M., the champeem

M. finished another marathon. The San Francisco Marathon. To see himself at dawn on Sunday, when it began, on into Sunday midday, when he finished, please go to my photo galleries at either http://dee-rob.com/zenphoto or http:://picasaweb.google.com/FarfromBraintree.


(I think the before shot looks a bit like it was shot way before. Like 1980s before. Boy band 80s.)


(Looking good for having just run 26.2 miles and walked around a bit. His mental capacity was a little slow. Just like I like a man. Although the pants-load awkward strut of stiff knees was more funny than hot.)

Sleeping around

Between the work retreat in Napa and this weekend, I’ve been spending too much time staring at imaginary cracks in strange ceilings. We spent the weekend in the big city of San Francisco on ocassion of their marathon. I hung around in boutique hotel chi-chi-ness whilst M. ran until his natural resources were depleted and stopped at 26.2 miles.

What I know is, I don’t sleep so good on strange bedding and surroundings. I imagine my slutty years were all about insomnia really. I mean if you’re out partying and you crash somewhere, if you know you won’t sleep, you have to occupy your time somehows.

Now, without the excess boozing and the sedate lifestyle, I’m left to lying awake and feeling miserably tired. On the plus side, the early morning self-recriminations are nowhere to be found.

If whining about sleeplessness isn’t enough, in addition to luxury hotels I’m done with cuisine. For about 7 solid days, I’ve dined out on finely prepared, sumptuous food, and I’m bloated and overstuffed. Bologna on whitebread is the level of richness I could currently stand.

To summarize, I think I’ve just mind-melded with the emotional depth that is Paris Hilton.

Not sure what you call it

Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of air from the east these days. First it was me hanging in jolly olde Scotland with a Boston crew. Then, this weekend, it was some friends of M.’s from the fair city of Cambridge.

Interesting. And, for me a bit puzzling.

I’m tossing a chicken-egg-egg-chicken thing through my brain. Mostly, ‘cuz, there ain’t nothing like tossing cliched phrases through your head and then being boring enough to write that out. I’m dull, and I embrace it.

Here’s the real deal. I consider myself not completely, droolingly retarded. I mean, I got the drool under control. And, thanks to the birthright of an Academy-Award level of drama and sarcasm (like if they gave a snarky Oscar) from my mater, I have an edge, a wit, a sense of bitchy entitlement. Or at least entitled enough to belittle or otherwise address with bon mots. I’m fucking proud of my quickness, and I love cynicism and pessimism in the face of life’s uncertainties.

But, I’m feeling rocky on these bedrock values. What if, deep down, in truth, in some kind of cosmic joke, I’m a Californian at heart? Maybe I was meant to leave the snow and bitterness and wallowing in the negative behind afterall. My destiny, my fate all tied up in some kind of California dreamin’. What the fuck?

The reason for this self-doubt is some rather foolish blather over a couple of visits with North-easterners this week. The question was: how am I adjusting to the phoniness and vapidity that are the stereotypes of the Left Coast? Um, I guess, I must have lost some sneer on the drive over to this coast, because I’m not feeling it. Sure, there’s some dickheads, and I still laugh at the way store clerks who really, earnestly seem to be inquiring, beseeching whenever you enter a store. “How ARE you, today?”

But the tradeoff is so many fewer people here seem to give enough of a fuck to want to constantly remind me of my place. Maybe it’s phony or less genuine than, say, a typical New Englanders need to point out why you might fail or certainly aren’t deserving of success. Maybe it’s the sun, but as M. points out, I think no one cares. You mostly can just “do your own thing” like the 70s cliche.

The other question seemed to be one of intellectualism. The implication was do M. and I miss having intellectual discussions. This question is fucked up on two levels. One, I’m rather an idiot who would rather talk about something fun, so I’m not convinced I’ve ever had an intellectual discussion. No, let me re-state that, I go out of my way to derail that which smells like intellectualism for the sake of it. If I wanted a circle jerk, I’d buy some lube.

