has the courage to tell the "truth." <br /><br />I have been thinking about how we can have our own Fox News channel inside our heads. To some extent, most of us create versions of reality to fit our personal agenda. We might downplay inconvenient facts and concoct new interpretations of events. We look better than we are when we broadcast these lies — and they are lies, even if they're small ones. The more we repeat them, the easier it is to believe the stories we tell ourselves. We have met Karl Rove and he is us.<br /><br />And of course these stories get high ratings, because they tell us what we want to hear about ourselves. <br /><br />I have not been completely immune from being overly imaginative in this way, but I am doing my best to be straightforward and honest — with both myself and other people. I aim to be BBC World News, not Fox News. This is why lately, I am alternately angered and amused by people who habitually lie to themselves and to me. It angers me because I initially question myself: Did I get the story wrong? But then I look at the immutable facts and think, "No, I'm just dealing with the Glenn Beck of my personal life." <br /><br />It amuses me because after figuring that out, I somewhat enjoy watching the Fox News mentality in action. At first, I think these people must be plotting their dishonest moves, but then I realize that's giving them too much credit. They actually <i>believe</i> their distorted worldview over the facts staring them in the face. So it becomes entertaining to see them drift off into their Bizarro World, in which their stories have little to no basis in reality. I watch for a while, just to observe the craziness in action. And then I go back to living in the real world. We all are affected by our own perspectives, but when they substitute for reality, it is time for me to change the channel.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-388178459290002946?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-27993520995714937372010-03-22T00:21:00.001-07:002010-03-22T01:10:41.469-07:00Mise-en-sceneI don't think I will ever get over the marvel of flight. To be able to hop hundreds of miles in a little over an hour is the kind of everyday magic that we take for granted too often. I am on the air bart bus — me and six men — and I am very tired and very ready to find sleep. When I got on the bus, one of the men turned to me. "You escaped Portland," he said.<br /><br />"I didn't know it needed escaping," I replied. I was slightly nervous; how had he known I'd come from there?<br /><br />He must have read my guarded face, because he then alluded to the much-delayed flight. That made sense. He must have seen me on the plane. He called someone and promised to be home soon.<br /><br />I am so used to watching people that I never imagine I am being watched. Earlier today, Jaime and I saw a guy with a Michigan Crew t-shirt. I asked him about it; he'd graduated in 2000 like us. "I thought I knew your face," he told me, and then remembered where he'd seen me ten years previous.<br /><br />Now I wait for the train that will return me to the city. The orange lights overhead crackle and sigh, casting their sickly glow over my skin. Further out in the night, rows of streetlights haphazardly define hills. The East Bay is quiet tonight, and I am too. I want to be home in my bed with the cats claiming too much of it, but I don't mind waiting for the train. It gives me time to study this midnight, burn it to mind. It feels like something to document, a solitary moment that I will revisit like cinema.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2799352099571493737?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-28110293519203281332010-03-17T08:01:00.000-07:002010-03-17T08:20:42.211-07:00Green mind"Don't forget to wear something green tomorrow," Danny said last night. But that is not my color, and so the only suitable thing in my closet is a pair of forest green stacked-heel oxfords. (Purchased in Nolita, $50, 2004.) Instead, I will wear my old MBV shirt. This is how I imagine things going:<br /><br /><center>SCENE - POST STREET, DAYTIME</center><br /><i>ANNIE is trudging to the office in jeans and her MBV tee. She has made an attempt to not look completely unkempt; she has washed her hair and everything. While walking to his office, FAKE RYAN GOSLING spots her out of the corner of his eye.</i><br /><br />FRG: Oh hello, Fake Natalie Portman!<br /><br />ANNIE: Hi, Fake Ryan Gosling. I don't get Natalie Portman very much anymore. Last time it was Sarah Jessica Parker, and before that, Rumer Willis. All things considered, I think I preferred Natalie Portman.<br /><br />FRG: Technically, <i>she</i> would look like you, since you are older. Everyone knows you had the cheek mole first, too. She is totally biting your style. <br /><br />ANNIE: Thank you.