Happy Halloween

The Castro revels, however corrupted and problematic they've become, are an inevitable component of the city's Oct. 31 identity. But seeing Halloween in San Francisco as some inexorable crime-and-banishment saga offers only a partial view of the holiday's particularly strong grip on our collective self-image. The love of outrageous display and sybaritic ritual, of multi-layered masquerade and playful boundary-blurring don't constitute some exclusively gay franchise. They're a widely shared set of cultural values and markers, a way of seeing ourselves, in the crisp October moonlight, with a particular kind of clarity.

Where else could an extravagantly silly dress-up show like "Beach Blanket Babylon" enjoy a 30-plus-year run with no end in sight? For further confirmation, note the success of "Teatro ZinZanni," which turns dining out into a sustained stunt of environmental theater. What other city would turn both the Black and White Ball and Exotic Erotic Ball into stable institutions?

Thanks, Steve Winn. I'm not so sure about it being the "gay high holy day," as you quote David Skal remarking, but I couldn't have said it better myself. I love you, San Francisco!

Tropical Pussy

Here it is, mid-October, and the AP says:

Wildfires were widely expected in Southern California over the weekend as hot weather and heavy Santa Ana winds marked the height of traditional wildfire season after one of the driest rain years on record.

I guess so. That's the fun of autumn in SoCal: warm, dry, beautiful ('cause the wind blew the smog elsewhere) weeks alternating with crisp, chilly weather and occasional dramatic storms moving down like snowbirds from the Gulf of Alaska packing thunder and the scent of sage. Mmm, mmm, mmm.

Here in NorCal—and I mean the real NorCal, not the Bay Area which everyone up here calls Central California. Here it's been raining for the past week: three-and-a-half inches—more than SoCal got all last year! And cold, or at least what I consider cold. Which, I am told, is not. It's Oaxaca all over again, where G and I would walk to work on winter mornings wearing short-sleeved shirts and pass joggers or other folks on their way to work wearing down parkas and knit hats. (Pinche, gringos! It's 70 degrees out. Bundle up!)

Now I'm the one bundling up for my walk to work, albeit in shorts, and passing locals wearing t-shirts and sandals. Sigh.

But if I'm having to adjust to the colder climate of Humbo, the real sob-story adjustment case in the New Vitality Homeland familia is Vivani Catpants. When we moved up here in the summer she found the weather "delightfully brisk" in her words, and no impediment to full enjoyment of a bug- and tree-filled back yard. But now that autumn weather has settled in her little tropical self is struggling to survive the bitter cold. She's gotten hugely fluffy now, but it's not enough and she's now sleeping under the covers at night, something she hasn't done since Tlaxiaco. I may have to bend my rule and provide a heating pad or two.

I'd get myself another coffee except she's sitting on my lap. Can't have those little pink tropical toes touch the floor, no sir!

She Doesn't Know

I saw Mrs S today, out walking the dogs. She's the one who told me how Tasi Drive got its name: it's what she and her husband used to call their dog, short for Tassle, part of her kennel name. As theirs was the first house on the street, and none of the other residents minded, they changed it to Tasi.

As I was heading back out I saw Mrs S had stopped to chat with a neighbor, so I pulled over and got out my little bag of dog biscuits, giving one to each dog. The little long-haired dachshund I'd seen before happily took the biscuit from my fingers, but the other dog, a black-and-white Pomeranian, just looked at it. Mrs. S said, "Oh, she's a rescue dog; we just got her Friday. She doesn't know what treats are."

Christ. I put the biscuit down and half-turned away, and she came over and took it off the ground, chewed it slowly. Mrs. S and the neighbor continued chatting and I drove on.

Prize Plate

I saw a short article in the local paper early last week regarding the Apple Harvest Festival in Fortuna. Christ! These people are as festival-happy as Oaxacans. But I thought the apple pie contest sounded like fun. It's not like I'm a stranger to cook-offs: did you know that I'm the Macworld chili champion?

So Friday after work I baked me up some apple pies, and Saturday while I was shuffling mail around G-man ran the better-looking of the two down to Fortuna. A longer drive than I (or he) thought it was, but hey, who doesn't like looking at the scenery on a Saturday drive in a car filled with the smell of cinnamon and apples?

After work he and I drove back down to see how I did and to retrieve my pie dish. Fortuna is not a large town, and the festival occupied maybe four downtown city blocks. Youth groups were selling apple pies, local businesses had booths on the street selling pretty much what they sell inside every other day of the year, and the police department was showing off its new K-9 crimefighter, Zorro. Much to his astonishment G-man had had a pleasant conversation with Zorro's human partner on G's first run to Fortuna.

