We are so living in the anti-Nick bizarro world.

In our continuing quest to examine the nine thousand and twelve eateries in walking distance, tonight we hit Brix. As we were ordering our foods, we got an unexpected “yoohoo” from a woman who was vaguely familiar looking. I had that confused stunned deer look for a second as I looked into her face. I searched for words while my mind scanned why I knew her and raced through any number of neighborhood moms calling out the door to come in to a pack of kids as the streetlights came on in a distant Braintree past.

Very hometown to have a mom-looking chick hailing you.

It was our new landlord’s wife, who we met when we picked up the keys. She wanted to be sure we met her husband and to say “Hi.” We exchanged pleasantries, discussed the nearness of every possible convenience in the new ‘hood and went our separate ways.

We strolled back through a peaceful evening passing coffeeshps and restaurants and the locals. Of particular note to me is that on the main drag one always sees a range of bicycles from Shwinn to custom mountain bikes.

I notice the wheels, because here in Mayberry, one doesn’t lock one’s $500 mountain bike, while sipping a latte at Peet’s.

In Nick-land, a locked car was no obstacle to crime. And, rather than exchanging pleasantries, Nick was telling me in that first month or so about the type of people ruining the neighborhood. I’m about 99.999999999992 percent sure he meant Mexicans.

I’m almost living a thing called hope.

First, there was the gala weekend b’day celebration. Friday night, my night, we were done with a romantic-ish dinner by 8:30 p.m. You know, with us being elderly we got the “early bird special” rocking, right?

Or, it’s ’cause we left the toiling daytime gigs early. I just couldn’t face a Friday night celebrating my greatness before the big hand was on the zero and the little’n at least on the nin-o. So, in this neighborhood land of the elderly and the upscale and the wine crowd and the coffee houses, we ducked into the one pub. I-rish-y it was, despite the name “BBC.”

Beyond the Sam Adams on tap, they had a chubby guy at the bar in a sports jacket hailing from Brighton in the old Bay State and talking excitedly about Dice K. Apparently, we crossed a time space continuum into Beantown-esque. They promise in a couple of Saturdays in honor of the sainted Patrick and the Emerald Isle there’ll be some green beer and corned beef and boiled tubers. We shall see.

Saturday, it was M.’s turn with a parade in SF in his honor. OK, him and the whole continent of his ancestry, the lunar new year and a golden pig.

I have a few pics, which I plan to organize soon, but we missed a good deal of the parade. We let it pass us by. (Actually we walked a long while parallel to it hoping to find a place to cross. Our dinner reservations lay on the far side of the streaming humanity.)

Dinner was the specialty of the house that must be ordered at least 24-hours ahead at Shanghai 1930. I love dining pre-WWII.

The old dude who brought the whole specialty rig made a point of ‘splaining to me the delicacy of our dining pleasure. He was intent on telling the story to me. Could be I was the chick, or could be I was the caucasian.

He seemed disappointed that modern improvements, like sanitation and health codes, dampened the authenticity of the dish. The story with Beggar’s Chicken is that somewhere in China a beggar either stole a chicken or villagers gave him one. It was whole with feathers and all, packed in mud and thrown in the fire. Once the mud was baked and cracked open the tenderest and most succulent chicken came out, with the clay ripping off the skin and feathers clean.

Tasty. And, you know it’s a good sign on the tenderness of the meat you’re about to eat when an old dude carves it tableside with a couple of spoons.

M. got the large pull of the wishbone. Don’t know what he could have wished for, since good Chinese food on a weekend night is one of his highest highs.

Today, I finally hung a bunch of photos and whatnots (OK, whatnot is a crucifix) around and put the patio table together.

Not to mention a completely hassle-less battery exchange for the MacBook at the local Genius Bar. It would be far cooler if my computer never fucked up. But given that I ain’t never had one that worked flawless, the customer service at the local Apple Store eases the cyber pain.

