Who needs actions when you got words

Things are hectic, as of late.

Disorganization and disarray are rampant. There is little discipline, and much carousing and untoward behavior.

I work well running at full tilt. Thankfully. It’s just a wonder I never seem to have time to square up and get my bearings. Too busy dodging bullets to make a head-on charge at things, you know…

At times I pine for the carefree days of my youth, when I could play Morrowind for 14 hours at a stretch, my fiendish timewasting stopped not by responsibility but by ocular bleeding and sheer exhaustion.

Alas, freedom wanes.


Life in the City is… interesting. Visiting the thing, in all its grey and dirty glory, gives one an entirely different impression than actually living there. Waking up there every day, walking the same streets and avoiding the same lowlifes, riding the same shuddering bus on very similar frigid mornings… I hesitate to say it tarnishes the San Francisco mystique, but it certainly doesn’t enhance it.

SF is a city very much concerned with itself. It’s denizens consist chiefly of two types of people:

1) SF Elitists: White or somewhat off-white people with stylishly unkempt hair, who are very much concerned with City Life and write about it melodramatically on their websites using their Mac laptops. They are fiercely territorial about their District of Choice, and are oftentimes amateur singer/songwriters who subsist entirely on coffee.

2) The poor.

So much of the City’s image is just that: image. Now, keep in mind that I like living in the City when I say this, but Herb Caen was a pretentious assbite.

In the interest of Truth, I’d like to take the next paragraph or two to dispell a few myths about SF that some of you non-residents may be tangled up in.

Myth: San Francisco is always foggy.

Not true. San Francisco isn’t really all that foggy. At least not San Francisco proper. I believe this, like most myths, is simply a distortion or distillation of an original fact. The underlying truth of this particular misconception being this: San Francisco is always freezing ass cold. This is true.

Myth: San Francisco is an artistic and enlightened city.

Not true. San Francisco is an artsy and smarmy city, the perfect place to talk endlessly to artistic and enlightened people about how artistic and enlightened you are, especially in comparison to people from other Districts.

Myth: People that ride bikes in SF are environmentally conscious, healthy, and generally agreeable folk.

Not true. People that ride bikes in SF are vermin. They have no regard for public safety or polite society. The only people that hate them more than me are the muni drivers. They, and I, pray for their gruesome and painful deaths. Corollary: Muni drivers are almost universally awesome, and not just because we both despise bikers. Bus drivers know what is up. Fool.

Myth: Trevor will not call the cops on you to have you towed if you park in his driveway and he can’t get in his garage and has to drive around for an hour looking for street parking.

Not true, bitch don’t park in my spot.

The subtleties of City Life are many and varied. Perhaps I will go into them more at a later time. For now, I wouldn’t want to give the sycophantic hipsters I call my neighbors the pleasure.


With much difficulty and copious amounts of flaking, we managed to hold a small but entertaining Mission game in Golden Gate Park earlier this week. For those not in the know, Mission is a game of stealth, speed, and almost universal poor sportsmanship. A beautiful if somewhat dangerous cross between Hide and Go Seek and Baseball, Mission is a game best played at night in wooded areas with between 8 and 16 people. We scouted out a section of the park which seemed to have a high ratio of suitable playing field to vagrants and discarded syringes, dressed up in camouflage, black, and warpaint, and headed out.

I was nervous at first. Teaching such a vicious game to a new crowd can be very nerve-wracking. Depending on the players, Mission can get exceedingly violent and reckless. Broken arms, twisted ankles, and other traumas are not uncommon, in addition to all the wounds inflicted by hand to hand combat. We made sure to play in an area with plenty of thorns, nearly invisible trenches, low hanging branches, and poison oak so as to make the experience that much more rigorous.

My anxiety was heightened by several nights of terrible premonitions and strange dreams.

The night before we played, I had a horrible vision. I had finally gotten my tattoo, but the artist had made a mistake and written MARINE in sloppy blue block letters under my desired symbol. As if this horrendous fuckup wasn’t enough, he had also made the R and the N overlap somehow, and added in a G somewhere in MARINE, blatantly misspelling it.

Frantic and distraught, I ran to the Lovely Neighbors house to show them my new predicament and seek advice.

No one was home, except Hillary. She answered the door dressed in black and grey fatigues, with nightvision goggles draped around her neck and her face and arms adorned with cryptic pagan ideograms. She also held the gnarliest compound hunting bow I’d ever seen, and had a quiver of black arrows draped over her shoulder.

Seeing Hillary, polite, sensible, whole-grain no partying on the weeknights please and thank you Iowan Hillary dressed in such a getup gave me a terrible shock. Then things got worse.

“Hillary. Look at my tattoo. They fucked it up! What am I going to do?”

“I can’t talk now, Trevor, I’m late.”

“Where are you going? It’s Tuesday night? And why the hell do you have that vicious ass bow and arrow?”

“I’m going to hunt homeless people in the park. Have a good night!”

Jesus God what’s going on. Hillary bowhunting junkies and lunatics in Golden Gate Park dressed like a Navy Seal was too much for me, and I flailed myself awake, screaming at the ceiling.

Out there creeping through the bushes in the park, I kept expecting to see Jolene or Jess flop down dead next to me, one of those brutal black shafts sticking out of their lifeless ribcage. Night vision goggles or no, it’s probably damn hard to tell someone’s tax bracket from two hundred yards in a pitch dark forest. Any one of us could have been mistaken for a hobo, and slain out of hand by Brunette Ninja Deathsquad Hillary.

Somehow, we survived pretty much intact, and will likely venture out again in greater numbers sometime next week. Prepare yourselves.


