pizza slice to go
the city’s skyline above
just a night of work
Monday, November 7, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Dear Prospective Writer
Last week, I had the honor to be part of the 2011 VONA Fiction workshop with ZZ Packer. One night, our group of writers met outside of class to get to know each other. This is what came out of a five-minute writing prompt we had for each other: if you could write a letter to someone who's interested in being a writer, what would you say?
Dear Prospective Writer,
So imagine me: 32, sitting cross-legged on this lounge chair with a few gray hairs, inhabiting a body that created cancer and survived it, writing to my 19-year old self who is taking your place. Maybe someone told you, too, that you have a way with words. An ability to put down your thoughts and feelings with a sense of abandon that is unusual. Maybe someone took an interest in your writing, seemingly believed in you, and now you're bedazzled with the idea of being a writer. You're young, foolish, believe me, but if it fulfills you in a way that nothing else does, then plunge. Think about what you love, what makes you alive. This is all a ride, but do what you love, be with those you love as much as you can. As far as I'm concerned, I think that's the only game with all this. Love yourself. Cherish and honor what you've been given. Be one of my heroes.
Signed,
Juan Alvarado Valdivia
6/21/11
Dear Prospective Writer,
So imagine me: 32, sitting cross-legged on this lounge chair with a few gray hairs, inhabiting a body that created cancer and survived it, writing to my 19-year old self who is taking your place. Maybe someone told you, too, that you have a way with words. An ability to put down your thoughts and feelings with a sense of abandon that is unusual. Maybe someone took an interest in your writing, seemingly believed in you, and now you're bedazzled with the idea of being a writer. You're young, foolish, believe me, but if it fulfills you in a way that nothing else does, then plunge. Think about what you love, what makes you alive. This is all a ride, but do what you love, be with those you love as much as you can. As far as I'm concerned, I think that's the only game with all this. Love yourself. Cherish and honor what you've been given. Be one of my heroes.
Signed,
Juan Alvarado Valdivia
6/21/11
Friday, May 13, 2011
Let Me Hear Your Body Talk
How Olivia Newton John’s “Physical” can be harnessed to benefit our society
Much has changed since Olivia Newton John’s “Physical” topped the American Billboard charts in November 1981. The Berlin Wall fell. The United States voted its first Black man into office. People listen to their music via MP3 players instead of cassette tapes. And the words “text message breakup” have entered our lexicon.
Before “Physical” vaulted her to the top of the music charts—a song whose suggestive lyrics got it banned in radio stations in South Africa and Utah—Newton John was the poster girl of sugary-sweet pop music with hits like “I Honestly Love You,” and “You’re the One That I Want.” The song, whose lyrics were not surprisingly penned by men, is quite a sexy ditty—a tawdry, honest, and playfully horny predecessor to Kylie Minogue’s sexy-licious “Can’t Get You Out of My Head.” Newton John’s masterpiece, the most popular song of her career, spent ten weeks at number one on the Billboard Hot 100. In 2008, it was #1 on their Top 50 Sexiest Songs Of All Time, though that’s not saying much since Sir Rod Stewart was #2 with “Tonight’s The Night”—a song that will never send a rush of blood to my loins (the list does not include Minogue’s dance pop classic or even The Mary Jane Girls “All Night Long” since it is based on each song's performance on the Billboard Hot 100 chart).
The song’s accolades reflect the pizzazz and pulsating power that “Physical” can incite for its listeners. From the opening verse, it’s clear what endows the song with such sexual vigor:
I took you to an intimate restaurant
Then to a suggestive movie
There's nothing left to talk about
Unless it's horizontally
The song, of course, would not pack the same oomph if it were sung by a man (see for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMmzpBNgFQI) With an organ designed to rise and excitedly point forward to function optimally, men are physically structured to seek sexual encounters. Its what we do, what is expected of us. The song would not carry its power if even a rock goddess, a sexy bad girl, a let-it-fucking-hang woman like Pat Benatar, Joan Jett, or Gloria Trevi growled its lyrics in the rock ‘n roll vein. A lusty attitude would be expected of them. What gives Newton John’s “Physical” its dangerous prowess is the fact that a seemingly well-behaved and sane woman (the second verse starts with the lyrics: I've been patient, I've been good) can have such a penial-inspired attitude towards sex. The song’s bouncy, safe beat and rhythm—which could just as easily double as the intro for a ridiculously-plotted porn or a cheerful corporate training video—further conjures this deceptive surface veneer along with Newton John’s wholesome look. Songwriters Steve Kipner and Terry Shaddick found their perfect songbird in the star of Grease.
