Up Where They Walk

I check the WK+12 website everyday for the appearance of an application to next year's program. I haven't felt this anxious about my odds of being accepted into a dream scenario since I applied to Reed all those years ago. Something about my competition seems just as fierce... plus a lot of them probably know how to use Photoshop and will have some insane shit to submit. Five months from now I'll either be living a very easy life in San Francisco still, or I'll be in Portland having my brain hammered by a gold brick - or whatever's the equivalent of that drink in Hitchhiker. That's how I imagine the WK+12 experience is.

What gets me is that it seems a lot of other hopefuls are baiting through Twitter. And I just don't really care about Twitter. And I don't really care about baiting. Here's to takin' 'em unaware. Like in the old days. I'm a modern cowboy. Now someone get me some whiskey.

COOLEST toothbrushes EVER! (...?)

A Postcard Extra

Last night I walked home from the gym, my usual red-faced, sweaty self. As I waited for a green light on the corner across from my apartment, a French family surrounded me. The father was preoccupied with a map, the mother with taking pictures of City Hall, and the kids with pointing excitedly up at Alamo Square Park. The park does take on a bit of an ethereal quality close to sunset, with clouds sweeping in from the West and an orange skyline setting the dozens of circling planes a-twinkle. I routinely feel like a background figure in a postcard - it goes with my neighborhood's territory. Sometimes when I'm standing on my porch, I pretend I'm an animatronic waving at all the tourists. And to them, that's pretty much what I am. Trippy. Even so, there's something about being a living accessory to a glamorous location while still sweating from the gym that makes the situation even sweeter. "This is me" I picture myself saying to the tourists, hands on my hips, "and I am this San Francisco street. Go ahead. Snap away."

The Weekend, in 10 Bullets

• Ate free cheese at the Walt Disney Museum's premiere night party. 
• Talked horror-movie shop over Vodka Sodas until 2 am. 
• Accompanied a surly, jet-lagged friend to brunch. 
• Bloody Mary!
• Watched another four episodes of LOST. 
• Stared in horror at an irritating group of "improv actors" in the park. 
• Shook with mirth when the most irritating "actor" of the brunch sprained his ankle. 
• Bloody Mary!
• Stepped foot in / purchased clothing from American Apparel for the first (and last?) time ever. 
• Finally made it to The Dark Knight Rises in IMAX; pined the whole way through for the Joker. 

Olympics

The last time I watched the Olympics I was abroad in New Zealand. They had competitors in very few events, and both (yes, both) of the country's channels showed nothing but up-to-the-minute footage of what was happening to its dozen or so athletes. Four years later, US coverage of the opening ceremony is competing with breaking news updates on superkiller James Holmes, I'm watching the proceedings from a desktop in my fluorescent-lit office in San Francisco, and everyone knows I'm gay. Ah, 2008, what a lifetime away you are.

At the Ballgame

Yesterday our office went to a Giants game together. On our walk over, we stopped at Red's Java House, where I had three Bloody Marys and two Tequila shots. Rowdier, we then proceeded to AT&T Park. A baseball cap there costs $40, so I settled for letting my scalp burn. I watched about two innings and then went and paid $11 for an Irish Coffee. I was worried that I might overdo it in front of the people who I have to sit beside 40+ hours a week. I made my way home by 6pm, passed out for two hours, and woke up at 8 still exhausted. "Good thing I took it easy," I thought, "otherwise tomorrow morning would've sucked." Then later a spider crawled over me in bed and I killed it, the juicier details of which are too embarrassing for me to recount. I'll only say I ended up sleeping on the couch. I woke up today early and chipper and made it to the office right on time. In turned out everyone else had partied until roughly 4 am and half of them had called in sick. Moral: don't worry about what others might think, just drink. Drink, dammit!

Explosivo!

Last night I was sitting at my desk, drinking a glass of water (not alcohol) and catching up on CNN (not porn) when something massive exploded with a loud fucking CRACK on the street outside of my apartment. A flash of white light illuminated my blinds, and then all was silent. I have previously considered myself the type who'd immediately spring into action at the first sign of a gunshot / explosion / danger, but now I know that it takes a good four seconds for me to think of anything more strategic than "what the fuck!". By the time I'd come to my senses and thrown myself behind my bed, I definitely would have been killed... if the explosion had been the first of a series of gunshots aimed at my windows. Luckily, it wasn't, and after a few minutes passed I stepped outside to investigate. All my neighbors were on their porches as well. Word on the street was that dozens of cop cars were dealing with an extension of the emergency two blocks away by Crack Alley (McDonald's). Whatever went down in front of good ole' 931 Fulton last night is classified as: still a mystery.