Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

And in honor of the rain and the dark and the fresh, I give you this vaguely misanthropic

Tuesday Morning Stream of Consciousness

7 am on my long-awaited day off and I'm listening to a Memphis morning show wherein the little bro, who's flown in from Montreal, is singing and rocking and rolling it, waiting for news, this kid from Nebraska who's made the miles his own. And I love him and our family for having wild wings and fearless hearts full of wanderlust.

The world is so very small.

I think I may wear a Brigitte Bardot updo every day for the rest of my life. Studded with flowers. And heavy eye make-up.

The wind in SF yesterday was straight-up prairie wind. Howling. Loved it.

Check out this fantastic local boutique for handmade jewelry, enormous artistic rings and general fabulosity. Favor, at Polk and Union. Badass Louise Brooks ring. To die for.

God, it's good to finally have a day to myself. I am tired of being nice to people.

Misanthropy: [mis-an-thruh-pee, miz-]
noun - hatred, dislike, or distrust of humankind.

I promise it's not permanent. Just burn-out, really. And stupid girls ordering frou-frou drinks, and not knowing what they want, and just generally speaking with so little spirit or fire. Do they realize they come off as so uncertain and unself-possessed? And when did I become so impatient, anyway?

My whole body is made of peanut butter M&Ms.

(Oh. That's when.)

Cocktails tonight. Shall I wear the 3/4 length gloves with the capelet, or is that pushing it?

(Strange to hear all these slow Mid-South accents. And a weather forecast for Tennessee. I'm so glad to live in SF. Remind me never to raise a child with a Southern accent. The slow roll is charming but not good for first impressions. People judge, know what I'm sayin'?)

It may be time to revisit Sabato.

But then again there's the lone surprise sitting across the bar on a surprisingly fast-paced, dimly-lit Monday evening who pulls out a book with that first sip of Anchor Steam and you're whisking around, whooshing, busy, but you see a flash of green cover in passing and you look again and it's Howard Zinn and this someone is reading Howard Zinn at your bar!! and it's really quite phenomenal and there is hope for the world after all and maybe not everyone is shallow thoughtless apolitical fashion-obsessed empty in the end, because then across the bar you talk about Ron Takaki and activism and Prop 209 and Berkeley in the 90s and brilliant scholars whose minds are now lost to history and you realize, holy crap, am I really getting paid to watch a Giants game and talk about Howard Zinn and pour bourbon on the rocks right now?

The pears on my countertop are rotting.

Never underestimate the power of remembering someone's name. And then using it in conversation. And then watching their eyes light up in the unexpected pleasure of feeling seen.

If you can't remember their name, give them chocolate. It works almost as well.

I bought tulips yesterday. Pink tulips. They're perfect.

So then Chet comes on again (and did you know Albondigas used to play with him? First Benny Goodman, now Chet himself; Jesus criminy, who'd have thunk it?) and Time After Time has long since phased out, to be replaced by that divine Gershwin chestnut But Not For Me, and so at least thrice an evening I can sing along under my breath and remember August and Longwood Gardens and languid late-summer evenings and a stage hiding fountains and standing in the middle of a spotlight wearing a fitted 30s shirt and t-strap character shoes and singing out a sorrowful lament under the stars before Bobby and 12 bumbling cowboys came to sweep me off my feet, and all this in the middle of shaking gin and stabbing olives and laughing with Ben and cracking new bottles, and my god,

Life is so goddamned good. In spite of the misanthropy. Because it is spring. And the rain has stopped. And damn, here we are.

I think it is time for another bundt.


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