Twenty-nine years later, the notion that its normal for good girls to want to “get animal” has been a bit more accepted, thankfully. But it’s still a threatening notion to accept as a reality—for religious groups that continue to believe that sex should only be initiated for procreative purposes; that sex should only be between married people; and for many men who find it difficult to accept that women have the right to be pleasure conquistadors as well.
The song, which was Billboard’s top pop song of 1982, still carries power today. Its lyrics—their directness, the truth they carry—will always make the song timeless, even if its bubbly 80’s pop sound has become dated to our 21st Century ears. “Physical” can and should be harnessed to benefit our society. It’s a wild argument to posit, I know, but in this wacky country, in this strange, supposedly “civilized” world with a way of life that is, to put it lightly, una locura, why not? If our collective ship is going down—as I believe it is (one only needs to see how quickly our glacial shelves are melting to know something is terribly oft-kilter on Planet Earth)—we might as well enjoy our time as fully as we can.
That said, if I were, say, mayor of this fair city by the bay, I would propose two initiatives:
1) That all nightclubs in the 415—regardless of style of music played—play a rendition of “Physical” at least once a night, and
2) That every bar equipped with a jukebox have “Physical” in its musical selection (shit, I’d even advocate that the jukeboxes be re-designed to have a blinking heart-shaped red button or one with stick figures in the 69 position etched on it so that anyone who presses that button will automatically add “Physical” to the queue)
The purpose? Simple: to encourage sex. Copulation. Fucking. Lovemaking.
Imagine yourself at a dive bar like Dalva (which sounds quite a bit like “vulva,” which is probably why I like it!), a salsa club, or a swanky watering hole. Now imagine Olivia Newton John’s “Physical” pulsing between the walls of this establishment, a few libations in your system. Imagine yourself on a date—say, the first or second—and you’ve decided to raise this level of human interaction to the physical realm. Where your lips, your hands, tongues and hips are in a dialogue that is more ancient than language, in a hot contorting mesh of communion. With this song blaring, either one of you barely has to say a thing to initiate an exit and subsequent scurrying to a place to fornicate. Everything you want to say is already there in those lyrics, in those molecules the music fills. All that’s needed is a simple nod toward the exit. Or a bathroom stall if you’re one of those blessed mad fools.
So why target bars and clubs, you ask? Because in general—especially dance clubs—their existence and primary societal function is this: to get people laid. Zappa was spot on when he said that as long as humans are around dance clubs will exist.
This initiative would essentially be like the whipped cream or sumptuous caramel or chocolate syrup topping on a hot fudge sundae. The suggestive song would encourage people to get it on. And isn’t that a social good, given all the scientifically proven benefits of sex such as an improved immune system, less stress, and a more robust heart?: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/02/09/sex-benefits-_n_820526.html#s237024&title=Look_Younger. “Sex is marvelous,” the crooner of love, Mr. “Mercy Mercy Me” once said. So let’s have societal policies that facilitate that sexy-goodness (not that San Francisco needs much encouragement)!
Much has changed since Olivia Newton John’s “Physical” topped the American Billboard charts in November 1981. The Berlin Wall fell. The United States voted its first Black man into office. People listen to their music via MP3 players instead of cassette tapes. And the words “text message breakup” have entered our lexicon.
Before “Physical” vaulted her to the top of the music charts—a song whose suggestive lyrics got it banned in radio stations in South Africa and Utah—Newton John was the poster girl of sugary-sweet pop music with hits like “I Honestly Love You,” and “You’re the One That I Want.” The song, whose lyrics were not surprisingly penned by men, is quite a sexy ditty—a tawdry, honest, and playfully horny predecessor to Kylie Minogue’s sexy-licious “Can’t Get You Out of My Head.” Newton John’s masterpiece, the most popular song of her career, spent ten weeks at number one on the Billboard Hot 100. In 2008, it was #1 on their Top 50 Sexiest Songs Of All Time, though that’s not saying much since Sir Rod Stewart was #2 with “Tonight’s The Night”—a song that will never send a rush of blood to my loins (the list does not include Minogue’s dance pop classic or even The Mary Jane Girls “All Night Long” since it is based on each song's performance on the Billboard Hot 100 chart).
