I swore to myself that I'd stop reading political blogs. It's just too depressing. Too, too, too depressing.

Today was a total crash day. I did manage to get up and make it to the gym, but couldn't find my workout logbook, and had a so-so chest workout. Then I came home, dumped myself back into bed and didn't get up for a while. After that, I dragged my butt down to the Kabuki baths and had a great time sweating out whatever it was that ailed me. 20 minutes in the steam room, 20 minutes in the sauna, and 10 minutes in the hot baths, and I was TOAST. I love hot water. I really do. Someday, I want a house with a huge bath tub and a steam shower.

I've really upped my running lately, and I think that I may have increased my mileage and frequency of running too much, too quickly. I figured once I gave up alcohol, I could just turn into superman and be off and running. Apparently not. Apparently it will take a few weeks to adjust.

My next big (personal) project is coming up with a standardized wake-up time. I have an ingrained belief that big life changes take about 3 weeks to become more of an unconcious habit and less of a concerted effort. I'm 1.5 weeks into no alcohol, so I have to give myself at least that much more time before making the next change. But I think I'm going to shoot for waking up daily at 6am. This should give me enough time to run in the mornings, so it doesn't kill my sleep at night.

And finally, if someone walked up to you, handed you their business card, and said, "Hi, I'm an up and coming realtor. And I'm really looking to grow my business. Please take a card. If you know of anyone thinking of buying or selling, I would really appreciate it if you would pass my information on." What would you do?

Funny:
Okay, I don't think these guys will be up for the nobel prize in science for their fight against SARS, but it's funny as hell. Thank him for the link.

Cool:
If George is such a compassionate conservative, why don't we have one of these days here in the states? Why? Because if you are George or any other ass-wipe lunatic fundamentalist, intolerance is perfectly okay, as long as it doesn't interfere with your tax cut. Thanks to Ray for the link.

2 loft showings tonight. Wish me luck, I wanna sell that puppy, and soon!

1 great run to the ocean for lunch, off to eat left-over meatloaf, YUMMY!

1 new insight as to why mornings are hell lately - I've been running in the evenings, and I think it's made it really tough to fall asleep. I guess all those books that said not to exercise before bed weren't kidding. I'll see if today's lunch run makes sleeping easier tonight.

Yesterday afternoon I had a GREAT run in Golden Gate park. It was filled with tons of people having picnics, and the park just had this awesome energy. It was like running through a made-for-TV-movie where all the little kids are dancing and holding balloons, the parents are all smiling and happy, the weather is perfect, and nothing can go wrong!

I think I got a little too much sun, though, because I slept in this morning (and didn't go to the gym, bad me) and this morning I was kind of light-headed and woozy for the first couple hours on broker's tour.

This evening, I went for another run, and set a land-speed record for one of my usual courses. I think when I first started running I was plodding through this particular course in about 56 minutes. Eventually, I settled in at a very consistent 52 minutes. Today I finished at just over 47 minutes.

But timing aside, today just felt different. For the first time since living in SF, my body felt like it was running in a groove instead of me feeling like I was fighting for every next step. I knew at about the 30 minute mark that my time could be good if I kept it up. Any possibility it's related to not pickling my liver for the past 8 days? Nah! :-)

Salmon burgers for dinner - delicious! with corn on the cob and a tasty tomato/cucumber/onion salad. It was delicious!

I just returned from Ft. Funston, where Pete and Kevin joined Britton and I and all the dogs for a beautiful, glorious, postcard-perfect walk along the beach.

I am taking a few minutes to let the dogs settle down and for me to chill before I head off for my afternoon run. I was originally thinking long run up to Ft. Point and Land's End, but now I'm thinking shorter run.

Today feels like a holiday. It's just this vibe in the air. Or maybe its my vibe. I dunno, but after two days of fog and yick, today is a sunny, calm, blue sky day in the city. How many times have I said glorious?

Last night went dancing with the above mentioned Pete. Our husbands stayed at home and misbehaved, and we went out and misbehaved. Well, not really, we were actually quite well-behaved.

I think it qualifies as my first trip to a nightclub when I haven't been under the influence of, um, anything. And I was kind of dreading it, thinking, how could this possibly be fun?

But it was. I had a great time people watching (I want to be an antrhopologist for the gays when I grow up), dancing, chatting, people watching, etc. And by about 1am, when we are out on the dance floor, surrounded by swarms of sweaty boys, I'm thinking to myself, "how natural is it to sweat at 1am?"

