Time to Start Replacing the Irreplaceable

I've been writing non-blog material for a long time now. I'm finally starting to see some hope shining through between the crinkling of an 8x11 sheet of paper and the tossing of the freshly formed paper ball into the coffee shop garbage can.

Well, I'm off to Portland, Oregon to see some things!

The Funniest Comedian I Have Ever Seen

Excerpt

I stepped directly onto the bus. No one was there to kiss me or hug me or simply wave goodbye with a smile, and it was new to me. Regardless of where I was or what I had done, there was always someone there to bid me adieu from the sidelines, whether they were important to me or not. A true sense of loneliness never hit me as suddenly as it did here in this moment. It paralyzed any excitement I had built for the foreseeable future, and rightfully so. Rather than linger around the bus terminal, I quickly hopped onto the bus long before it's departure time in order to shake off the distinctly depressing state of mind that I created from nothing.

I sat in the back of the bus and watched the couples, business acquaintances, friends, and families fill the seats in front of me. Children began to cry as their parents would quietly hush them to sleep. Loud conversations among friends and family soon followed. The aisles were covered in a layer of garbage from patrons past consisting of empty bottles and plastic bags, making crinkling sounds every so often. It was far more comfortable than a sleek, spotless, and silent bus ride, for sure. Those tend to go by a lot more slowly, in my experience. Being fixed on my surroundings so intensely postponed any truly depressing feelings of my own.

The bus departed and the soft rumbling of the interstate pavement tried to lull me to sleep. A bump or pothole would wake me just as I would get perfectly comfortable enough for some much needed rest. Giving up on the idea of a beginning-to-end bus ride of uninterrupted sleep, I decided to write a letter to someone whom I hadn't seen in many years.

"Please excuse the sloppy handwriting to follow. I am currently riding on a bouncy bus heading toward Seattle, Washington, and my hand is being jerked all over the paper. You will be reluctant to hear that I have not developed Terret's Syndrome or any spastic disorder of the like. Just simply cruising down the highway..." It was a letter to a girl from home. She was the first woman that I had ever loved and she still owned a fair portion of my heart, whether she was aware of not I am not sure. I would write to her time and time again, never recieving a response, and I will constantly make up reasons to justify it. "Maybe my letters aren't reaching her. Maybe she moved away. Maybe she's become illiterate." I would think to myself. I still very much enjoyed writing to her because on the off chance that she actually was reading the letters, it made it worth my while.

Runny Nose

Have you ever felt as if your brain had suddenly melted into a liquid form and started to seep out of your eyes, ears, nose and throat but there was nothing you could do about it because as you would plug one hole, the others would leak more quickly and right as you asked a friend for a helping hand in plugging all of your holes, the bottoms of your feet began to crack because of the pressure build up inside you and as you crawled to the nearest hospital you wonder if there will be any brain left by the time you make it and right as you finish that thought the hospital flips the "OPEN FOR BUSINESS!" sign to a "CLOSED! HOPE TO SEE YOU SOON!" sign at the main entrance so you sneak around to the back of the hospital and break a window and right as you carefully step through the broken glass you realize that it was merely a sinus infection?

No?

Me neither.

Even Everything Bagels Have Hearts!

Every major city seems to have a bar with second rate Boston-sports memorabilia (i.e. a signed Wade Boggs jersey, a giant signed photograph of Tim Nearing, a Larry Izzo signed poster, etc.) that New Englander's feel comfortable at and frequently visit. In San Francisco, that bar is called The Connecticut Yankee. I was skeptical of the name at first, too, and almost thought that it was a joke. "Hey let's tell the die hard Red Sox fan to check out The Connecticut Yankee, a Yankee bar filled with their fans armed with their Blackberrys and iPhones, occasionally looking up from their mobile devices to check the score. That will be a funny joke, right?" As it turns out, it actually is a Red Sox bar with a comforting New England feel. If a shot of Maker's Mark were affordable (and I'm usually flexible), I would be a frequent patron. Unfortunately, seven dollars is pushing it, if you ask me.

A friend of mine happens to be a close friend of the owner, Fritz, and we had the chance to talk briefly. He's been in San Francisco since 1980 and is originally from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I hear a lot of objective opinions on how native New Englander's tend to have a "hard and rough" look, generally speaking. The same with Californians and their California glow. I've never been able to pick up on anything like that, having always lived in Boston. Now that I'm a San Franciscan, it's a lot more noticeable when you're able take a few steps back and view it differently. He had a native New-England-like aura about him and talked about his passion for Phish, The String Cheese Incident, and bands of the like. The rest of the time was spent talking about how he just got back from Tahoe and before that he was camping in Humboldt, and from there he went to Seattle to see a band, and from there he hung out in Portland, and blah blah. The tone in which he talked about his role as "professional traveler/camper/band see-er," it sounded like he thought of it as a chore. "Oh I had to go all the way up to Seattle to see some friend. Sigh. Poor me." Tough life, man.

Part 2 of 52132 tomorrow.

Clean Out of Partially Clever Titles

Last night consisted of, but certainly was not limited to:

• Going to two shows; The Tallest Man on Earth and Mi Ami/Double Dagger.
• Getting into a fist fight in front of a bar called The Knockout Room. Irony. Discuss.
• Not winning the fight, but not losing. Considered a win when all body parts are still fully functioning.
• Telling a girl from Boston that I was from Ireland in order to measure the believability of my new Irish accent/alter ego.
• The consumption of three beef empanadas.
• Breaking into a coffee shop after hours to watch an indie film about Werner Herzog eating his own shoe.
• Realizing that I settled for some p-r-e-t-t-y lame parrot-like friends/other-types-of-relationships-that-aren't-defined-as-friends in Boston.
• Evading the early morning bagel man by laying completely still.

I want to write about this day. Beginning to end. When I wake up from my nap, hopefully I'll attain enough knowledge to depict the reasons for my actions in a clear manner. What I truly mean is this; I hope that I don't rise with the moon accompanied by a brain-splitting hangover.

Wish me luck.

The Most Uneventful Blog Post on Earth

I am eagerly awaiting tonight's show. As long as I've been a San Franciscan, I haven't been able to check out any shows. Tonight, The Tallest Man on Earth, one of my favorite artists at the moment, is playing at The Independent.

I plan to write a review and submit it to an indie webzine that I've been talking back and forth with. Well, I haven't been talking to the actual webzine someone that works for them. We'll see how it goes. For some reason, they seem to be interested in offering me a review column.

Cheers. People love to use the word cheers in San Francisco. Whenever a bartender brings me a drink, which is often, they say, "Cheers!" I like that.