Intentionally, yes. I’ve illegally parked, driven over the speed limit, trespassed, and even, in my youth smoked pot back when that could have gotten me in serious trouble with the law.
As for breaking the law accidentally, I lived for years in the American Bible Belt, where it was impossible to keep up with all the Blue Laws. I may have occasionally violated local ordinances by swearing, or drinking spirits, or playing cards, or buying dogfood/nylons/kitchen utensils on a Sunday.
Author: Jinx
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It was an absolutely beautiful, clear day, and I was looking forward to getting the laundry done early. There was a problem with funds – I could only dig up $5, and I needed some detergent, so I walked down to Market Street to visit the bank machine.
The first thing I noticed, as I approached Market, was a man pushing a trolly loaded with balloons. I thought a store must be throwing a party of some kind. When I saw everyone gathered up and down the street, though, I realized I was seeing the beginning of the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Reasoning that traffic would be impossible anyway with Market closed, I settled down on the curb to watch.
It was one of the longest parades I ever saw. I enjoyed it. I usually enjoy parades. But I noticed that I seemed to be one of the few people who stuck around for the whole thing. I sat between a young punk with black hair and a Vietnamese mother and her little boy. These gave way to a Hispanic man with his children, a man with a happy little boy and a plump, crying little girl, and a shy Asian tourist. The only other constants were a couple of exasperated traffic cops, a man with his pet Llasso Apsos (who yapped furiously every time other dogs or horses alked past), and a tough old codger with a camera who I think was a reporter. He kept dodging in and out in between floats and processions, sometimes planting himself in the street and snapping pictures as marching bands eddied past him. He did this even with a sort of Spanish Saber Women’s Association, plunging into the ranks of sword twirling ladies with a courage that impressed me.
There were a lot of marching bands, some good, some bad. All of the high school kids looked hot under that sun. In one band, which was wearing dark green jackets and tall busbies, a girl had to go sit on the curb with her head between her knees, and another looked so red-faced and shaky I was afraid she was about to fall over.
My favorite part was the horsemanship club. The first rider was a real desperado, a tough looking black man in fancy silver cowboy get up with fine silver appurtenances on his stirrups, saddle and bridle. Another rider’s horse was almost out of control. He was walking alongside it, struggling to hold its bridle as it skipped and tossed its head, its eyes rolling. The representatives of the horsemanship club riding in the truck behind him looked quite disapprovingt.
The IRA had some representatives there, including a float that showed Ireland as a beautiful girl wearing a shawl, in a cage guarded by vicious, mocking British soldiers and taunted by a caricature of Margaret Thatcher. This drew some cheers. The whole thing lasted three hours. After it was over, I went to the bank and attempted unsuccessfully to draw $20. When that didn’t work, I went home, borrowed $20 from Tim, and set out to do the laundry, forgetting to take anything to read.
Ah, youth and insolvency.
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A Story of Dogged Persistence
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CAPTAIN LONGSTAFFE AND DEEP GERTIE … Longstaffe was a rebellious young aristocrat or a conscience-stricken slaver or a pirate whose brutality and ruthlessness made Henry Morgan himself shake his head in appalled disapproval.
He was hanged for defiling a well or he was slain and eaten by the Tomami or he was slain and eaten by his shipwrecked mates because they were hungry or perhaps just because he was unpopular and they were trying to make a point. Or he became a hopeless drunk and was found dead from Paresis on the sands of Sanctuary Strand.
The only consistent part of his legend is his virility and his paramour, Deep Gertie.
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They spent much of their time enjoying themselves, hiking, entertaining, traveling, sometimes doing volunteer work.
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The gentleman the other day at the finger wharf had told us about a good Italian restaurant over on Challis, not far from the hotel — Fratelli Paradiso. Michael and I walked to Challis, a pleasant street rather like Hyde here in San Francisco, a mixture of residential buildings and small, upscale restaurants. This was definitely not raffish King’s Cross. Fratelli Paradiso proved to be a bit hard to pick out among the restaurants because there was no visible sign, so Michael had to ask one of the employees. We went inside and sat down.
It was dark. Very dark, mainly lit by candles and the slightly day-glo fluorescent green stripes decorating one wall. There were menus but by candlelight they were unreadable. There were specials hand written on the wall, but white, elegantly seriffed lettering against a dark background — perhaps a blackboard. Too dim to tell. A good looking young waiter came to our rescue and recited the menu in heavily accented English that only required a couple of repetitions. I ended up seizing on the first thing I understood, a kind of artichokey pasta. I always like artichokes. Michael had a penne with a meat sauce. The food came in large attractive bowls. Mine had something slightly green (couldn’t make out much more, even lifting the bowl and holding it close to my eyes) that tasted very lemony and nice. Michael said his was good too, but eating even good food you can’t see clearly has something slightly oppressive about it. I was glad when we had paid our bill and were back out on the sidewalk.
On the walk back to the hotel down Darlinghurst Road that night I noticed for the first time the little rectangular metal plates set in the sidewalk, memorials to long-dead businesses and local characters. Darlinghurst is a bit more active and crowded in the evening than it is during the day, but Michael waited patiently as I stopped every few minutes to write another inscription down in my notebook:
The Astoria: Cheap eatery, roast and three vegs
Christopher Drennan, 1870-1932, poet, academic, drunk, could usually be found ‘quoting bawdy passages from the classics. You could approach the presence as long as you brought him a schooner of beer.’