It's kind of strange. I can't name any off the top of my head, but I've always heard of cultures where people can kind of dance themselves into a trance. I've always thought that would be good fun. And I think the whole strong physical exertion and sweating at a time your body doesn't really expect it must be part of the recipe.

One great song stands out... I have no idea what it was... but the words either had something to do with "sun's up" or "surf's up" but it had this great melody and rythym. You couldn't help but crack a smile and shake your groove thang.

Tonight I'm off to make an experimental meatloaf. I'll be using pork and chicken as my base. To be accompanied by a tomato/cucumber/red-onion salad and veggie #2, maybe broccoli.

Hope everyone had a great memorial day weekend!

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been so incredibly cool and supportive. I feel truly lucky and amazed to know such cool people, and to have such supportive, friendly, nice family, friends, and acquaintances, (including those of you I've never met).

While I was half-expecting everyone to go, "oh my god you loser, pull it together," what I've received instead has been really cool sharing on your part.

[oh God, I feel a group hug coming.... must... not....]

Anyway, to answer a few more questions from the comments:

Trey - I like your idea best. When people ask why I don't drink, I'm going with Mormonism.

Paul - It's not that I'm an alcoholic, it's that I'm converting to Mormonism. See above. :-)

Mom - No one can escape their families. And there really isn't anything to escape from. We might all be insane, but whatever. I think you've been a great mom, and I wouldn't trade you for anyone else in the world.

Mom - Yes, you can still drink when you visit. We'll unpack the wine glasses just for you so you don't have to drink out of sippy cups. :-)

Mom - Brownies aren't a beverage... you do the math.

Eddie - Nope, not Irish-catholic. Although my dad was raised a strict catholic, so perhaps this is somehow all his fault. I'll have to reflect on that. :-)

But, to me, the funniest part of this week is I'm not sure Brian even knows the wine glasses are missing. That boy really should read my blog. LOL.

Happy memorial day weekend, y'all!

Ray's World makes a good point. It's easy to feel completely lost in this world.

Until recently - very recently - I had this paradigm of the world that was pretty much like a school classroom.

God is the teacher. She hands out assignments. If she likes you, you get the good ones - like being a CEO. If she doesn't like you, you get the crappy ones - like being a migrant worker picking blueberries all day.

Tests come on a regular basis. If you do your homework, study hard, and pay attention, you will get a good score on your test. Tests are scored out of 100 points.

God keeps track of how you do on your tests. Then she posts it on a global bulletin board for all the world to see. Fail that monogamy test - it's on the bulletin board. Pass the "be nice in traffic" test - it's on the bulletin board, and God always knows.

Each decision or outcome leads to one specific exact next action. If you do well on "Accounting 1-2-3" you will be led to "Accounting 4-5-6". There is a linear and logical explanation for our lives and the paths they follow. Curry favor with the teacher and you will be rewarded.

Take everything seriously, skip recess to work on special projects, and study hard, because there will be a TEST!

But ya know, it's all bullshit. If there is a God, I doubt she's keeping score. Life isn't a test, it's life.

And Ray, to answer your question, you should go to San Francisco. For Pride weekend. I'm sure of it, absolutely sure of it.

So here's the why behind the giving up alcohol.

1. I come from a genetic history of alcoholism & depression
My grandmother, as much as I love her, was a raging alcoholic. Tanqueray and Tonic. At least when I knew her. When she still had kids at home, it was a bottle of Courvesier a night. For real.

My brother is, shall we say, a practicing alcoholic. Or perhaps not. These days he is rumored to be in rehab in Trinidad, Colorado. We haven't had a real conversation in years, though, so who knows.

My paternal grandfather used to be in the government, but "cracked" one day and his family headed off to live in Florida for the rest of his years. (He's the depression side. My dad's side of the family seems to be too WASP-y to let alcoholism take root.)

I have two maternal uncles that I would qualify as alcoholics.

Get the picture? It's not a pretty pattern. I'm not judging, trying to sound holier than thou, or condeming their choices. If I was my grandmother, and had to live with my grandfather, I'd have drank at least a bottle of booze a day too.

But the genetic evidence points in a direction that my drinking might be, shall we gently say, genetically predisposed to unhealthy behavior.