The song’s accolades reflect the pizzazz and pulsating power that “Physical” can incite for its listeners. From the opening verse, it’s clear what endows the song with such sexual vigor:
I took you to an intimate restaurant
Then to a suggestive movie
There's nothing left to talk about
Unless it's horizontally
The song, of course, would not pack the same oomph if it were sung by a man (see for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMmzpBNgFQI) With an organ designed to rise and excitedly point forward to function optimally, men are physically structured to seek sexual encounters. Its what we do, what is expected of us. The song would not carry its power if even a rock goddess, a sexy bad girl, a let-it-fucking-hang woman like Pat Benatar, Joan Jett, or Gloria Trevi growled its lyrics in the rock ‘n roll vein. A lusty attitude would be expected of them. What gives Newton John’s “Physical” its dangerous prowess is the fact that a seemingly well-behaved and sane woman (the second verse starts with the lyrics: I've been patient, I've been good) can have such a penial-inspired attitude towards sex. The song’s bouncy, safe beat and rhythm—which could just as easily double as the intro for a ridiculously-plotted porn or a cheerful corporate training video—further conjures this deceptive surface veneer along with Newton John’s wholesome look. Songwriters Steve Kipner and Terry Shaddick found their perfect songbird in the star of Grease.
Twenty-nine years later, the notion that its normal for good girls to want to “get animal” has been a bit more accepted, thankfully. But it’s still a threatening notion to accept as a reality—for religious groups that continue to believe that sex should only be initiated for procreative purposes; that sex should only be between married people; and for many men who find it difficult to accept that women have the right to be pleasure conquistadors as well.
The song, which was Billboard’s top pop song of 1982, still carries power today. Its lyrics—their directness, the truth they carry—will always make the song timeless, even if its bubbly 80’s pop sound has become dated to our 21st Century ears. “Physical” can and should be harnessed to benefit our society. It’s a wild argument to posit, I know, but in this wacky country, in this strange, supposedly “civilized” world with a way of life that is, to put it lightly, una locura, why not? If our collective ship is going down—as I believe it is (one only needs to see how quickly our glacial shelves are melting to know something is terribly oft-kilter on Planet Earth)—we might as well enjoy our time as fully as we can.
That said, if I were, say, mayor of this fair city by the bay, I would propose two initiatives:
1) That all nightclubs in the 415—regardless of style of music played—play a rendition of “Physical” at least once a night, and
2) That every bar equipped with a jukebox have “Physical” in its musical selection (shit, I’d even advocate that the jukeboxes be re-designed to have a blinking heart-shaped red button or one with stick figures in the 69 position etched on it so that anyone who presses that button will automatically add “Physical” to the queue)
The purpose? Simple: to encourage sex. Copulation. Fucking. Lovemaking.
Imagine yourself at a dive bar like Dalva (which sounds quite a bit like “vulva,” which is probably why I like it!), a salsa club, or a swanky watering hole. Now imagine Olivia Newton John’s “Physical” pulsing between the walls of this establishment, a few libations in your system. Imagine yourself on a date—say, the first or second—and you’ve decided to raise this level of human interaction to the physical realm. Where your lips, your hands, tongues and hips are in a dialogue that is more ancient than language, in a hot contorting mesh of communion. With this song blaring, either one of you barely has to say a thing to initiate an exit and subsequent scurrying to a place to fornicate. Everything you want to say is already there in those lyrics, in those molecules the music fills. All that’s needed is a simple nod toward the exit. Or a bathroom stall if you’re one of those blessed mad fools.
So why target bars and clubs, you ask? Because in general—especially dance clubs—their existence and primary societal function is this: to get people laid. Zappa was spot on when he said that as long as humans are around dance clubs will exist.
This initiative would essentially be like the whipped cream or sumptuous caramel or chocolate syrup topping on a hot fudge sundae. The suggestive song would encourage people to get it on. And isn’t that a social good, given all the scientifically proven benefits of sex such as an improved immune system, less stress, and a more robust heart?: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/02/09/sex-benefits-_n_820526.html#s237024&title=Look_Younger. “Sex is marvelous,” the crooner of love, Mr. “Mercy Mercy Me” once said. So let’s have societal policies that facilitate that sexy-goodness (not that San Francisco needs much encouragement)!
Monday, May 9, 2011
a most curious visit
A very unusual thing just happened.