The second circle of fuckedupedness is seriously, why do folks in Cambridge think they’ve cornered the market on thinking? Yeah, there’re some schools there and there’s the conceit of the “hub of the universe” embedded in the sidewalk at Downtown Crossing in Boston, but I’ve done an unscientific sampling. There’s a fair amount of morons running in the streets, on par with the moron quota in every other area. Arguably, with the number of unemployed/underemployed grad students draining latte cups and bloviating, or any number of unfunny quote stand up comedians unquote in Cambridge, the moron quota might be running high.

I don’t miss that phenomenon, which I really think is quite phony. Or disingenuous anyway.

The final question of whether I’m fitting in and doing alright seemed to be “Am I happy?” Happy I moved, happy to live here, happy with my job, happy with M. You know, light-hearted questions that get to the core of did I fuck up my life in moving. I’m pretty sure I’ll understand “Happiness” as an abstract, divorced from specific actions and causes, about three seconds before I breathe my last breath, when I see clearly where I fucked up and where I didn’t. All I know now is we have a shitload of fruit in the house, and fresh produce makes me happy. And Nick’s kissing our legal asses put a smile on my face.

The real question is has California softened or changed me, or was the me that I am destined to live here?


Sometimes I think San Francisco tries a bit too hard to be all free and crazy and edgy. Then, you see the juxstaposition of the weirdest of the weird and the mundanest of the mundane, and you realize, nah, they really mean it.

Yesterday, we checked out the Folsom Street Fair. It’s a 22-year or something like that tradition that bills itself as the largest leather fair, in the funky ‘hood South of Market Street. Basically, it’s your everyday street fair with vendors selling shit, PSA-type information booths, fair food, but wait there’s more. The fairgoers are clad in every manner of leather, kink, fetish and just plain old weird wear.

I’m open-minded, but some fetish wear just seems like too much fucking work. Don’t get me wrong, I can see the sport in dressing like a pirate every now and again. But you take something like the “furries.” I just can’t get my head around dressing up in a floppy bunny suit as erotic, especially on an 80-degree, sun-burning day. At least the harnessed leather boys looked comfortable in their outfits.

M. was a little dismayed, curious about the food vendors, whose operation is generally a family affair, and their participation in the event. We watched an Asian guy, wearing shoes, sunglasses and a very thin leather strand of a G-string type device that ended in a cock-ring holding up his manhood, as he took money from his shoe and bought some Thai food. A girl no more than 14 or so was right nearby helping the family business and reloading the napkin dispensers.

The fair was like any outdoor city fair, so the crowds spilled around the area and were not strictly confined. Literally within a couple blocks of walking, we were at Trader Joe’s picking up some grub for dinner amid ordinary people wearing comfortable, nondescript, grocery-shopping clothes. A few hundred feet a way or so, handfuls of leather-clad cock were parading and preening and well, I guess, hoping to end the day as handfuls of cock, accessorized however.

For me, one of the two creepiest images was the extremely butt-naked guy (‘cuz he manged to bring nnaked to a whole new level), who looked scruffy and possibly homeless (but, of course, scruffy and homeless is usually judged by clothing), and who was contorting and writhing on the asphalt in the middle of the street, including a yoga stretch that’s finishing move was a finger up the bunghole.

The other was the guy in a skeleton mask jerking off and basically waving to the crowd. Nothing like the mask of death to kill my libido buzz (well, that and the public display weirdness of it all).

For the brave of heart or merely curious, you can check out some pics here.

My fave is the one below, because the sun glinting through and off a caged, harnessed, go go boy and illuminating a beautiful church is really what SF is all about. leathercagesun

So Long Suckers!

Yeah, baby, I’m jetting off to the left coast in a few hours, ifestyles of the Rich and Famous, like.

Here’s one weird thing, though. Just got a jingle on the office phone from one of the docs, and I let her know I’d take care of what she asked, but then I’d be done and gone, SF bound.

She replied something like, “Oh will you make on time to see the New Year’s in together?” Of course, that is the plan. The weird part is, how did she know there was a someone and and that the trip was a “together” kind of a dealio? It also explains her concerned inflected “How are you doing?” at the Christmas party…

Methinks, my boss(es) have been mentioning my private life behind my back. Sometimes this place is too fucking much like family.

Adios, muchachos (unless I write from the road, ‘cuz I’m basically a loser)!