2. I learned to drink for all the wrong reasons
The first time I got drunk was in high school. And it wasn't pretty. It was way, way too much for all the wrong reasons. For wanting to be popular, to be cool, to be edgy and in and interesting. Unfortunately, alcohol didn't make me interesting (although I was always fascinated by the shit that popped out of my mouth). It just made me drunk.

But it's a pattern that continued for years and years and years and years.

And then, after that got boring, alcohol became a good way to fall asleep. Back before I gave up caffiene, I had the hardest time sleeping. I could not fall asleep. It would take hours. I would lay in bed and my mind would just churn and churn and churn. So a few beverages were the perfect way to turn down the mind and help me fall asleep. Perfectly harmless, right?

Not really. Self-medicating is always an iffy proposition at best, and it's easy to have one too many given the variables of timing, diet, alcohol content, etc.

So ultimately, the reasons for drinking were for unhealthy reasons. It was never to celebrate, or just kick back and chill. It was to numb emotions, or to try and fall asleep, or feel comfortable or interesting at a party. To fit in, to be interesting, to be funny, etc. etc. etc.

There was always an ulterior motive. I'd like to think I'm growing up and learning how to confront these issues on my own, without alcohol. And if I don't force myself to, I never will.

3. Because I'd do Stupid Shit
Let's see, there was:
- forgetting my luggage in Utah on a ski trip
- vomiting all over my family one evening after too much rum (high school)
- an amazing number of arguments in college
- insulting all of my high school "friends" (something I still feel bad about to this day, but in retrospect, I might of been on to something. This little bullet could be it's own blog entry, and might just be some day)
- any number of minor arguments with Brian over stupid shit because I'd get beligerent
- the worst choice in a person that I ever went home with from a bar, only to realize my mistake after arriving at their house.
- how many days of work where I was only half-ass, but still managed to impress. But I'm tired of being half-ass. I'm feeling up to kicking ass for a while.
- How many hazy evenings and nights only half remembered? Too many.

With a few exceptions, I guess, I really haven't done anything that is remarkably fucking stupid. A few times, yes, but who hasn't?

4. Because I want to be present
I want to feel the fear and do it anyway. I want to live in the now, in the moment. I don't want to feel afraid of what tomorrow may bring or to feel guilt about what I might have (or might not have) done yesterday.

I want to be there for my kid, in all her moments. I want to be ready to drive to the hospital at 2 in the morning when she is sick. Or fully present, coloring with her and singing songs after a day at work.

I want to experience the sun in all of it's glory, and not wince at the bright daylight. I want to feel the fog envelop me on a cold SF summer evening. I want to be present and accounted for at dinner parties, social activities, office parties, etc.

5. Because it was a crutch
It was a crutch that I used. And it got me to where I am, and for that I am thankful.

But whatever parts of me were weak, or under-developed, or needed that crutch no longer do.

I'm ready to be me, warts and all, and let the universe take me where it will. I no longer feel the need to hide behind a haze.

6. Because I suck at moderation
It's true, I do. I feel driven to be. If I am going to do something, I will do it full-on and not half-ass.

My glass is never half-empty or half-full. It is full, or it is empty.

Trying to moderate my alcohol intake was the most un-interesting, boring, and pointless task I think I've ever tried to attempt. It takes more effort for me to drink in moderation than it does for me to not drink. Go figure.

7. Because I really really really want to be a mormon
I've given up caffiene. Now I've given up alcohol. I've been secretly requesting materials from the Utah tourism bureau and the mormon church. I'm ready. Oh wait, there's that gay thing.

Last night I had a dream where I was at Dulles Airport. and in the dream I was in the "A-1" terminal, which in reality translates to the T terminal on the map. It's the place where all the prop planes take-off and land at.

And our flight was delayed - shocking, I know. And so I was killing time with, me thinks, Brian and Britton. Don't ask me why we were flying together. Don't ask me where we were going. Cause I dunno.

But we were killing time at the bar. And Brian and Britton were off doing something. And it was me, at the bar, having a moment of truth. Brian was having a drink and Britton was having a drink. Cosmos, I think.

And I looked in my wallet, and saw that I had enough cash to afford whatever I wanted. And that I could order it, and no one would ever know but me and the bartender.

And I had club soda.

I'm going to learn to surf.

I'm thinking I'll sign up for classes in June or July.

Groovy!

Okay kids, I'm throwing this down in blog land. Making a major personal change to my life. And you all get to witness it, be a part of it, watch it grow into something cool and awesome.

Effective today, for ever, I am alcohol free.