<br /><br />FRG: You are welcome. I was kind of clueless when you were talking about my bicycle panniers at the farmer's market, you know.<br /><br />ANNIE: It's okay. I told myself that maybe you were gay, and that was why you showed so little interest in conversation. Doing so allows me to avoid examining the reasons behind my failure to charm you even slightly. <br /><br />FRG: Oh, I am not gay (although if I were, that is OK, too). I am just clueless. Your feminine wiles are indeed irresistible, my pet, and what's that you're wearing? A faded, cut-up My Bloody Valentine t-shirt?<br /><br />ANNIE: Why, yes. Yes, it is. <br /><br />FRG: I surmise that you are wearing it because My Bloody Valentine are an Irish band, and today is St. Patrick's Day. What sartorial brilliance! Everybody will get the allusion and nobody will harass you about not wearing green — which, as we all can see, is really not your color. What are you doing after work? May I buy you a drink — say, at House of Shields?<br /><br />ANNIE: Only if we can call it House of <i>Kevin</I> Shields.<br /><br />FRG: That is clever! Even if nobody else has ever seemed to think so.<br /><br />ANNIE: Why are we using so few contractions?<br /><br /><center>FIN</center><br /><br />In reality, this is what is likely to unfold:<br /><br /><center>SCENE - POST STREET, DAYTIME</center><br /><i>ANNIE walks to the office and nearly avoids being peed on by a muttering vagrant. LOITERING BIKE MESSENGER DUDES give her the staredown, which makes her want to point at their patches and tell them that Amebix was really a crap band.</i><br /><br />ANNIE: Not wearing green does not mean I am an anti-celebratory grouch. <br /><br />EVERYBODY ELSE IN THE WORLD: Yuh-huh! It does!<br /><br />ANNIE: But I am wearing an Irish band's shirt. Isn't that enough?<br /><br />EEITW: No! Commence the pinching!<br /><br /><i>As a crowd hopped up on Lucky Charms and Shamrock Shakes advances, ANNIE attempts to escape. Unfortunately, she is no match for their crabby fingers, and she is slowly pinched to death. Her last words are a gasped telling of <a href="http://annie.newdream.net/2003/10/this-one-is-grumpy.html">a holiday-appropriate joke</a> that she always finds funny despite only one other person EVER laughing at it.</i><br /><br /><center>FIN</center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2811029351920328133?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-28661041522731865202010-03-16T08:15:00.000-07:002010-03-16T19:20:20.478-07:00Sparkling witI had no interest in reading the <i>Twilight</i> books. Sabs told me they were awful but addictive, yet I have this thing called the Faulkner Theory of Reading Priority. See, there are only so many reading hours left in my life, and there's a lot of Faulkner left to read (and you have to read Faulkner more than once). So if it comes down to reading a book about a sparkly vampire or a dysfunctional Southern family, I go for the Compsons over the Cullens. Especially because I can go see the <i>Twilight</i> movies, which feature Robert Pattinson in foundation two shades too light for him.<br /><br />But then Jen gave me the four-book <i>Twilight</I> series, and I was still on crutches so I was happy to have any sort of entertainment possible. The books are enjoyably awful, with clunky prose and cliché dialogue and typos galore. I read the first in an afternoon, the second the next, and went through the third the following weekend. Unfortunately, the glee of reading <i>Twilight</i> passages out loud to my roommate and her boyfriend began to fade. And then I could walk again, so the final book remains unread. (From what I have been told, Edward uses his fangs to do an impromptu c-section on Bella, who gives birth to a TALKING BABY.) I hope this guy sticks with his reading-the-books project, because I cannot wait to see what he has to say about that.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mVvIOoMvXVM&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&showinfo=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mVvIOoMvXVM&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&showinfo=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2866104152273186520?