I've just completed a week of 14-hour days, chipping away at a batch of furniture renderings that needed to be re-colored for a presentation. No, it's not a full-time gig (I'm going to build a floor with Captain Mike tomorrow for a little extra cash, in fact), I've just been freelancing some, which feels better in many ways than full-time work, both physically and philosophically. Yes, I am writing this in my underwear.
Halima and I have gotten settled in to our apartment, have had time to explore our neighborhood enough to find out where we'll be buying our groceries for the foreseeable future, and have found our first bills for electricity and internet in our mailbox. Yay, we're residents.
As I've written previously, I've parked Cricket under a neighbor's cupola. One thing I'd forgotten to ship out here was my bike cover, which means Cricket is sitting out there on the street with nothing to protect her from the wind, rain and stray weirdos. I really didn't think this would be much of an issue, but the other day I was passing her and reached out to stroke her gas tank, as I often do, when I noticed that some inconsiderate person had knocked off her right spark plug cap. Investigating further I found that they had also somehow chiseled the porcelain tip of the spark plug off altogether, leaving only the hexagonal nut in place in the cylinder head. I have some dim recollection of hearing that drug addicts do this kind of thing for one reason or another, but can't imagine that it's worth the effort of knocking off the tip of my spark plug to make a crack-pipe or whatever. In any case, not only did this person risk being discovered as a vandal and an asshole-at-large, but if I ever find them they're sure to be found out as a person in need of serious medical care as well. In any case, it's off to the garage to buy a bike cover and a padlock (I already have spare plugs). Some explanation of this bizarre incident here.
In lighter news, we ate at Le Trappe in North Beach the other day. It was amazing; sub-terrine Belgian food and beer and evidently a huge yuppie-hipster spot. We got there before the rush and ate rabbit stew and mussels and pom fritz (an upscale word for French fries), which were all sublime. What'd I tell you? A gustatory nirvana, San Francisco.
Furthermore, I've discovered that four or five of my friends from Guam have been living in San Francisco for some time now. They are from the arty bunch of people I used to hang around with back then, and they are evidently still as arty as ever. I've had drinks with one of them, the chef of the bunch, and she promises to have a little soirée at her place soon so we can all meet up again. Sounds like a plan.
More later.
No comments:
Post a Comment