No more. Not ever.

There will be much to follow about the why behind this decision, but trust me when I say it's the right thing to do.

I'm off to throw out the wine glasses!

Cheers!!!!!!!

I have a deck that faces directly west. The Pacific is about 44 blocks or so away.

My deck is 2 floors above the lawn and garden we have worked to "re-birth" since our arrival last year.

I often have a feeling, standing on the deck, facing west, that I could just simply fall into the lawn. Or, at least, I'd like to.

I know it would be catastrophic. Painful. Broken bones and injuries.

But sometimes I look down at the lawn, and it wants to swallow me. To absorb, to nurture, to snuggle for just a brief bit of time (until the ambulance arrives).

I could fall right into the lawn. I really could.

But something holds me back.

Today, I'm the guest on behind the blog at one of my favorite blogs, Pickle Juice.

So stop by, grill me with your questions, and find out if I feel like answering them. It's always possible, though, that the pressure of celebrity could get to me and I could just blow my top and spend the afternoon at the beach with my dogs (it is shaping up to be a fine day in San Francisco, my friends).

And I'd just like to say, I hate pickle juice. Pickle juice the blog is good. But Pickle Juice?????? YICK. GROSS. NASTY.

I don't eat pickles. I don't like mayo, and eat it very rarely. I abhor ketchup and mustard. There, I said it, I'm a condiment snob.

One exception to the pickle rule - my great grandmother has a delicious sweet pickle recipe. I remember making it once with my mom, and lemme tell you, those were some good pickles.

And finally - let's just real quick talk about tartar sauce. I don't like pickles. I don't like mayo. However, combine them together to make tartar sauce, and I'm so there! How weird is that?

So if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm crazy about Tuesday.

He says that I'm like a little kid who just got a new dog, and wants to play with it all the time and dress it up and snuggle with it. He's pretty much right.

I bought her saddle bags, and now she can carry all our stuff to the park. It's just the best!

She got a new bed, and sleeps next to me every night. She's the first dog I've ever had that sleeps by the side of my bed. Fred sleeps on me, but that's another story.

Last night was her first night of dog school. She's really, really, really, really good at sit. But that's it.

She refused to do down, and she refused to stand from a sit.

So much for my genius dog.

I was convinced we'd be in dog shows before long, winning blue ribbons, cashing prize checks, negotiating for the front of Purina 1 bags, and thinking about advances on my dog training secrets book.

Unfortunately, I don't see things working out that way.

Oh well. She still has the saddlebags!

So I get out of small group tonight, and have a message.

It is from my mom. It sounds like she is crying.... "Matt.......... your mom............ call me" and it is marked urgent. This freaks me out. So I urgently call home.

And Dad answers the phone, like "hey, how are ya" and I'm like, "mom called sounded like something wrong where is mom???"

And so my mom gets on the phone, and she's like, "oh, I was in the tub, damn cell phone wasn't working, how are you, I just called to chat!"

"Just called to chat????!!!!!"

Jesus Christ, I'd just imagined that 12 of my closest relatives had died in a fiery school bus crash. Chat?????

I think she'd seen the post about the two adoptions that weren't ours today and just called to chat, but I was in such a state when I called her that I wasn't really up for chatting.

Communication...

What do we expect to hear? How do we expect to hear it? How does that impact what we actually do hear? I hated all those slacker communication majors in college... but it really is an interesting question.

I called home expecting to hear death, and when it was just day to day stuff, I was an awful communicator on the phone.

No family members are dead, not even in a fiery bus crash! Cheers!

We had two calls from the adoption agency today. One was for a 1 month old in Pennsylvania. I still haven't gotten the details of that from Brian, but apparently we turned it down. I'm kind of partial to one month olds, but what can I say?

The other call I got - a healthy baby boy was born at a hospital in San Francisco on Friday and essentially abandoned by his mother. He is full african-american and tested negative on all the toxicology tests. Nothing is known about his birthfather. It was an uncomplicated vaginal birth.

Our agency wanted to know if we wanted to go to the hospital today. The implication was that we would be taking him home today.

It's just not time yet. It'll be time soon enough, and that'll be groovy.

I think Brian and I both would like to know the birthmother, and expect some level of involvment from them with our child. The "our" in that last sentence is a tricky pronoun. Is it her child, or our child, or "our" child as in all of us. I always think of our in the third sense, but it often feels as though it reads, "ours NOT yours" which isn't what I want it to mean.

