Strange things are afoot at the Circle K, Ted.

Another weekend draws to a close, as weekends are wont to do.

Not a bad one. Filled with encounters, possibilities, plots, movement. I spent another wonderful night with the caring and hospitable folks at the Cheng Sunset Youth Hostel, or as I like to call it Le Chateau Taraval. I spend more nights in that place than I do in my own home, which is certainly not a bad thing. At least not until my welcome is worn clean through. The reunion tour continued, with another night out with Ye Olde High School Crew in another Asian club. I thoroughly enjoy the SF Asian scene, despite my obvious genetic and cultural pariah status in such places. Towering over the crowd like a redwood in a cornfield, I scope the scene. The boogie, the strong drink, the good times, things work out. The night is a series of pep-talks and strategery discussions with The Boys in regards to The Ladies, interspersed with bouts of rumpshakery, boozing, and general merriment. The height advantage gives one the perspective, both literally and metaphysically, to truly appreciate the subtle and mysterious nuance of the entire dance club phenomenon.

To a truly objective observer, like an alien or maybe Jesus, dance clubs must seem absolutely incomprehensible. Pointless gyration and brainrotting, weird encounters between strangers and a suffocating atmosphere of sexual tension and machine-spewed smoke… in a way it’s incredibly ritualistic. The Approach, the Encounter, the Acceptance or Rejection, the Dance, all have their own delicate steps which must be followed precisely, lest either party become confused or frightened or honest, thus negating the entire point of the thing. I won’t go into a detailed analysis of these fragile, hip-hop fueled ceremonies, but rest assured they do indeed exist. And time and again I have born witness to their strangeness, even participating when circumstances require or suggest it. The methods employed on the dance floor vary so greatly that hundreds, nay thousands of reports and analyses could be conducted on their intricacies, both tactical and psychological. Perhaps one day someone with patience, or absolutely not a god damn thing to do, will conduct such research and I will peruse it. Perhaps. For now, I’ll keep doing my thing.

For the record, PFC Alex Wong gets the Silver Star of Not Giving A Fuck for his valor in the get-down booty blasting battle of Saturday Night. You’re an inspiration to us all, soldier. Your mother would be proud.

What else… you pine for details, don’t you. Stories. Anecdotes. Phone numbers. But like a crack dealer, I operate on my own schedule, I control my own merchandise. That’s why I make the big dollars and y’all rob Circuit City every other friday just to pay for your internet connection and get your fix. Suckas.

You all crave, you fiend for the scoop on the brief but torrid love triangle experienced while picking out an iron at Target in South San Francisco. After all, what kind of woman can my compatriot and I meet picking out a fucking iron at fucking Target on a fucking Sunday afternoon? She was… all the adjectives that leap to mind are simply too crude for the job, too easily misinterpreted. You gutterdwelling muckraking scumsacks will tarnish the thing irreparably with your toxic, sinful fingers. She was a refined beauty, I suppose is a good way to put it, as classy a lady as has ever graced South City Target. After Eric and I dazzled her with our combined wit and our endearing ignorance about the sacred maternal art of ironing, things heated up. There was charm and flirtation and meaningful smiles spraying every which way, as glorious a mess as that time Peter Magee got fucked up on black tar heroin and turned the weedwhacker on Paul’s birthday cake in their living room, but without all the screaming and cops. The years and the distances and the awkwardness fell away in those few glorious moments, and what began as an innocent conversation between a couple of strapping postgrad studs like us and an undeniably alluring housewife who has most certainly still got itended in romance. Ten minutes of bonding, and the Aisle 6 may as well have been the River Seine in Paris. Four hearts were broken, when we finally had to part ways and head to our respective cashiers. Well I guess only three, but certainly hers broke twice. Which counts as four.

Alas, she’s lost to us forever. Undoubtedly her day, if not her month, was made. Ours certainly was. To have two college age daughters and still work it well enough to enchant the hot boys at Target… that’s a rare god damn achievement. All the other secretaries? dental hygienists? PTA moms? will be brimming with envy, and rightfully so. You will be sorely missed, Mrs. Whatever.

We’ll always have Housewares.

The rest, the rest is just filler. Fine print, you know. Too tired and weirded out right now to present a cohesive narrative of any kind.

I really, really have to get out of here. Despair waits like a pissed off loan shark at my door, tire iron in hand and aiming straight for my knees. Shit.

Two public announcements, before I retire.

First, jazz elitists are worthless humans. You are pathetic in every way. Your idiotic self-righteousness rivals that of vegetarians, who I also hate but not as much. The holier than thou attitude and overtly rude behavior is not the appropriate way to relate to someone so much younger, stronger, and remorseless than you. Heed my warning, lest you aggravate someone less… forgiving than I, next time. You disgust me with your pettiness and your entire life is a meaningless charade. Your wife hates you and your passion is stupid. I loathe you, and I hope your precious public radio gets canceled.

Second, I received a fax moments ago from a reliable source in New Delhi informing me that Hurricane Katrina was summoned by Islamic militants and is set to destroy all of western civilization and kill all puppies everywhere. This may be the final showdown. I’ve formulated a plan of action for tomorrow, which I suggest you all follow or at least consider. In response to this brutal assault, I plan to sleep late, and then get up and read for most of the day. I may also play WoW and write. God bless America, and Pat Roberts, and oil conglomerates.

I hate everybody, except for the pretty waitress I danced with at the jazz club.

You’re cool.

-T.

p.s. Plans are in the works for an Event the likes of which none of you have ever seen. Watch your mailboxes. Get your suits and dresses cleaned.

Prepare, for The Function approaches.

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