Oversexed, Overpaid, and over here
Kenneth Slessor:
Where the Black Marias clatter
And peculiar ladies nod
And the flats are rather flatter
And the lodgers rather odd,
Where the night is full of danger
And the darkness filled with fear
And eleven hundred strangers
Live on aspirin and beer…The California Restaurant and sandwich bar, Established 1930s by Dick McGowan, ex-US Marine:
bar stools, club sandwiches, percolated coffee with creme, the second cup free, decor modern, clientele rowdy.
(The space marked by the above inscription is now a McDonald’s. Dammit.)
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Daily writing promptIf you had the power to change one law, what would it be and why?
which has, twice in my lifetime, resulted in presidentical candidates who lost the popular vote being handed the presidency.
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Good Lord, what a gray, still day.
Sometime yesterday afternoon Red Pants came and got his little black device. Michael’s right. He was probably recording the birds, who were very loud in the emptiness usually filled by the rattle of cables, the hum of cars.
They were loud yesterday, anyway. Not a peep right now. Not a black speck of a bird in the sky. Not a leaf stirring in the treetops down the street. If it weren’t for the single car I see slowly climbing the hill in the distance, I could be looking at a photograph.
I wish now I’d gone up to the roof yesterday, when the sky was blue.
Aha! He’s back! Wearing black sweatpants this morning, and this time he’s set the dark rectangle on a different part of the roof, though still near the street. Now that I have a better view, it looks more like an Ipad or a laptop computer than a radio. He turns to walk away, dialing a cellphone and raising it to his ear. Bye-bye Mr. Sweatpants!
I listen carefully. Yes, I can hear birds after all. Just not as loud and raucous as they were yesterday.
Now that I have a sense of when I’ll be able to access healthcare without risking bankruptcy, the three weeks until May 1st seem terribly long. Can I stay healthy until then? At least if the lock-down ends in May, I won’t be quite as afraid of going back to work in the office downtown. Which right now seems like an impossible dream.
Years ago when I worked for Waldenbooks in Greensboro, one of my co-workers told me about how she had gone through a terrible illness. She was young and strong, but got knocked flat by a virus that almost killed her. She told me that while she was sick and confined to her bed, she felt so horrible for so long that she stopped believing she’d ever been well. Maybe it was the pain, or maybe it was the high fever, but she literally thought there had never been any other world for her but the weak, nauseated, head-pounding, hard-to-breathe present.
On colorless days like this, I can’t believe I ever had the option of leaving this apartment. I never went for my weekly walk down Polk Street to the Marina Pier, never hiked all the way to Cole Valley or climbed through the gardens of Telegraph Hill. Michael and I never took Muni Metro to go to a movie at the Castro Theater. We never rode out to the avenues for broth dumplings. I never spent an evening listening to the marathon Moby Dick readings at the Maritime Museum.
The opposite was true yesterday, when the sun was out, the sky was bright, and I had work to do for the library. At the end of the day, as I fixed dinner, I had to remind myself that I had not actually gone in to work but had done everything at my desk here. That’s the difference a blue sky out my window can make.
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It was built in the late 19th or early 20th century. It has a large back yard with space for a garden and a secure fence. There is a lot of green around it, but it is still within walking distance of shops and cafes and at least one library and one rep movie house. Internet access is good. The kitchen is big and up to date, with lots of counter & storage space. Two ovens would be nice.
In addition to the kitchen there is a living room, a bedroom, two studies, and two bathrooms. The climate allows for distinct seasons and snow once or twice a year, but the winters are not too harsh. It is close to relatives and friends, and in a highly literate area.
A pleasant, silent, honest, non-judgmental housekeeper comes in every other day to clean.
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It’s the first week of the 43rd Annual San Francisco Film Festival, so I haven’t seen much of Michael. So far I’ve seen only two films. Wisconsin Death Trip, which I liked, and Peau d’homme couer de bete, which I did not care for.
We went to the opening night party on Thursday night. Michael had to film that evening, and he called from KQED just before heading out. I walked down the hill to the Regency Ballroom, which had the usual floodlights and Will Call table.
For the first forty-five minutes I wandered around the huge, dark ballroom, sampling the food at various tables — pungent soft white cheese spread on nutty bread, Calistoga berry juice, handrolls with peanut sauce, chocolate crepes, Aidelle’s sausage…. The music was very good, but loud. When I found Michael standing and talking to a couple, I could barely make out what anyone was saying. Barring a dance club, I’ve never understood the point of gathering large numbers of people in a room and then blasting them with music so it’s impossible for anyone to communicate without getting a sore throat. Eventually, we moved upstairs to a quieter second floor lobby nerar tall open windows that let in fresh air. We all talked about ghost stories, movies, what we loved and what we hated, and ate sorbet until they turned on the lights and send a security guard over to kick us out.
Outside on the sidewalk, the conversations continued. I talked to a thin, bearded older man who either knew me from a previous festival or was pretending to know me from a previous festival. He told me he spoke seven languages and had travelled all over Europe.
At the time, Michael was co-hosting a show on independent film at KQED. The result was, as his partner, I found myself in more conversations than usual at film events. Michael had some level of facial recognition from being on television, and I still suspect some hungry filmmakers were, quite understandably, trying to network with him through me.
I liked the book Wisconsin Death Trip was based on, so it’s no surprise I liked the movie. Of Peau d’homme couer de bete I have absolutely no memory. Who knows? If I saw it now, I might like it.
Pam Troy 