Usta be bad sound
and bad seats without headrests
Usta be flat floors.

Now, Zow! Stadium
seats! And Dolby Digital!
Screens you fall into.

Less needed at Metreon.
Still magical, though.

Six-dollar sodas
And “Golden Flavored” popcorn
Goobers, anyone?

I LOVE the movies,
Gleeful escapes in the dark.
Sugar rush, woo hoo!

Scott and Crash share this
with me. We three need to go
to see a chick flick.

We’ll laugh and we’ll cry.
It’ll become a part of us!
We’ll even hug, brothers.

Still alive and well in film.
and in us as well.

Duel Summer

Since Soonae and Jong have been so good to me, such good friends for so long, it’s nice to be able to do a significant (to them) favor in return. To that end, I am sitting at the Il Piccolo Cafe on Broadway in Burlingame, a town about 20 miles south of the City.

They needed to take their car to the Saab dealer down here for a service appointment, so I drove it down, dropped it off, and walked about a mile and a half up California Drive to this cafe, because I found out that it also had surfandsip.com, my regular cafe internet provider. Woo hoo! (Do you think I’m addicted to internet connectivity? naaah.)

My observational faculties are akin to a lint brush. Things that I see just stick to my memory. I don’t know if it’s exactly a photographic memory….maybe eidetic is a better word. Things fly at me in great detail, and the walk up here, past shops, apartment buildings, homes, an almost-precious downtown area, was no exception. I thought of a lot of things, largely contrasts to San Francisco. I may live in San Francisco, but it inhabits me.

Objects, smells, tastes often evoke memories, comparisons…a yard gate, the kelly green snakecoils of a garden hose, brown leaves fallen on a gravel driveway. Ancient garage doors. Dilapidated carriage house on top of those garages.

Lumbering beasts of large cars in driveways or better, those leviathan creatures sitting quiescent in a garage. The word B O N N E V I L L E in individual metal letters riveted to the rear left quarter panel of my aunt’s 1965 Pontiac Convertible. Midnight blue. White top, white vinyl interior. The high-beams indicator was the silhouette of an indian (now “Native American”) brave in glowy blue. The chubby labored look of a whitewall tire pressed against the concrete slabs of my Uncle George & Aunt Ann’s driveway next to their chocolate-brown ranch house in a subdivision of Piscataway, NJ.

Further back, to the selfsame Bonneville parked on the macadam in front of Nanny & Giggi’s garage on Vaughn Street in Luzerne, PA. My great-grandfather still alive, but very old and unable to make the stairs to bed, so I always saw him sitting on the edge of the sofa in the middle room. A sofabed like they used to make sofabeds, where you ratcheted up the bench and the whole middle tilted back until it clicked, you returned the bench to its original position, and you had a flat surface approximately the size of a full mattress.

My very first memory, as i recall it now, is that old man hunched forward at the edge of that sofa, which always remained in its “bed” configuration. The man died in 1967, when I was three years old.

So. Having hit the absolute beginning of my vast storehouse of memory, I head back to the present, picking up speed along the way, like the flurry of clips in the title of the last WB episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (“The Gift”).

I’m back in the present, or more specifically, in the Now, just in time to be standing in front of HighwayOne Auto, where sits a white-on-white 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood. I laughed out loud. The lumbering leviathan had nothing to say.

Keep in mind, here, now, that I’m not talking here about memory associations, I’m talking more about a waking dream, where your conscious mind is drawn almost completely apart from what your senses report, an internal safari that is beyond reason, beyond rationality. An existence which does not exist.

I have no defense against such episodes, just as Adam Hoskins has no defense.

I’m not sure I want one.

Happy Birthday to Her

I wish to make a wish.

I wish a very Happy Birthday to one of my oldest, dearest companions in all the world, Marti Lawrence.

She and I have lost touch, almost completely over the past 8 years or so, and I find myself wishing also to replace the regret with action, starting now. Starting here.

I dreamt two nights ago that I answered my senior HS year homeroom class door (she and i graduated together, were class officers together), and Marti was standing there. I was not shocked in the least, even though even in my dream I knew it had been a very long time since I saw her in the flesh. She was not surprised, either. I was not alone, but I do not remember who was with me. I think it was someone from my present.

I smiled at her, and hugged her. I told her I was on my way out, though. That I could not stay and talk. I remember assuming I’d see her later in the day. She said, “Okay.” And then she reminded me that it was her birthday coming up soon.

Well, that day is today.

Marti has always been a strong person; strength in people like her, strength like that, is something to be reckoned with. If Marti said she’d get to the bottom of something, you better pray you’re not the one at the bottom of that something.

I have always had strong women as friends. Always. I have never had a fag hag. I count all other configurations of gender and sexuality as friends, too, but it’s the strong women…Soonae, Lisa Y-Z, Judy, Felicia, Jeanome , Lisa J., Lisa C., that I feel most companionable with.

I miss Marti. I miss her in ways that might require dozens of pages to describe, but in a way that you would instantly understand if you saw me with her.

She and I shared a love of Billy Joel, and there was no more beautiful a sight than looking over at her in my convertible, the wind blowing her blond hair about, and no more beautiful a sound than the happy joy we always managed to find and express.

There’s magic in a wish. I do not wish lightly; I do not wish with frequency. But she deserves all the magic on her birthday. And every day.