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-29122603258204532812010-03-14T21:12:00.000-07:002010-03-14T21:18:28.435-07:00Havens in the parkAn old friend (let's call him Redacted) is in town from Southern California. He's here because he is head over heels for a girl in San Francisco. As it turns out, I don't know her but I know who she is. She works at _____ and I go to _____ a lot, and when he described her I knew exactly who he was talking about. <br /><br />When you are in love, you want to tell the whole world about the person you adore. It's like you've stumbled upon some amazing secret that everybody needs to know, and you are the messenger. So I asked Redacted about his special ladyfriend. <br /><br />Their story is a good one, but it is not my story to share. I <i>will</i> share this, though. I asked him to tell me about her, and this is what has me smiling hours later. "She has the most beautiful laugh," he said. "I could listen to her laugh for the rest of my life."<br /><br />Redacted had better be careful when he goes back to Hollywood, because some dodgy scriptwriter is going to lift that line for a movie. Then it will join the ranks of "You had me at hello," a phrase that can never feel genuine because it's been used in a Tom Cruise movie. For now, though, Redacted is safe from thieves of sentiment. Redacted is sincere with his words. Redacted is in love, and that makes me very happy.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-2912260325820453281?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-12758832577845386062010-03-13T09:15:00.000-08:002010-03-13T09:15:08.458-08:00A well-organized sock drawerMy maternal grandfather was an immigrant, and that side of the family is thoroughly German. After cooking bacon, my grandmother would pour the grease into a coffee can, saving it for, well, I don't know what. But she was saving it. My grandfather kept every rubber band, bank statement, scrap of twine. "You never know when you might need it," he'd say. Living through both World Wars — the first as a child, the next as a young man — created a lifelong habit of frugality.<br /><br />I know it's not right to generalize, but it is <I>rare</i> to see a messy German. My mom's side of the family, and the vast majority of their countrymen, have a uniquely Teutonic dedication to order and cleanliness. My grandmother's home was always sparkling; I remember her hands glowing pink from cleaning with diluted bleach. (It is a wonder that my mother ever developed proper immunity, because the home held so few germs for her body to fight.) Before we left his house after a visit, my grandfather would rush out to clean our car windows even if he had taken it through a car wash that day. Everything in my grandparents' home was tidy, there was never any dust or disorder, and god forbid you leave a dirty dish in the sink for a moment or two.<br /><br />Betty is her parents' daughter. I'll clean my apartment before she visits, but while I'm in the shower or running to the store for a minute, she'll make it shine. I ask her not to do this, because it makes me feel like a filthy sow who is being silently judged. (Also, she should just <I>rest</I> and stop working so much.) My take on tidiness is a blend of my father's controlled-chaos clutter and my mother's fastidious and spotless organization. <br /><br />Yesterday's cold, rainy afternoon made me happy because it meant I could clean the apartment. This probably doesn't sound like fun, but it is so satisfying to zone out with an old toothbrush and dirty tiles. There's a kind of zen-lite focus that develops when all there is to do is disinfect and organize. I like to clean because doing so leads to tangible, visible results. So before an unusually social evening began, while the sky whipped rain against the windows, I was rearranging the contents of my dresser drawers. This probably sounds like the most tedious chore, but like they say, if it makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone, go ahead and do it. Especially if your socks wind up arranged by color in the process.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-1275883257784538606?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-55551653672142930442010-03-11T23:22:00.000-08:002010-03-11T23:22:11.154-08:00This is boring, sorryI used to think I had secret powers. A sampling:<br /><br /><ul><li>As a toddler, I believed that I could understand the cries and gurgles of babies in a secret language indecipherable to adults. As I got closer to kindergarten, I quietly panicked because this special ability was slipping away.</li><li>I had recurring dreams of flying. I could feel the strain of flapping my arms, pushing down to soar up to the top of the maple tree at the property line. I took this as a sign that my dreams could come true. If you had looked at our front lawn during the summer of 1987, you would have seen a bird-legged little girl frustratedly waving her arms up and down.</li><li>Around the fifth grade, I was convinced that I could read minds, which led me to track down magic books that would refine my skills. Ladies and gentlemen, the not-so-amazing Kreskin!