Bugs all in my meal and deities all in my reception

Music – R.L. Burnside – Shake’m On Down

We are lately stricken with what certain pussies and whiners have referred to as a heat wave.  Pale and fallow from a life of drinking Racer 5 and smoking cheap cigarettes indoors, the hipsters remove their Humphrey Bogart hats and their Clark Kent glasses to wipe their brows with their tattooed forearms, moaning that they “just can’t take it.”  88 degrees in the sun is not a hellish inferno, wussbags.  You’ve just developed Stockholm syndrome with our unpleasant, endlessly shitty weather.

It might be a little more bearable if you took off your undersized leather jacket or that Siouxsie and the Banshees sweatshirt with the safety pins.

God I fucking hate hipsters.

——

We hit the beach early on Saturday, Ellie carrying our stuff and me followed by a little army of sandy children who were fascinated by the ugly colors of my wrecked leg.  It’s purple and yellow and, in some places, a wretched shade of green.  A total mishmash of disgusting hues and decidedly unfleshy tones.  The sort of monstrous camouflage pattern you’d want on your uniform if you were going to fight the reanimated dead in the underworld.  I move slowly, limping along even more pathetically in the deep sand.  Unable to outpace them, I was forced to curse and intimidate the children.

“Why is it that color?”
“Can I touch it?”
“Why is it purple?”

“Get the fuck out of here, kids.  Don’t your parents teach you not to talk to strangers?”

“How come your leg looks puffy?”
“Where’s your ankle?”

“BEGONE! I have mace!”

They reluctantly dispersed, and we found the rest of the capoeira folks amongst the throngs of beachgoers.

——-

“I can’t believe how hot it is.”
“Nice.”
“What?”
“You mean ‘nice’.”
“It’s hot as hell out!” Lindsey said.  I peered at her over my sunglasses.
“It’s fucking perfect out.  You’re at Ocean Beach without a drysuit and a snow parka, for christ sake! That is the very definition of nice weather.”
“That’s true.  I’ve never been here when there weren’t forty mile an hour winds.”

Ocean Beach, on the three days a year you can go there without earmuffs and a scarf, is an amazing cross section of San Franciscan life.  Most of the rich drive their Audis up north to Baker, or up to Pt. Reyes.  The crackheads don’t go to the beach, because they’re crackheads.  That leaves the Rest of Us which, on a 90 degree day in April, amounts to a god damn lot of people.  Thousands and thousands.

Families, high school kids smoking weed and stealing beers from their neighbors coolers, twenty-somethings playing volleyball, creepy isolated middle-aged dudes with binoculars and wolfish grins… all in all, a great scene.  I watched two ghetto kids, sweating like pigs in their oversized jeans and Giants jerseys, dragging their wheelchair-bound friend through the dunes and up to the water’s edge. I saw a guy on a twenty-thousand dollar ultralight road bike almost crash into a couple Harley-riding lesbians when he was distracted by a passing bikini.  Far up the slope from us, near the parking lot, several overdressed Mission kids sat in clumps or alone.

“What the hell do they do up there?”
“Smoke.  Complain about the heat.  If they’re alone, they write in their journals.”
“Why?”
“They think if they look off meaningfully into the distance and the great blue Pacific, it’ll make their drivel better. Cuz that’s what writers do in the movies.”
“Huh.”
“Maybe if they look mournful and serious enough, God or The Fates or a publisher will recognize what a Serious Artiste they are, and their blog will be optioned and they’ll Really Make It.  Assholes.”

We drank for a few minutes, quietly enjoying the crowds and the sun.

“Wait Trevor… don’t you have a blog?”
“Who the fuck told you that?” I asked derisively.

I got up and hobbled off to play catch with Herbert.

——-

It was too hot to sleep on Friday, so after class we went out to drink and play pool.  Ellie and Molly both had friends staying the weekend, making our apartment a sort of overcrowded youth hostel.  Rather than wait in line for my own bathroom or make smalltalk with the random people hanging out in my kitchen, I stayed out with the AAC crowd despite my aching leg.

“I’m not saying I’d change my vote, I’m just saying he’s doing like a C, maybe C+ job of getting our country out of our current downward fail spiral.”

“He’s got a lot to handle…”

“No excuse.  We wouldn’t give a Republican that kind of leeway, we shouldn’t give it to Obama either.”  I said.  I was two beers past Indignant, approaching Outraged, but still about four short of Jovial Apathy.  “He hasn’t done shit to fix the underlying problems with our economy, he’s royally screwing the pooch with these DoJ appointments, and he’s straight-up 180ed on this illegal wiretapping shit.  We aren’t talking about the fucking vague intricacies of treaty negotiations or public policy here, these are serious and clear cut fuckups.”

“Oh whatever.”

San Franciscans don’t do well when confronted with the shortcomings of Our Guy, St. Barack the Wise and Multiracial.  They stop short of cussing at you, saying you hate Amurrica and Jesus which is more than you can say for the neocons, but they still get defensive quick.

“Certainly he’s an improvement over our last nightmarish ruler, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t hold him to some kind of standard.  He’s got the chance to do something more than uphold the Fuck The Citizenry status quo, I expect him to go for it.  And he’s not.”

“He hasn’t been in office that long…” I sighed, and waited to take my shot.  I’m an erratic, totally inconsistent pool player, often terrible and occasionally brilliant.  Alex, my teammate, was thankfully more reliable and we were beating a couple biker dudes handily.

“I realize you can’t put it all on him.” I said, sinking the nine decisively.  “I realize that in reality the government is a gargantuan fucked-up hydra of a thing, and that he can only exert a modicum of influence over certain parts of it. But…”

“But what?”

I scratched, missing the five completely.

“But god dammit, fucking Barack should know better.”

“You should write a letter.”

“Right.”

“Really!”

“Yeah I’ll do that as soon as I get home.  I’ll print out a couple of NY Times articles, take a sharpie and just write ‘WTF bro’ across the top and send it to the Whitehouse. I’ll be America’s catalyst for change.”

“Yep.”

“That’s fucking democracy in action right there.”

“Whose shot is it?”

——

Depressing political shit:

http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/04032009/watch.html

http://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2009/04/obama-doj-worse-than-bush
http://blog.wired.com/27bstroke6/2009/04/obama-taps-fift.html

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