The Bon Jovi Technique, or, The Easiest Eight Bucks I Ever Won

A cohort and I went out to the Marina the other night.

We found a bar with an acceptable ratio. It wasn’t what one would describe as a target rich environment. But it certainly could have been worse.

I was offered eight dollars to get digits using nothing but Bon Jovi lyrics.

I accepted. There was much arguing about trivialities for the next few minutes, i.e. whether I could use any Bon Jovi lyric, or just lines from a predetermined song, or could my lyrics span an entire album, do duets count, or covers, etc. He said I could only use lyrics from a specific song, and he got to choose the song, and I had to use the lyrics in the order they came in. I replied that he was a fuck, and that I should be allowed to use any Bon Jovi lyric regardless of order or album or song. I also contended that he was a sissy ass bitch. He felt, contrary to my belief, that in fact I was the sissy ass bitch. After a few more moments of discussion and debate as to who was actually the sissy ass bitch, we settled on these rules:

I could use lyrics from any ONE (1) Bon Jovi song of my own choosing, regardless of order. I could NOT use individual words out of context, or rearrange letters. I could also not choose a duet, or Livin’ On A Prayer.

I chose a girl, and I chose Wanted: Dead or Alive.


I make a few long and meaningful glances her way.

She glances back.

I buy two Vodka Tonics, looking her right in the eyes from across the room. I bring her one.

“Hey there.” She says.

I shoulda ordered milk, cuz this is gonna be cake.

I nod, meaningfully.

“Thanks for the drink. You come here often?” She asks.

“It’s all the same.” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I been everywhere.”

“So you don’t come here often? Are you from around here? The Marina, I mean?”

“Another place… I drive all night just to get back home.”

“Oh, you’re from the East Bay or something?”

I nod, meaningfully.

“I’m Julie. What’s your name?”

I sip my drink, looking at her. Meaningfully.

“Oh so you’re not gonna tell me?” She laughs.

I sip again, meaningfully.

“Well what do you do then?”

“I’m a cowboy.”

“A what?”


“Like you… ride horses and rope things? And all that?”

I move my head noncommittally, and give her a deep look full of meaning.

“Well Mr. Nameless Cowboy, where do you go if you don’t come here that often?”

“I been everywhere.” I say, meaningfully.

“Where did you go to school? Do cowboys go to school?”

“It’s all the same.” I give her a questioning, but meaningful look.

“Oh me? I went to Cal State Long Beach! You ever been there? It’s really a something blah blah blah” whatever.

She talked for a bit. All I heard was that Charlie Brown Adult noise, and nodded meaningfully on occasion, at appropriate punctuated points in the conversation.

“You don’t talk much do you?” She asks, after yapping for pretty much an eternity.

“I’m a cowboy.”

“Oh that’s right. A cowboy. Why won’t you tell me your name, Mr. Cowboy?”

“I’m wanted.”


“Dead or alive.”

“Shut up, you’re just being silly.”

I give her a smile, with many layers of meaning.
I buy a couple more drinks.



“No way.”

“Dead or alive.”

“Being out there on the range all the time must have scrambled your brain. Do you ever get lonely out there?”

I shrug.

I buy a couple more drinks.

“Sometimes when you’re alone, all you do is think.” I say, looking meaningfully into the distance.

She puts her hand on my arm.

Working like a charm. Eight bucks here I come.

“What do you do out there? When you’re not riding your horse or whatever?”

“Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes it’s not for days.”

“Do you have other cowboys that go with you? Like, friend cowboys?”

“The people I meet always go their separate ways.”


I look at her, meaningfully, then look away, even more meaningfully.

I look at my watch, and straighten, heading for the door.

“Wait! Aren’t you gonna ask for my number?”


I flip my phone open meaningfully, and she rattles off some digits.

“Call me sometime.”

I make a gesture as though reaching up to tip my hat, which is of course not there. She loves it.

“I’ve seen a million faces, and I’ve rocked them all.”


I head off, in search of my eight bucks.

Fuck yeah, Bon Jovi. Fuck yeah.


So my girl friend (girl space friend) has been hanging out with this old dude. A doctor.

He’s a tool.

But he’s old, and he’s a doctor.

Far be it from me to comment on another’s dating choices. Still, at times I get defensive.

She walks away from the table, while we’re at the club. I put my hand on Doctor Tool’s shoulder.

“Hey man, so you’re a doctor?”

“Yes, I’m a surgical resident.” He says in his smarmy tool voice.

“That’s cool.” He nods, shrugging. Well of course it’s cool, shmea shmea, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it shmea.

“It’s alright.”


I see my friend headed back to the table. The doctor, recognizing my position on the Friend Hierarchy has already tried desperately to befriend me. He seems to be catching on to my disdain, however. No doubt this is a cruel blow to someone so much older and more highly paid than I am, to be stonewalled by your prospective girl’s asshole 23 year old friend. Such an indignity!

Let’s make it worse.

“Hey doc, you know I’ve done a little first aid myself. Even a little surgery.”

“I thought you were an engineer?”

I shrug.

“Well regardless, you should know that should the slightest need or provocation arise, I’m fully certified to perform a quadruple whoopyourmonkeyassectomy. Be nice to my girl here.” I say, slapping him on the shoulder and giving him a soulless grin.

“Hey boys, how’s it going?” She asks.

“Great!” I wink at the now extremely uncomfortable Older Man. “Just great.”


Tomorrow I fly to Orange County.

Disaster and chaos and tumult await me in the foul South. Once more into the breach, dear friends.

God I hate LA.



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