Lastly, and this joy is totally dorky and largely unappealing to others, I finally fucking figured out, cracked the nut, deciphered the impossible. I found what on my harddrive has been sucking up gigabytes of space. A couple of backup volumes I didn’t realize I created or new existed. Soon as I empty my trash smooth fucking sailing.

I have more space, a balcony view with ‘lectricity and nothing holding me back from writing. Ya-fucking-hoo. I is on my way.

(Providing musical accompaniment will be one of the excessive number of shuffles that comprised the major chunk of my birthday giftage. Multi-colors for our multi-dimensional, multi-cultural household.)

I finally set up the little patio table on our lovely second floor balcony. I am tree height watching songbirds flitter in and out of some kind of white blossoms that have littered the driveway below with a warm-weather version of snow.

Here on this balcony, I have found an outdoor plug. My laptop charges in the setting sun.

California ‘blogging.

Now that I’ve hit my latest milestone, today is M.’s turn to contemplate his mortality.

As far as days go, I’m way, way, way more comfortable with M.’s mortality. Totally at ease with his sliding closer to the grim reaper or the nursing home, whichever.

Thanks all out there in cyberland for the greetings.

Happy B’Day to M. now. Everybody cheer.

Assuming it’s a bonus to the mortal coil that I haven’t stepped of it, could you all reading this do me a small favor. It’s a pathetic request, but my own and a measure of the person I weakly am.

Could you give me a “Hey” for the anniversary of my birth thing?

God. I’m tragic not as in adverbially hip.

In my current time zone, it’s about a quarter to the birthday. Actually, it was quarter to, before something fucked my computer. But now it’s past the date. I say it’s my birthday, and well, fuck here it is.

Forty three feels like a big number. Not big enough to get me a howdy do from the Today Show or any such bullshit. Do they still even do that, or was it all tied up with the hefty goofball weatherman? Where do the triple digit elderly go for a greeting these days?

Still and all, better than death, this having another birthday. But it ain’t exactly young.

I’m taking it as a clarion call to, I dunno, get my fucking shit together. If I die tomorrow, I die a glorified secretary. Whoo fucking hoo.

By the way, linking to the Today Show let me know that the big new news story, the top one listed, linked, dissected and worried about by thousands if not millions of Americans. The “hiccup girl” stopped doing her 15 minutes (and 38 days of frustration) thang.

Jesus fucking what’s wrong with us Christ. There’s a war. There will be elections. People are dying and lying. Hiccups, Anna’s corpse, way more important.

Now, you might give a fuck and wonder what I’ve been up to that obviously not writing here. We finished the housekeeping magnum opus.

Starting back with the winter time holiday fa la la la la, the boss gave me a gift card to get a custom bag from this store (whose products I do dig muchly).

Unable to decide which custom job to fashion or to kick up the total and get an art bag with someone else’s art, I decided to DIY my own bad self. So, with the magic of modern plastics chemistry I transferred some pics onto the blank artists canvas version and came up with this here customized dealio.

My photos of Cali on a Cali-style bike messenger bag. (The bag I plan use when I get off my last fat ass and actually bike to work without the lightning speed or any speed at all of a courier.)

Self-pleased and a couple of compliments later, I went with the flow when M. brainstormed the same idea large-scale and hanging over our couch. Stretching a couple of yards of muslin on six-foot canvas stretchers later, I’m done. I opted for iron-on photo transfers this time instead of an inadequately wee pot of magic acrylic photo transfer juice, ‘cuz of the size.

In the end, it’s M.’s slightly early b’day present. Mostly because the actual company that’s selling me his actual gift completely fucked me and the order. Never trust a kid on the customer service line who chats about the importance of arrival pre-birthday to get the fucking shipping right. Asshole.

It’s looking sadly like he’ll be getting something before his big day and something after but precious little on it. I’m time challenged.

(Don’t tell my employer they pay me for the illusion of getting time.)

Anyway, I present the opus.