Feels Like Home to Me

Biking home from band practice I take a wrong turn through Golden Gate Park (stoopid museum construction detours!) then hit a bump and lose my rear light. On the unlit (‘cept my headlight) mid-park road I pause to grab the blinker and reassess my directional decision. A car cruises by and slows ever so slightly. As I give him (or her?) my best “fuck-you-motherfucker-I-fought-off-a-mugger-in-Bed-Stuy” look I realize that this is what makes San Francisco San Francisco for me – biking, fiddle on my back, not sure where I’m going, letting a bit of New York slip out.

A few blocks later I’m home, I park the bike in the garage (ah, SF) and then discover that my flat’s front door is wide fucking open. Who knows how long it’s been like that, but I shut it, assuming that the last one out of my housemate’s meditation study group left it ajar, or that it's part of some spiritual cleansing that should be stopped. But I ask, and it seems that, in fact, he just forgot to shut it while forgetting to water the very, very sad fuchsia hanging by the door. But no one in the neighborhood seems to have noticed the oversight, and all is well.

And so it goes. Creepy date today, no? Too bad that movie ruined it.

p.s. I went to New York this weekend. More on that, with some pictures, soon.