The world needs some new pronouns to keep up with all the great ways that families can come into this world.

On an entirely seperate note, yesterday's entry was supposed to be something about my mom for mother's day. I'm still working on it, though, so it'll arrive eventually. That said, happy mother's day, mom!

If you've never had an $85 bottle of Pinot Noir, go do it now. You'll thank yourself for it. I promise.

Tonight was a dinner party at a friend's house in twin peaks. Had to go to the bathroom after drinking several tasty margaritas. Closed the door. Thought to myself, I could go sit on the floor against that wall, and just have this personal and totally private moment. And no one at the party would know. I loved that. But I didn't, although it sounded like a lot of fun at the time.

Moving to San Francisco was a personal dream, a personal goal. I didn't move here because of a relocation, a transfer, or some other 3rd party influence. I chose to move here. I chose to quit my job, spend our savings, and pursue a dream.

In high school, I had a girlfriend (stop laughing now) named Jennifer. I remember being at the Taco Bell when I was running for student president. It was one night after volunteering at the domestic violence shelter. And she was so worried about all this shit. Life, family, grades, school, community, volunteering, sister, etc.

I was so zen. Like, fuck it - worry is a waste of energy. You do, you don't, you make whatever happens work for you.

My freshman year of high school sucked. I felt so alone. So wanting to be "someone."

I went to a student government meeting. I realized, if they can fucking do it, so can I. The next year I signed up to be a representative. Which positioned me for an elected position my junior year. Which led to being student body president senior year. It was so clear, so focused, so calculated. I work well in 4 year time structures. I knew, my freshman year, the day I handed in my agreement to be a representative that I was doing it for the sole purpose of being elected student body president in my senior year. But you can't tell people these things. It makes you sound cocky, and the world loves to see the mighty fall.

But in that moment at Taco Bell, I was right. Worry is a fucking waste. You do. You don't. You move on. You can't worry things into happening. You can't worry things into not happening. You just can't.

Lately, I've been a little too focused on worrying. Worrying that because I chose SF, and to take some risks, it's all going to come crashing down on me, and the world will grind to a collective screeching halt to laugh at me. Yes, these are the things I sometimes think.

Maybe it will come crashing down. But worrying about it won't make it happen or prevent it from happening. My life was meant to be lived, not to be worried about.

I'm finding my groove all over again, and I love it.

Fred looks like he got hit by a bus. While we had him under, we also removed a skin tumor, had his teeth cleaned, and had some polyps removed from his mouth.

Poor guy.

But he's home, YEAH! And now the 60 day countdown starts, hopefully in 2 months we'll have a nicer dog that doesn't pee on everything.

I stand motionless, perpindicular to the bed. Staring down at Tuesday. All of my work clothes have slowly fallen off me. I am in my Nike slippers, jeans, and white undershirt.

I stare motionless.

You ask what I'm thinking about.

Quick - I think of something other than what I am thinking about.

I want to get to the topic, to what I'm thinking about. But it feels too raw, too much at once.

So I mumble something.

You ask, "what?"

I say how I am sad for Fred. Because I am. It's true. I'm not happy about neutering our dog. I feel that if we had been better pet owners. If we hadn't spoiled him so. If we had... just...

I know that neutering a dog is a safe procedure. I also know that life is risk, and maybe tonight is the last night I'll spend with my dog.

But dogs live in the now. You can't really celebrate their last night with balls, cause they don't get it. Dogs don't live in the future or the past. Just the present. The I'm so excited I could pee moment. Or the, my god this tastes good I want more moment. Or the moment. It's always the moment. And there I am pulling them from the past moment into the future moment. Feeling like I am always missing the present.

But as I am standing there, askew, heading towards my nakedness, this is what I want to say:

I never wanted a third dog. I never wanted a 100 lb dog. But I believe in the universe, and it gave us Tuesday. And she is beautiful. Absolutely stunning. Among the top 3 in dog personality. God would never have entrusted me with Tuesday if I wasn't going to be able to care for her, and care for her well. She isn't a question, she isn't a test. She is an answer.

But spirituality has never been our best conversation. So I stare in wonder and mutter about Fred's balls.

You're so Money Baby. Did you get the baby's number? When are you going to call the baby?

You must have seen the above linked movie, Swingers, for that to make sense. But there are a couple of funny scenes that deal with when to call a person if they give you their number, and should you call a person that doesn't seem interested. LA Dating etiquette seems particularly relevant to our adoption at this moment.