</li></ul><br />Sadly, I am now a flightless failed mentalist who has one-sided conversations with babies. Now the only magic power that remains is dreaming. I feel sorry for people who can't remember their dreams, because having mine come back to me is one of my favorite daily rituals.<br /><br />In the last couple of years, a strange new pattern has developed. Right before I fall asleep, <I>exactly</i> as I take that first step into slumber, an intense shock of fear jolts me awake. I often sit up in bed with tremendous force, gasp for air, feel my heart race, feel a shiver run through my body. I never know why I am so petrified, because there's never anything to remember.<br /><br />This happened last night, as it does most nights, but it was different this time. I bolted awake, opened my eyes, and saw a tall, thin woman standing at the foot of my bed. She had sallow skin and angular curls spiraling out of her head. She was wearing a thin maroon cardigan over a dress the color of institutional light green, and her malicious grin broadened as she crept forward. She had it out for me. <br /><br />It was a horrible vision, easily as bad as the childhood fever dream in which I had to save my grandfather's life by singing the Tyson chicken jingle ("Tyson's fee-ding you / like fam-i-leeee") to Bob Barker, who was hosting a game show in my clothes closet. Last night I snapped out of it and escaped that awful woman, but the whole thing felt uncomfortably real.<br /><br />So now, on the cusp of bedtime, I'm trying to decipher what the scary lady is all about. Why, for the first time in all these years of bizarre jolt-awakes, did I hallucinate her? Just thinking of it is making my heart beat faster, giving me chills. I have no idea why I was so scared of her, or what she might represent. <br /><br />My childhood self would be disappointed by my lack of special powers. But I feel very fortunate to have a strong subconscious that, for whatever reason, plays tricks on my me. It never runs out of things that make me wonder, which may be the reason we dream in the first place. The subconscious mind is such an exciting mystery, even (especially?) when it makes us see things that don't exist. So maybe that is a secret power that we all have. And with that, I am going to brush my teeth, slip into bed, and see if that harpy dares wake me up tonight.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-5555165367214293044?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7097558.post-19883128144768701782010-03-10T17:08:00.000-08:002010-03-10T17:55:34.833-08:00Coffee and T"Coffee."<br /><br />"Tomlin."<br /><br />Coffee isn't <a href="http://annie.newdream.net/2004/07/magical-powers-of-conversation.html">Mr. Coffee</a>'s real last name, of course, but that's how our conversations always start. It is one of those small parts of our friendship that always feel comfortingly familiar. I remember the night we met; it was six years ago, maybe even to the month. I’d been invited to do a reading at a coffee shop on Roscoe, and he liked my story. He asked me what my favorite book was, and Nabokov sent our friendship on its way. <br /><br />We talk every few months, send each other tiny notes in the mail, that sort of thing. (We've e-mailed each other maybe three or four times, oddly.) What our conversations lack in frequency, they make up for in meaning. We just <i>get</i> each other, and during the gaps in communication, our lives frequently run parallel. When we talk, we laugh at the coincidences. May: I'm going to France, he's going the week afterward. August: He's in love with a girl in Prague, I'm in love with a boy in Portland. Now: He's nursing a bruised heart, I'm doing the same. It is good to be able to ask each other, "Do you know what I mean?" and have "yes" be the truth.<br /><br />"You should come out to SF," I said last night. "We'll paint the town red and you can get away from the gray weather." (I am tricking him. Fog is gray. Shh.)<br /><br />It's not the first time we've talked about such a visit, but so far we haven't made it happen. And maybe that's part of how our friendship works, too. We don't need to see or even talk with each other all the time to stay connected. We just are. When it's time to hang up, one of us always tells the other one how much our friendship means. I love that, but I love that it goes without saying even more. <br /><br />(PS)<br />Before any aspiring matchmakers get any ideas... Yes, we tried dating when we first met. We tried really hard to convince ourselves that we should be a couple before realizing that a good friendship is better than a lot of people's romantic relationships are.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7097558-1988312814476870178?l=annie.newdream.net%2Findex.html' alt='' /></div>annienoreply@blogger.com0