I know that I’ve been a bit more narrative with my blog than usual. I can promise it won’t always be like this. Most of my narrative thrust goes in to the other part of my writing, but because I’ve decided to be at least a part-time blogger, I need to have things to blog about (and I’ll now quit using that word) and I can honestly say that I haven’t spent much time “in the world” the last couple of days. The only time I really took my nose out of a book all extended-weekend long was on Saturday. My wife wanted to take her recently acquired and newly fixed camera to the beach to take pictures of the sunset. Being a sucker for a potential green flash sighting, I decided that I would accompany her. At first, we were going to go to Sunset Cliffs, a place we’ve been to a number of times and a place guaranteed to produce a good postcard quality photo. But on the way, I suggested that we hit up the Ocean Beach pier. First of all, we’ve never been there, and having lived here nearly six years, I’d say that’s second only to the fact that I’ve yet to go to Sea World (and unless I’m given a ticket, I never will). So despite the relative chill and the fact that I don’t have anything much warmer than a windbreaker, we went out on the pier. And we actually had time before the actual setting of the sun to look around. Hence, the problem. Take my advice: if you’re ever on a pier with birds flying around above you, it’s best not to stand in one place for too long. Birds see you as a target. More specifically, they think that the brown windbreaker that you have on is an inviting place to poop.
Despite the poop on my shoulder (a prankster version of the green flash, I assure you), Elaine and I enjoyed the pier, the birds (except one), the little kids chasing the birds, and the mom chasing after the little kids. We decided to cap off the night with a trip to the Thai buffet and then Borders. Speaking of Borders, when did it become impossible to sit and read in a bookstore café? While waiting in the Borders’ café for my wife to finish up at Old Navy, I was forced to listen to a woman discussing her recent trip to the beautician, a man detailing his plans for watching the Sugar Bowl, and a middle-aged woman asking her friend via a cell phone if she’d like to go to the Gaslamp and smoke a “fookah.” “Yeah, a fookah. They’re fun.” I made it through about half of a page of the book I was considering buying when I just closed it and decided to do my Carlos Castaneda imitation, the one where I listen for the one voice in the room. But a Borders filled with people trying to use up their xmas gift certificates has no voice. It has screams, many screams, but no voice.
Postscript: I proudly wore my poop-stained jacket the rest of the evening. After my wife scraped most of it off with an abandoned coffee stirrer, all that was left was a slight bleached-out looking spot. Without a noticeable scent, I decided that for the evening the poop on my shoulder would be a badge of honor.