So what do you say to a birthmom that says not to write?

No, not like, "don't ever write me again."

But more like, "I've really enjoyed talking with you. I've ordered the packet from your adoption agency. I'm starting adoption counseling this week."

Her exact quote is "I will keep in touch as things progress."

So, that was about 3 weeks ago. Should I write? One couple we know has a theory that you are "wooing" your birthmoms and extra attention goes a long way. But I dunno.

If I write am I being disrespectful and obnoxious, pushy and invasive?

If I don't write, am I being uninterested, unenthusiastic, not committed to the adoption process?

I wanna be money baby, but how?

Tomorrow, Fred get's his testicles removed. He's become somewhat of an aggressive and territorial dog, and his marking behavior (read, peeing on everything) has increased. There is a 90% chance this will fix the problem, and if it doesn't, I'm in deep shit with the husband.

I've been an advocate of neutering since we got Fred as a puppy. Brian has not shared that opinion.

As I explained to Fred, "tomorrow we are taking you to the doctor's and when you come home in the afternoon you'll be a nicer dog."

Keep your fingers crossed that I'm not lying.

There are a wide range of sexual interests and subcultures in the world, the gay community included.

Some guys are into uniforms - you know, I'll dress up as a cop and pretend to arrest you. I think the cop outfits make for the worst bar wear, because inevitably someone wears a pair of those ridiculous Ray-Ban aviators to the bar, and instead of looking like a hot cop, they look like a cop school reject that is desperately seeking to hold on to some shred of their masculine image by wearing sunglasses that are eight times too big for their face. But whatever.

Some guys are into military outfits. This is a wide ranging group. We've got the Coast Gaurd, USMC, Air Force, Army, Navy, Special Forces, Green Berets, The Boy Scouts, and any number of variations using international forces. Like, you know, we'll be Navy bunk buddies and it'll be all hot and discreet like. The unforunate thing about these outfits is, unfortunately, when you are wearing camoflauge at the bar, I can still see you.

Some guys are into the whole cowboy thing. Let's dress up and you can hogtie me while I'm wearing spurs. Quite frankly, wouldn't you be really nervous having sex when someone was wearing spurs? Of course the flip side to this is dressing up like an indian, but after that one village person tried it, he was laughed out of the gay community and we've been pretty safe from bad indian drag since the 70's.

Some guys are into wrestling singlets. Which I think is just about the silliest thing, ever. But whatever floats their boat. I'm not judging, I'm just saying that I'd never wear one.

Of course, construction workers are another hot uniform outfit. Along this same theme of rugged outdoorsmen we also have the logger outfit. With thigh high boots, flannel, and a mustache.

But for a moment, let's talk about the uniforms you don't see. At least, the uniforms I have yet to see a gay man wearing.

Public Transit? Who really wants to dress up as a bus driver and try to get sex?
Oh yeah, Mr. Bart driver, smartly turn into the bus stop, turn on your hazards, and help the old lady get on? I mean, it just doesn't have that ring...

Public Service? Cable Companies, DirecTV, the sears repairman, the Maytag guy. No, I don't think so.

Vetranarians? No, and for good reason, if you ask me.

Sanitation Engineers? It'd would be really funny if they wore a whole lot of cheap obnoxious cologne. But funny at their expense, not funny ha ha.

Gardners? Fast Food Employees? Dog Catcher? Forest Service Ranger? (which, when you think about it, should fall into the rugged outdoorsmen category, but I think we all have an image of friendly, helpful, kind of nelly, Forest Service Rangers.)

But really, of all the list, I still have to say the best is public transit employee. It just makes me giggle to no end.

So in a recent comment, my mom wrote:

"Who the hell wants their mother in their head?"

But if you think about it, our parents are always in our head. In some way. At some level. They just are. In fact, I'd venture to guess that they are so ingrained and comfortable in each and every one of our brains, that most of us don't notice it.

This is 4 posts in about 4 hours, which just confirms my hot or cold personality.

I'm off to eat Pizza.

No really, I am.

is not with Justin Timerlake, Marky Mark, or N-Sync.

It is about homeless people.

My brain is obsessed by it. Like a puzzle to be solved. A mystery to be understood.

On some level, I desperately want to know, why them and not me?

I don't know the exact number, but I don't really think America has a homeless problem.