Earlier this morning I found out that my friend, David Hardy, is finally dead. My sweet friend who I met in the men's locker room between our radiation treatments died on Saturday after battling cancer for nearly a year and a half. But a few minutes ago, while hanging my white laundry on the clothesline in our back patio, with not one cloud in the sky, a crow flew down between the buildings that surround our backyard. The crow perched on the five and a half foot tall metal fence that separates the neighboring backyard. It was no more than fifteen feet away from me, facing me at eye level. It remained there for a good 15-20 seconds, even after I cawed at it (which is something I like to do now with crows), before flying up and disappearing into the thicket of leaves from the tree beside it. The entire time, I continued to peer over at it while hanging my socks and listening to McCoy Tyner’s piano solo on John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” through my iPod. Shortly after it flapped up into the tree, the crow flew off, above the roof of our house, playfully chased for the briefest of seconds by a tiny brown sparrow before it settled on the edge of the roof of the dilapidated building behind our house. While I looked up at it, it almost appeared to be peering down at me before it disappeared. Seconds later, I saw the crow flying south, just above the backyards of the neighboring houses.
Besides the timing, what makes this most unusual is that this is the first time I’ve ever seen a crow descend down to our patio. Our backyard——as well as the two neighboring ones——is kind of a cove that is especially popular amongst pigeons. Like an oasis from the city's bustle. I see and hear these pigeons all the time from my bedroom, cooing to each other, flapping from roof to roof, or strutting about in a mating dance of sorts on the house behind us. Doves and English sparrows occasionally join them, but this is the first time any bird came this close to me during the year that I have lived here. To boot, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crow hang out behind our house. On a few occasions, I’ve seen a small group of crows perching on the wires that crisscross the houses on our block of Lexington Street.
Thank god I’m no longer scared of them! I used to feel haunted by them since I thought I always saw or heard them when I had cancer, no matter what town or city I was in. I rather like them now, more than ever, secretly wish I could have one as a companion to fly above me while I bicycle around like the German ski-jumper featured in Werner Herzog's breathtaking documentary The Great Ecstasy of the Sculptor Steiner.
Since the crow left, I’ve been looking out my bedroom window, hoping it will return. But its message has already been delivered.
Earlier this morning I found out that my friend, David Hardy, is finally dead. My sweet friend who I met in the men's locker room between our radiation treatments died on Saturday after battling cancer for nearly a year and a half. But a few minutes ago, while hanging my white laundry on the clothesline in our back patio, with not one cloud in the sky, a crow flew down between the buildings that surround our backyard. The crow perched on the five and a half foot tall metal fence that separates the neighboring backyard. It was no more than fifteen feet away from me, facing me at eye level. It remained there for a good 15-20 seconds, even after I cawed at it (which is something I like to do now with crows), before flying up and disappearing into the thicket of leaves from the tree beside it. The entire time, I continued to peer over at it while hanging my socks and listening to McCoy Tyner’s piano solo on John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” through my iPod. Shortly after it flapped up into the tree, the crow flew off, above the roof of our house, playfully chased for the briefest of seconds by a tiny brown sparrow before it settled on the edge of the roof of the dilapidated building behind our house. While I looked up at it, it almost appeared to be peering down at me before it disappeared. Seconds later, I saw the crow flying south, just above the backyards of the neighboring houses.
Besides the timing, what makes this most unusual is that this is the first time I’ve ever seen a crow descend down to our patio. Our backyard——as well as the two neighboring ones——is kind of a cove that is especially popular amongst pigeons. Like an oasis from the city's bustle. I see and hear these pigeons all the time from my bedroom, cooing to each other, flapping from roof to roof, or strutting about in a mating dance of sorts on the house behind us. Doves and English sparrows occasionally join them, but this is the first time any bird came this close to me during the year that I have lived here. To boot, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crow hang out behind our house. On a few occasions, I’ve seen a small group of crows perching on the wires that crisscross the houses on our block of Lexington Street.
Thank god I’m no longer scared of them! I used to feel haunted by them since I thought I always saw or heard them when I had cancer, no matter what town or city I was in. I rather like them now, more than ever, secretly wish I could have one as a companion to fly above me while I bicycle around like the German ski-jumper featured in Werner Herzog's breathtaking documentary The Great Ecstasy of the Sculptor Steiner.
Since the crow left, I’ve been looking out my bedroom window, hoping it will return. But its message has already been delivered.
onward, to the next chapter
my home for six years,
much has changed on this Mission
I stared down my death.
much has changed on this Mission
I stared down my death.
Monday, April 25, 2011
home
my new home? dark dive bars with flickering red candles. a place where men with forlorn faces hang their heads over their cell phones, which rest on the bar counter. biding their time, waiting for something to lift them.
