Going back out for the rain starts a fallin’

Music – Sublime – Waiting for my Ruca

Amos and I were walking through the Mission yesterday, after capoeira class.  It was a pleasant San Francisco July evening; the window was blowing about fifty miles an hour and it was cloudy and witch-tits cold.  We were having an important discussion when we were approached by two good looking foreign girls.

“…on VHS. There’s just something about the tape, as a medium, that makes Weekend at Bernie’s 2 more enjoyable, like listening to Who’s Next on vinyl instead of CD.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.  It’s not worth keeping a VCR around just so you can see the squiggly lines and the fucked up tracking on Weekend at Bernie’s that you taped off USA when you were seventeen… oh… hello… girls…”

“Allo!” They said, in unison.

They hugged us and grinned like fools.  We stood still, amazed.

“Appy Bastille Day!”

Amos and I looked at each other for a minute.

“YEAH HAPPY BASTILLE DAY!” We shouted.  The girls laughed and ran off into the night.

“The fuck is Bastille Day?”

“No idea.”

I started reading the Wikipedia entry but it was kind of long… Turns out it’s the French Cinco de Mayo. Or something.

Who knew?



After two years of consistent patronage, I’ve come to the inevitable conclusion that the San Francisco Main Library exists solely so that the homeless have a place to charge their cellphones.

Fuck that place.


Our search for a roommate draws to a close.  We received upwards of three hundred responses from our week long Craigslist ad, which we cut down to about a hundred after eliminating the obvious scum, like Academy of Art students, and vegans.

Sorting through the remaining hundred was an intense and horrible process.


“That was only our fourth one, Trevor. We’ve only been here ten minutes.”

“FAAAAAAAAAACK.  If my life were a movie, they’d just insert a montage here, where we’d be, like, shuffling through lots of pieces of paper, and looking over our glasses with our brows furrowed, and talking excitedly, waving our hands and shit, and the clock would spin around all fast to show the passage of time…”

I stood up and waved my hands excitedly, humming a little montage background tune I came up with on the spot.  It was pretty good.

“SIT DOWN. We still have ninety-two to go.”

I sighed.



We sorted and sorted, judging and discussing and shuffling pieces of paper around.  We weighed the pros and cons of each applicant, doing our best to be Fair and Balanced.  It’s hard to get a comprehensive, clear picture of a person based on just one brief email, but I had a mental list of key criteria and standards which I stuck to rigidly.

“How about this one? He’s got a good job.”
“No. He has a stupid email address.”
“You really wanna live with FreshDawg6995@hotmail.com? Hell no. NEXT.”

“How about this girl? She’s a teacher.”
“No. Bad speller.  E comes before I in ‘receive’. Also, there’s an apostrophe in Craig’s List. NEXT.”

“How about…”
“No. I hate people named Shane. NEXT.”

“How about…
“No. He sounds like an asshole. NEXT.”

“How about…”
“No. She went to Irvine.”
“That’s barely a UC. Might as well be community college, or Sally Struther’s by-mail trade school. NEXT.”

“How about…”
“Her last name’s McGavin.”
“So she’s Irish.  Irish people are dirty.”

Ellie shook her head in disgust and frustration.

“You’re terrible at this Trevor.”

I shrugged. “How about this guy?” I offered.

“A 38 year old male named Butch? Works as a prison guard at San Quentin?  Wants to know if it’s ok to host AA meetings at our place every other week? Christ’s sake Trevor, his email is in all caps!”


“SO HE SAYS ‘YOU BEST RIGHT MY ASS BACK QUIK!1!!’ as his fucking subject line!”

“Don’t be so critical, Ellie, sheesh.  You need to learn to give people a chance.  It says here he’s got a 48 inch HDTV…”

Needless to say, it was a long night.


After culling the douchebags and felons and southern californians from our list, we were left with about twenty. We made appointments for them to come and interview.

Aside from one creepy sociopath who looked like a young Doctor Drew (from LoveLine) and one geeky ass motherfucker who wouldn’t stop talking about how much he loved Battlestar Galactica, the interviews were pretty run of the mill.

One guy who was working at Whole Foods and getting his teaching credential seemed alright, but then he told me he rode a fixie and I asked him to please fuck off and get out of my house immediately.

The time has come to make our decision, however.

“We have to give it to the murderer psychopath, Ellie.”

“Are you kidding?”



“When I end up chopped up in some freezer, it’s going to be your fault.”

“Fine. I still want one of the three girls.”

We made charts and discussed and pondered endlessly until about three AM.  There were three equally awesome girls.  Deciding between them seemed impossible.

Molly.  Marisa.  Mary.  Shit, this is hard.

Finally we said fuck it, and threw ourselves on the mercy of the gods.

Three cards.  I shuffled them for five minutes.

“Do I really need to have this blindfold on?” Ellie asked.

“Yes.  And turn your back. Hold on, I need to turn off the lights.”


“QUIET! If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right!  We have to do this with the appropriate respect and ceremony and thoroughness, or Fate will think us unworthy and fuck us with a crappy roommate.  Now cover your ears so you can’t hear me shuffle…”

At times, us lowly mortals cannot be trusted to see the Right Path.  When all other avenues of judgment are exhausted, when there is nothing left to debate or discuss, when your girlfriend says ‘no, we can’t just have them come over and fight to the death with samurai swords’, then there is nought to do but give the decision over to pure chance.

I placed the cards in Ellie’s hands.  It was pitch dark, silent, our living room as still as a temple.  The perfect conditions for communing with The Beyond.

Fate reached down, guiding Ellie’s hands, and she chose a card.

I held my breath.

“Jack of Spades.”

I gasped.

“I can’t believe it.  It’s done.  The choice is made.  It’s out of our hands now. Thank you, oh benevolent gods of chance, for your guidance.”

We sat for a moment in silence, exhausted and shaken by our brush with Fate.

Ellie looked at me.

“Which one was the Jack of Spades again?  Molly, Marisa, or Mary?”

“It’s… oh fuck I don’t remember. We should have written it down…”

“God dammit Trevor!”

“Shit! Ok ok put the blindfold back on, we have to do it again…”



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