I do think we have a mental health care problem. IMHO, most of the homeless people I run across are fucking mental cases and/or drug-alcohol addicted.

I blame Ronald Fucking Reagan.

oh yeah, when I was a kid, I didn't see why my family didn't like Ronald Reagan. I couldn't see the harm in a president that liked Jelly Beans and was always smiling.

Whoops!

Not that this answers the obsession, but it does help. Isn't is sad that if you fix your leg, we can put it in a cast and fix you up, but when your brain breaks you are relegated to a marginal life, living on the streets?

You'd think we'd put a bit more emphasis on fixing the brain...

Cute, aren't they?

Oh yeah, and spoiled too!

Mom, yes, you can read my blog. Just remember, I'm not always "all-right" and that, in of itself, is perfectly "all-right."

That's why I love blogging.

Because otherwise we would have never had this conversation. It's a little peek behind the curtains.

The automotive personality test, that perfectly describes the difference between Brian and I:

- He is driving his half sister's old volvo at the moment. Every time he used the brakes, an orange indicator light would illuminate on the dash. He'd been driving it like this for at least a week. When I find out about it, I ask him if he thinks a brake light is out?

He shrugs, says that is a good possibility.

Me - I immediately check. And yes, a brake light is out. So I immediately go and replace it.

In my life, strange lights on the dashboard are cause for immediate concern and definite action to correct the problem, post haste.

In Brian's world, pretty orange lights appear when you use the brakes. Isn't that interesting?

That's us, in a nutshell.

My newfoundland is quite possibly not. Today was her second trip to Ft. Funston, and on both occasions she has refused to get in the water. I'm thinking of taking her back to where I found her. That's a joke. I won't be getting rid of her, but I am seriously disturbed by her lack of interest in water.

One of the reasons I kept her is because I wanted a newfoundland. And let's face it, unless I stumbled across a lost one, Brian was never going to agree to the idea. He's not a big fan of slobber. Newfoundlands are water dogs. She better figure this out damn quick.

ps - the steak sandwhich at Subway SUCKS.

Zephyr, where I work, is pretty involved in the community. Which I dig. Last weekend we did "rebuilding together" where we all go out and clean up a house. This year we tore out the nasty yard, put in a new one, and hauled off tons (literally of garbage). It was cool.

Yesterday I filled in for another friend on the Project Open Hand deliveries. Most of them were to SRO hotels. SRO stands for, I think, Single Room Occupancy.

Brian and I have closets that are larger than some of the rooms I saw yesterday.

I remembered back to our home search, when I'd say things like "it has to have a garage and a yard. and we'd prefer something with a view. and oh yeah, we don't want to pay a lot."

If I was in the market for an SRO it would be something like "I'd like to have room for my hotplate, and not near the front door where the drug dealers hang out, and preferably not too too many cockroaches or other vermin."

I have never been in an SRO before. While I didn't really think it was something that only existed in movies, I never really "got it" before. I never imagined someone living in a 6x6 room. My dorm rooms in college were nicer, and they were pretty drab 1960's cinderblock and linoleum monstrosities. (On a side note, jesus god, what an awful website for western's residence halls. I don't think it could be more ugly if they tried. If you clicked the last link, this aside makes sense. Otherwise, read on.)

I wonder how people get so marginalized. One of the weird things about SF is the extremes that exist here. You could walk from a $32 million dollar mansion in Pacific Heights to an SRO in the tenderloin in an hour or so. You could drive it in 5 minutes.

It's the part of me that wants to make order out of everything. To understand why her, but not him? I always look to history, wondering what happened to them so that they ended up in an SRO, or homeless, or whatever it might be?

Afterwards, I had to drive to a client's in the mission to pick up a check. Passing through the intersection of 16th and Mission, off to the left on the sidewalk were a group of homeless people. One guy was really fucked up, and writhing around on the sidewalk. You could see huge abrasions on his ass and lower back. Some woman was interacting with him - I think perhaps they had had a fight and now she was trying to help him, or something. He looked pretty intoxicated and kind of like a mean drunk.

And it kind of dawned on me how I could never writhe on a public sidewalk completely drunk and fighting. Maybe it is my genetic code, the way I was raised, my internal dialog, I dunno. I just couldn't. If I was homeless, I think I'd be the reticent hermit trying to live unnoticed in Golden Gate Park or something.

This posts sucks because I'm tyring to put my finger on something that I haven't quite figured out. But I'm seeing glimpses of it lately.