Friday, April 22, 2011
so i think i'm short circuiting
Monday night. About 8:30 pm. 4th floor of the Mills Building in San Francisco’s Financial District——a historic 22-storey building that has greed-mongers like Goldman Sachs and Merrill Lynch as its tenants——and the legal translation firm I tool away for. My boss, Nicholas——a quirky, ridiculously intelligent 30-year old man who grew up in the Czech Republic and Germany has asked me over to his desk to help him with a Spanish translation document he is working on. He is wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, staring at one of the two large flat-screen monitors standing on his desk. He asks me to read the original legal document, which is in Spanish, in order to determine if the English translation makes sense. He hands me the printout. There is a passage that doesn’t sound right to him, one that doesn’t read sensibly. So I read it. The lawyer who wrote the passage in question is trying to state that his client has the right to introduce some evidence or testimony——that if this ability was taken away it would “castrate” and “hinder” their ability. Awkward wording, but that is what was written. It is one of those overly-wordy-typical-lawyerly run-on sentences that is difficult to understand in its original language, let alone translate. But there was Nicholas, a brilliant humble young man who studied theatre, getting flustered about the translation after I told him that it seems technically correct.
But that doesn’t make sense, he says. It just doesn’t make sense how the translator worded it.
It’s all bullshit to me so I was all too eager to go back to the ridiculous, pointless, soulless work that I was working on at my work station. But there we were, debating the phrasing of a translation, devoting our piercing attention, our life——the fleeting, finite amount of breaths and heartbeats within us——to this pointless minutiae. Part of me wanted to crack, bend over and put my hands on my thighs and laugh and laugh and laugh. This is our life, Nicholas, I wanted to say. This is what we’re doing with it. Pathetic. Just fucking, pathetic. Can't you see?
And I care for him. He was excited about my trip to New Mexico for my artist residency, didn’t hesitate to give me six weeks off to go and chase my dream.
This is what we’re doing with our lives, Nicholas. How can we get out of this?
Part of me wanted to walk out, say peace out, but of course I sat back at my desk and went back to work.
But that doesn’t make sense, he says. It just doesn’t make sense how the translator worded it.
It’s all bullshit to me so I was all too eager to go back to the ridiculous, pointless, soulless work that I was working on at my work station. But there we were, debating the phrasing of a translation, devoting our piercing attention, our life——the fleeting, finite amount of breaths and heartbeats within us——to this pointless minutiae. Part of me wanted to crack, bend over and put my hands on my thighs and laugh and laugh and laugh. This is our life, Nicholas, I wanted to say. This is what we’re doing with it. Pathetic. Just fucking, pathetic. Can't you see?
And I care for him. He was excited about my trip to New Mexico for my artist residency, didn’t hesitate to give me six weeks off to go and chase my dream.
This is what we’re doing with our lives, Nicholas. How can we get out of this?
Part of me wanted to walk out, say peace out, but of course I sat back at my desk and went back to work.
Dream on April 20, 2011
In my dream, I was stepping out of the front door of my parents’ home in suburban Fremont with our dog, Cotton. He’s the chubby, fluffy American Eskimo we had growing up. He’s been dead since 2005. Since he died, I’ve rarely——if ever——recalled dreaming about him.
The sun shone high in the cloudless sky which hung over our residential neighborhood. Cotton and I were trotting out to the front yard so that he could run around in circles and take a poop. Right after we giddily dashed out the front door, I came to a stop when I saw that the small tree in the front yard was teaming with a flock of white cranes. They took flight——all twenty or so of them——flapping their majestic wings, their necks craned toward the sun. I gawked and watched them soar away before I turned my attention back to Cotton.
The dry grass and weeds in our front lawn was uncharacteristically high——about a foot high. That’s when I saw a red snake lunge at my dog, seemingly biting him in the rear though Cotton didn’t yelp. All the cranes apparently had captured snakes in their talons and let them go as they flew away from us. I bent over and petted Cotton, making sure he was okay. I couldn’t tell if he had been bitten, but I guided him toward the front door area at a safe distance from the snakes.
Once he was safe, I turned back to the front lawn. My eyes danced and alertly glanced over the ground, searching for the snakes. But they were gone, leaving our lawn scattered with foot-long carcasses of the skin they had shed.
* * * * * * *
The sun shone high in the cloudless sky which hung over our residential neighborhood. Cotton and I were trotting out to the front yard so that he could run around in circles and take a poop. Right after we giddily dashed out the front door, I came to a stop when I saw that the small tree in the front yard was teaming with a flock of white cranes. They took flight——all twenty or so of them——flapping their majestic wings, their necks craned toward the sun. I gawked and watched them soar away before I turned my attention back to Cotton.
