Don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me

A cold, cold night in our fair city.

I spent the last six hours finishing One Hundred Years of Solitude in my rolling office chair, which I’d pushed into the hall in front of our heater. Strategically positioned to ensure minimal effect with maximum energy waste, the rusted relic we call a furnace spews tepid air into one tiny fraction of the apartment, far from any living space or common area. Even if it were working in any traditional sense of the term, simple thermodynamic laws regarding heat diffusion would require the hall temperature to be raised above 130 degrees for my room to warm above 50. And so, with all my friends out of town and no internet and no video games, I read the final 3/4’s of that book huddling in front of the heater.

It’s about 9:30 Saturday now, and I’m thirty pages into Henderson the Rain King, stolen shamelessly from Jolene’s book collection. In some distant age past, she made the mistake of showing a flicker of interest in literature, and so has been on the receiving end of vast amounts of books at every conceivable holiday, from yours truly. Now, my drab and uninspired giftgiving has paid off, as her library is at my disposal. No more rereading Alas, Babylon for me; there’s a whole stack of books at the end of the corridor for me to dig into.

It’s very, very damn cold in here. Colder still, without my jacket.

Fuck every last one of you metropolitan vermin, and fuck you hard. The conspiracy behind the theft of my leather jacket, the lynchpin article of clothing in my closet, is vast. I will find you all, however, and I will murder you. Slowly. Gleefully.

Through the intricate and mysterious passages of San Francisco’s trickle-down ticket economy, we obtained free passes to the San Francisco Music Awards at the Warfield on Thursday. The event may not have been red carpet gala, but it was fancy enough to give away free Heineken. Be still, my heart. Along with a couple of our fair neighbors, Jo and I headed to the venue. Several high points:

Itzhak Rizcahtazaslevizniovitzovzky (sp?) and his fucking awesome “My Parachute Won’t Open” video. Probably the most random, out of left-field two and a half minutes of video I’ve ever seen anywhere ever, including the internet. A masterpiece.

Going to take a leak and getting stonewalled by the roadie scum manning the east door. He gave me some bullshit about having a balcony ticket, and I threatened to hang his bleached blond scalp from a pike in my front yard. Rather than risk a permanent criminal record, however, I went around to the other side and walked right back into the floor level, completely unassailed. Fucking roadies.

Partying with teachers. Teachers. My brain simply cannot wrap itself around the concept that teachers are people. Teachers are not humans, teachers are one dimensional androids who cease to exist after about 3:30 every school day. And yet… these girls are teachers, and do appear to be homo sapiens, at least to the naked eye. I don’t know why I have such a hard time with this. I recognize it as a personal and not a social hangup, but that doesn’t make it any less real to me. I can not conceive of any of my teachers from my younger days, any of them, drinking beer and partying on Thursday night at the SF music awards. Can not do it. These people are state certified to manage and educate our young while we go about our business daily. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think them unqualified in any way; far from it. These folks could tend my larvae any day. I don’t know…

It’s like, somehow I’ve gotten old enough where the wizard just says “fuck it, c’mon back” and I go around the giant green mask to find he’s just an old dude with special effects equipment. Know what I mean?

Highlights, highlights… The Hieroglyphics. Of course. Nothing redeems a show full of shitty indie rock and greasy white people like some serious Yay Area Stylin.

The night draws to a close, and we find ourselves on the dance floor, courtesy of the previously mentioned headlining act.

We boogie, and we groove. Our hero is approached by a not unattractive blond who is oh so subtly trying to snag his attention and be approached. You know that thing, that “approach you by tricking you into approaching me” thing? That.

I fucking should have known.

I follow the trail of bread crumbs like a good hetero feeb and we dance for a while, interrupted regularly by a towering Aryan tool who tried unsuccessfully to drive me off. He may or may not have been her boyfriend. Tall you might be, ass, but without some sweet moves you’re just a fuckin eucalyptus with a Cal State Long Beach jacket on. Fool.

The set ends and all seems well; the blond wanders off with the rest of her little crew.

The house lights come up and poof, my jacket (perched purposefully within view so I could keep an eye on it) is gone. I look around, overturning chairs and patrons frantically, to no avail. That bitch, that evil bitch distracted me so they could steal my fucking coat. My fucking coat. My eyes turn red with hate and I immediately start raving about a conspiracy.

“Come back here you treacherous floozy!” I shout, plowing headlong through stunned hipsters, leaving a wake of collapsed, quivering musicians wishing they were good enough of popular enough to have bodyguards. Maybe you would have seen me coming if your hair wasn’t growing down into your eyes, you scum. “Where’s my god damn jacket!”

Gone. The blond, the thief, the evidence, the coat, gone.

