Noon On Tuesday

A remnant from WWII, a warning against tsunamis, San Francisco's weekly emergency test serves as a kind of marker, as in: what was I doing last Tuesday at noon?


Here's the thing--
It has come to my attention that this window thing has nothing to do with actual speed. I mean, how much fucking faster am I supposed to be?

Really, let's think about this.

Almost a year ago, I had some really great sex. I mean really. But what did I do? I choked. I cried. I did all manner of things up to and including waking up in my ex's bed in Hayes Valley. Fuck. Anyway, cut to last umm...let's say September. A casual hi. The let down of knowing I had waited to long---but then?

Switchboards click and MySpace messages are sent and girls are trading "Oh my god"s from LoHo to The Loin. And? And I did what I always do Pinky--the thought of surrendering to an actual umm...you know (relationprison) rendered me fucking catatonic. Completely unable to dial numbers on a cellular phone. And? Oh right, I've already told this part.

Remember when I was dating that loser and I paid one of my ex's (not the aforementioned Hayes Valley variety one) new girlfriend to grind all over him? Yeah. That one. Not the loser, the girl. And who gained the spoils of my procrastination? That fucking girl. The worst part is, I really like her. Fuck.

Here's the thing--Really, the point is coming up any minute.
I thought that maybe it was just my own stupid bullshit and my own head-case hang-ups that left me all like "Omigod, I don't know what to do, I'm freakin' messed up, blah blah" etc. and so forth. But is it?

Five Days.

Am I really supposed to be faster than five days?

And so, again, in thier dissolution, Miranda tried her best. She was quick and valiant, and would not settle for that fucking window closing before she had said her two cents, put in her time, fought her fight.
Who the fuck gets a new girlfriend in FIVE DAYS?

The problem, my friends, is not me--it is not that I'm messed up, or I can't handle whatever--it's all of these well hung pretty serial monogomous boys that don't actually know what's good for them.
Am I saying I'm good for them? Hell no.

But I can gay-ran-fucking-tee you I am better than her in bed.

So earlier today at noon when sirens blared city wide and slight San Franciscan gazes turn to the sky and check thier watches--I looked out the window from my seat on my couch in my beautiful Tendernob abode and I thought about what I had done this week.

I tried.

And furthermore, I am so fucking awesome.
[p.s. to Angelica: Ask Mindy to forward you the bulletin that opened this particular window right before it slammed shut five days later. I've heard it's awesome and brutal. I've had enough of this particular back story/circle, but somebody should get a chuckle out of it, no?]

[p.p.s. to all SF'ers: Why hasn't anyone made a booty chart? I mean--Led Zeppelin On a Stick, you guys. We seriously need a booty chart.]


Anonymous said...

oh shit i feel special that you mentioned me in your famous online blog. i seriously check this thing everyday hahaha. ill email mindy right now.

Angelica Annette said...

k i got one of these things. lets see if i will have anything interesting to say. btw, mindy had no clue what you were talking about. muchlove.

charles.bukowski.costanza said...

dude you are classic. i miss you; sorry to be absent (end of the quarter for school was crammed full of stuff, plus my girl moved, plus i moved, and etc et al). but my god we need to talk. 206 992-0283. happy holidays to you. or, to quote the title of the new column! in this week's Stranger: HANNUKAH IS NOT 'CHRISTMAS FOR JEWS' - by Huey Lewis and the News.

charles.bukowski.costanza said...

i want you to know that you are not dead to me; you are very much alive, in my soul. happy new year, darlink. can we talk? i've some news. of the good sort.