The dry grass and weeds in our front lawn was uncharacteristically high——about a foot high. That’s when I saw a red snake lunge at my dog, seemingly biting him in the rear though Cotton didn’t yelp. All the cranes apparently had captured snakes in their talons and let them go as they flew away from us. I bent over and petted Cotton, making sure he was okay. I couldn’t tell if he had been bitten, but I guided him toward the front door area at a safe distance from the snakes.
Once he was safe, I turned back to the front lawn. My eyes danced and alertly glanced over the ground, searching for the snakes. But they were gone, leaving our lawn scattered with foot-long carcasses of the skin they had shed.
* * * * * * *
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
big titties poem #20
tetonas, mamitas,
me dan ganas,
me dan vida,
bendito sea Dios por
darnos un mundo con
grandes tetitas!
me dan ganas,
me dan vida,
bendito sea Dios por
darnos un mundo con
grandes tetitas!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
chance
a chance encounter——
turn the corner,
much could change,
a new trajectory
if you meet the right spirit.
I want to believe
with my entire being
that this is possible.
turn the corner,
much could change,
a new trajectory
if you meet the right spirit.
I want to believe
with my entire being
that this is possible.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Captain's Log, Day 3 without gas heating (or Hopefully This Won't Be You)
(following is the entry I scribbled today in the guestbook for my casita)
Woke up feeling awfully giggly when I rolled out of my warm burrito of blankets today. Think I'm getting igloo fever or something (because la casita isn't so much of a warm home nowadays; there is little to no difference in temperature between the inside of my house y el mundo outside, I determined today). Yesterday I happened upon a 2 1/2 foot long icicle, standing in a pile of snow. I picked it up, walked a block to the town plaza and summoned my Quijote spirit by saying, "Who will accept my challenge to duel with the might of ice?" while I wielded my icy sabre. A ragged hippie took a step forward and said, "You need to mellow out, bro. Your aura is off the charts!"
Second day without hot water for bathing. Decided not to wash my hair, keeping my vibrant mini-fro roaring. Cleansed my pits but I'm becoming concerned that my crotch area may take a serious turn for the peuw. Thank gawd I haven't gotten any action since arriving in town a week ago (and that doesn't look to change anytime soon)!
The temperature, at least, has risen above the freezing point (woohoo!) My laptop started up today with no issue (yesterday morning, though charged, it wouldn't turn on; never done that before; I suspect it was just too damn cold to function; since then, I've been wrapping up my laptopito, mi companero, with a blanket or pantaloons when it's nighty-night). Grateful for this time to create. Gonna crank out some more pages even if I can see my breath at night, while sitting at the desk.
Woke up feeling awfully giggly when I rolled out of my warm burrito of blankets today. Think I'm getting igloo fever or something (because la casita isn't so much of a warm home nowadays; there is little to no difference in temperature between the inside of my house y el mundo outside, I determined today). Yesterday I happened upon a 2 1/2 foot long icicle, standing in a pile of snow. I picked it up, walked a block to the town plaza and summoned my Quijote spirit by saying, "Who will accept my challenge to duel with the might of ice?" while I wielded my icy sabre. A ragged hippie took a step forward and said, "You need to mellow out, bro. Your aura is off the charts!"
Second day without hot water for bathing. Decided not to wash my hair, keeping my vibrant mini-fro roaring. Cleansed my pits but I'm becoming concerned that my crotch area may take a serious turn for the peuw. Thank gawd I haven't gotten any action since arriving in town a week ago (and that doesn't look to change anytime soon)!
The temperature, at least, has risen above the freezing point (woohoo!) My laptop started up today with no issue (yesterday morning, though charged, it wouldn't turn on; never done that before; I suspect it was just too damn cold to function; since then, I've been wrapping up my laptopito, mi companero, with a blanket or pantaloons when it's nighty-night). Grateful for this time to create. Gonna crank out some more pages even if I can see my breath at night, while sitting at the desk.
Friday, January 28, 2011
what a good workout at the gym will induce
EXT. CORNER OF 18TH AND MISSION STREETS- DAY
ya see that man, pinned on top of Death on the dirty street corner, wringing Him by the neck? yeah, that’s me. know what I told him, when I caressed his bony cheek before I stood and left? I said, “Not yet.”
ya see that man, pinned on top of Death on the dirty street corner, wringing Him by the neck? yeah, that’s me. know what I told him, when I caressed his bony cheek before I stood and left? I said, “Not yet.”
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