Friday, April 8, 2011

You don't know $#*%

This week I’ve received messages from three Austin beauties that I haven’t spoken to in a while, and it occurred to me that I haven’t talked to any Texans (who aren’t my roommates or immediate family) in a long time. This post is for those people . . . mostly. Seven things:

1. I finally found work. It’s at a hardware store. Not ideal, but everyone there is extraordinarily friendly and my 1.7 mile walk every morning ends just past a hilltop that opens to San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz. The scene never gets old. Even better, I’m not desperately scrambling to figure out a way to pay rent. In addition, I get to wait on rich women who want nothing to do with a hardware store clerk but still wear athletic Spandex and low-cut blouses for me to better enjoy their boobies. It’s twitchy business maintaining eye contact when all I want to do is reach elbow deep into a woman’s bubbly cleavage, then climb in and sit with my head sticking out like a baby kangaroo.

2. My 3.5-ish year relationship ended about two months ago. I only mention that because breaking up after years is big deal. I’ll say no more.

3. I plan to visit Europe when I’ve saved enough money and can take a vacation. I’ve never been. Although, my point of destination isn’t where I thought I’d first be introduced to the continent but when Jesus Lord Commando fires apricots at you from his holy bazooka, you really can’t dodge the collateral splatter of even an indirect hit. That’s what makes it an indirect hit, you dopes. Anyway, I’d like to become more . . . familiar with the area before the world ends in 2012. Folks, don’t try too hard to understand my amazing bazooka adage. You’ll only shit your pants in boggled frustration.

4. My California muscles have been appropriately swollen by the 3-4 day workouts I suffer every week in the Castro. It feels good to not be such a slug. My only complaint is that there aren’t many women in that particular gym to make me add an extra plate or two to my heaving chest presses. They’re good motivation. On the contrary, I’ve never made more accidental eye contact with so many men in my life. Intimidatingly large men with thin moustaches and blonde highlights and arms as thick as my legs. I hope my deliciously swooshing butt cheeks don’t become too overwhelming for anyone as I Jane Fonda the place up.

5. I still want to learn to sail and as soon as I can lay some money down, I’m going to shop around for classes. The ocean will be a good place to be when this earthly paradise turns to hell. San Francisco is pretty much the worst of all possible worlds when the dead begin to rise and tirelessly pursue the living. I’ll pick you up in Amsterdam. Have mamoчka packed and ready and we’ll sail to some uninhabited island in the Pacific. Okay? Okay.

6. With no television or radio, I’ve fallen into a patchy following of current events. Podcasts, streaming, and major online newspapers have become inconsistent sources of information but I’m much less pissed about the world. I feel a little shitty about that because moving to San Francisco was a deliberate means of distracting myself enough to not care about the world around me. It’s worked. You’ve got to pick your battles or just embrace the apeshit and start pipebombing mailboxes as a petty subversive. They hang you for destroying mailboxes in Texas, by your goddamned hippie ponytail.

7. I’m almost a vegetarian now. Almost. My teeth still rip and tear into dead animal flesh but it’s even more infrequent than it was before, which was already pretty occasional. During a phone call with a foxy lady yesterday, I realized a sad, sad . . . sad hypocrisy in my pious selflessness: fish oil. After painstakingly shopping for the most conscientiously bovine-free gelatin capsules, I was promptly reminded that my cow-less pills were still filled with fresh squeezed sardine tears. What an asshole. Me, not you, J-Pie.

That’s it for now. Email me your thoughts and emotions if I didn’t satisfy your insatiable Carlos curiosities.

San Francisco neighborhoods. I'm between Lower Haight and Alamo Square. The place with the boobies is in Cow Hollow. Click for a close-up.


Julie Buz. said...

MY EYES! (I'm speechless.)

C. Andres Alderete said...

Whatever you do, Julie, just don't tell me that bacon's made of pigs. Everyone knows that God pre-packages the stuff and delivers it on a rainbow straight from heaven.

Chindiana said...

Just caught up with you again Carlos. Good luck on your next big adventure out West! Looking forward to more posts from (hopefully) a new perspective!

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