October 29, 2002
Am I here?
Last weekend, I helped Ken and Paul move their house to LA. Well, not entirely. The house is still there in San Francisco, but the contents of the house are all down in their new home. I knew this day was coming, and when Ken called with a plea for help, I was like, "damn." You just can't put off the inevitable.
So I went over on Friday after work. I would have been there sooner than six o'clock if Clinical had had their...ducks in a row, so to speak. Review, edit, review, edit. And of course I'm the only one making the edits. Whatever. I got there at six. I had been up since six thirty that morning. I was up until eight thirty the following night. What is that? Thirty-eight hours straight? What is wrong with you? I had a couple of cat naps here and there, nothing longer than twenty minutes, but mostly wide awake, packing boxes. I'm glad it's over for their sake. Now comes the unpacking...and hopefully they'll find my sweatshirt, which was inadvertantly packed away with who knows what else.
While I was awake, and towards the end of the thirty-eight hours, I started to remember what had happened the previous day as if it were days or even weeks distant. I lost track of time, and I couldn't judge time any longer. It was a bizarre experience.
Anyway, I slept for twelve hours which was wonderful.
Sunday, Ken and I went to see the 49ers beat the Cardinals 38–28. I had never been to a pro football game before, so it was a treat to see them live, with 64,000 other screaming idiots. It's funny how some people get so excited about certain things. I don't know "first down and thirty" from a field goal or a touchdown, and why a field goal is three points, and why a touchdown is six points and then you have to kick for an additional point to make it seven, but these people do, and they'll tell you when the referee, or the zebra, is full of shit.
My father wanted me to play football when I was in high school. He wouldn't let up on me for a minute. He played football all his life until semi-professional football after college. Then he stopped. But he loves the game. When we were kids, my sister and I would have to fight with a football game on TV for attention from him. Maybe that's why I don't like the game. But I can see its draw. I wanted to see the Giants play in their new stadium this year. I don't necessarily like baseball better than football; it's just that I know how to play baseball and can follow at least what's going on.
Anyway, sitting in the stands at "The Stick," watching the 49ers in person surely had to raise my butch quotient a little, n'est-ce pas? (And the fact that I said n'est-ce pas brought it right back down.)
OK, so after the Great Escape from Rancho Relaxo, I went back to eating my trail mixes from Trader Joe's with abandon. My diet has come back down to earth and rejoined the sensible. RJ thinks that fish and broccoli every night for dinner is an acceptable diet. WTF? So, natch, I'm eating red meat, pasta, chocolate, etc. like a real person. And natch, my seven to ten pounds are probably gone by now. So, I'm swimming at least a mile every night, and H has introduced me to the weight room at the Embarcadero YMCA. We're not doing free weights, mind you, please... We're using the Cybex machines and the Lifestyle (?) machines to work the parts of our bodies that are not as affected from swimming as are the other parts. So far, it's painful and intimidating, especially when the really cute guy on the treadmill can look into the reflection of the window in front of him and see me grunting and huffing and puffing and making weird faces while I try to work off my gut. Oh well. The price we pay for beauty, right?
I've found a few other interesting ideas on the web, like: Nervousness, Bookcrossing, and 1000 Journals. These are the great ideas that the Internet can spawn. I love them. It's as much fun as having penpals and having those books that you would add to and pass on to someone else to add to and on and on and on. I can't remember what they're called anymore, and that's sad. I loved having snail mail pen pals. Now, everyone wants e-mail addresses and websites. I miss mail. I miss being creative and inventive. I miss interaction with other people.
That's all.