The guy hosting the contest was enthusiastic because this year they'd had the most entries ever, 21, but all I wanted to do was press my face to the glass storefront and look for a prize sitting next to my pie, Pie No. 6. He opened the door and we went in: nothing. Not even a ribbon of participation! We collected the pie, grabbed a plastic fork and went off in search of Zorro and his handler to give them a slice of pie. But we realized that, while we had a fork, we had no plate, so we scanned the table/booth in front of the second-hand store and bought a dessert plate for a quarter. But we didn't see Zorro...we looked all 'round the police and sherrif's display; no dog. Ah, well. We turned back toward the car to head home, and G decided that the dessert plate would be my prize for the apple pie from farthest away.

It's an ugly plate, but it works, kinda like the apple pie itself. And now it's MY PRIZE. Kinda like G-man.

Stretchy Pants

The photo's from Oklahoma, but it could as easily be from Humboldt Co. Which reminds me: I saw the best trailer park ever here in town. Didja ever see Wonderfalls? It's that kind of trailer park.

Finally, I thought our recent rains would put an end to my blackberry-pickin' craze, but nope! Bright and sunny today (if frelling cold) so it looks like I'll be able to squeeze one or two more gathering-and-canning sessions before they're gone for the season.

New Vitality Color Scheme

...that's just warming up...

The Whiniest Kitten In All Of Puppetland

The cats are immensely stoked to be living somewhere with a yard. Sure, they had fun thundering up and down the the hallway of our Berkeley apartment, or tormenting the indoor-only cat two doors down, but an entire yard of smells, edibles, fascinating holes and bugs? No comparison.

Our routine is, I get up and feed them, then we read the paper and I drink coffee until it's light. Then I open the back door and they can come and go as they please until it's dark and they come in for dinner.

But there's a glitch; there always is. This particular glitch is called Big Red. Not only does he live next door, but he has a proprietary view of New Vitality Homeland's backyard, having once lived here himself. And he's huge! Little Vivani is terrified of him; even Orange Gina hisses when she sees him.

And he knows our routine. He waits right in the middle of the backyard, easily visible from the open back door.

The girls really like to go outside first thing. But Big Red! And I really like to read the paper. But Big Red! So Vivani has started following me around the house in the morning, whining and carrying on until I go outside with her and Gina. Five minutes, ten, that's fine. Just as long as I go out first and let Big Red know that Bigger Red is in her yard and it's time to clear out.

She really is the whiniest cat I have ever known.

Mi nieto

Elliott during an outing with his granddad. The last for awhile, I'm afraid. Shades of Oaxaca all over again!

Past times

He could tell by the way she slammed the pots down on the burners that she was irritated with him.

"I didn't think anybody read those things."

She didn't turn around, kept pulling cans and condiments out of the cupboard. "You read them. Every month. With glee." The pop and crank of the can opener.

"I'll get another job." Lee had the newspaper open on the table in front of him, but with Jen's assault on dinner the paper's quiet rustlings couldn't get past her turned, rigid back. "Everybody's hiring. The Chron had an article yesterday—"

One more pot set down a little too firmly for normalcy. "Lee." She turned around. "We are getting married in almost exactly two months, and you got fired from your job. How are you going to look for a new job and plan a wedding? How are we going to pay for it?" She wiped her hands, grabbed a tomato off the counter and half-turned away. "My dad is going to have a shit-fit."

"Since when do you care what your dad thinks?"

Oh-oh. She was facing him again, leaning forward. "Oooh, I could just stab you"—and she wasn't menacing him with the tomato—sometimes. Sometimes, Lee, you just...how could you say that in a company newsletter? What were you thinking?" Now she was crying. "Your hobby is 'pocket pool'?"

"Nobody reads those! It was a joke!" Jesus, lighten up! "Baby, I will get another job." He stroked her shoulders, gently, oh so carefully. Is this how the spider feels? Poor fucking spiders! "Dad won't know, I'll be here to help you plan, it'll be what you want." She wasn't crying anymore, wasn't staring at him with maniac eyes, was looking at the cracking linoleum. "C'mon, let me give you a hand with dinner. Gimme the salad stuff."

Sniff. Jen started stirring the bubbling sauce in the pot. "I could still stab you, you know."

"I know."