Motherfuckers. Now the black knight has no armor. And now I’m wearing six layers of hooded sweatshirts and a Twin Falls baseball hat, looking like some kind of laundry explosion, completely vulnerable to the elements. Jacketless.

I fucking hate you all and hope you die. Tomorrow I go in search of a replacement, to be bought with money I don’t have, out of horrid necessity.

A few days later, my rage has cooled a little. A little. At least we’ve learned some valuable lessons.

1) Never trust women, they are creatures of pure greed and deceit who will lead you to your doom at every opportunity.
2) Never set your jacket down unless there’s a land mine under it.
3) Don’t leave your muni pass in your jacket if you plan on having your jacket stolen, cuz then you have to pay another buck fifty just to get home.

Motherfuckers stole my fucking coat.


Strange dreams in this place, strange, strange dreams. The perpetual light and noise of the street through my big bay window is having profound effects on my unconscious psyche.

I swim in rivers of black poison, lined with dead palm trees and rusted iron fencing. The cannibals on the shore speak to me in a language I can’t understand. They seem non-threatening, but very primitive. The giant canary sits on his alabaster throne, whispering profanities in Spanish and governing the land.

“There are unicorn in those woods, you know.” The canary tells me.

“I know, I’ve come to hunt them.” I respond, waving my assault rifle with its laser sight and serrated bayonet. I feel an insidious and burning guilt from my innards; the canary, he knows I don’t carry the proper permit to hunt these unicorn. Perhaps he will not mention it.

“Kill them all.” He bids.

My orange prison jumpsuit smeared with the blood of goodly and majestic mythical beasts, I am confronted.

“You treated me poorly, for a long time.” She says. I know this girl.

“You deserved it. That’s not half the punishment you deserve for your crimes.” I say. Still, I offer her a fresh unicorn steak, wrapped in palm fronds. I’m sentimental like that.

“I have wronged you greatly, yes. Whether I deserve it or not is immaterial. Revenge is not the path to righteousness.”

“The canary sent you, didn’t he?”

“We’ve come so far, and yet still you haven’t moved.”

“Remember when I was in love with you?”


“Yeah, that was the suck.”

She cries briefly, then explodes into a flock of blue doves, and I collapse into the bloody murk of the swamp. I see myself sink into the quagmire.


Hours pass.

I’m back. Life has a nasty habit of interrupting when I’m typing this shit up.

Tired and mildly hammered, I’ve hiked it back from the Castro. That’s right, the Castro.

This town… it’s tough to be straight around here, sometimes. Only place on the planet you can be singled out for heterosexuality. Call me old fashioned, call me bourgeois, call me normal. But hey, for me? Women > dudes.
Because I’m a dutiful roommate, because I’m an enlightened and open minded American individual, I agreed to go with Jo and her friend to some club. So, so many guys. Maybe… maybe eight chicks in the place. Maybe. I am not, and never have been, a person easily offput by the crowd, but holding Jo’s purse and scowling into the distance didn’t seem to be enough to convince the masses that I was, indeed, straight. She plays the role of girlfriend fabulously and scares off many a potential suitor, but sometimes we’re simply overwhelmed by numbers. So I bounced.

Now I’m back here.

San Francisco is a tricky town in a lot of ways. It ‘s certainly unique, I’ll give it that.


Right before we left, we met some more neighbors. Fabulous.

They came down to introduce themselves, and to ask us (read: me) to turn our (read: my) music down a little bit. Because I had GNR playing at a not unpleasant volume.

At 9:30.

On a Saturday.

Now, listen here neighbors. I’m a reasonable man.

In many respects.

But you know what’s not gonna happen? Me not blaring my music at fuckin 9:30 on a Saturday Night. I’m still not over the fact that I can’t blare it at 2:30 AM on a fuckin Wednesday.
What assmonkey decided that people who have to get up early’s schedule trumps the rest of us? When the fuck did that memo come out? You stomp around at 6:15 making your coffee and getting ready for your infinitely pathetic and worthless day, and wake my ass up. Why shouldn’t I party late and keep you up till 10 on a fucking Saturday. Asshole.

This, this is why I’m moving to Montana. Cuz I can’t stand people telling me what to do. Nobody without a firearm has any right to ever even insinuate that they can tell me what to do. This is a hard lesson to learn, and I’m afraid our poor neighbors upstairs are going to be savagely indoctrinated when Tuesday night rolls around with me blasting James Brown till all hours of the night. What’s the occasion you ask? James Brown kicks ass, that’s the occasion.

Ah christ I’m tired and drunk and cold.

Too much deviance and deception for one East Bay white boy in one night.

I’m gone.



One Response to “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me”

  1. anonymous Says:

    You said it. Girls are evil :)

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