My homegirl Alana G is a fan of New York Jets QB Mark Sanchez, so today, on her behalf and by request, and in front of national media with cameras rolling, and me sitting front and center in the first row, I asked Sanchez, "What do you do to keep those locks looking so touchable?"
Happy Easter.
I'm listening to Belle & Sebastian1 and thinking about friends and family and generally feeling thankful for the blessed gift of life. Take it for granted at your own risk.
I'm also taking a break from my new top-secret writing project that I'll tell y'all about soon but if you want to know in the meantime and happen to know Dan Boehl feel free2 to ask him; just don't tell him I sent you, please.
Today I saw the movie Gomorrah. Yes, it was beautiful outside here in San Francisco, but, breaking news, there are enough hours in the day to spend some inside and some outside. Plus I really wanted to see this movie. Afterward my friend and I hit up Dolores Park, which unlike outdoor stuff in Dubai is actually outdoors. We also ate pizza at Little Star.
Gomorrah (or Gomorra depending on whether or not you hate the letter "H") is a film about the Camorra crime family in Italy. I didn't know until the opening credits rolled that it was Scorsese. Also, I didn't know until right now that I don't know how to spell Scorsese. Apparently he's just "presenting" the film, whatever that means, because he's not listed as either a director or a producer. Whatever. This is not important. If you like gritty dramas with plenty of feuds and killing and subtitles and not too much of a love story or really any love story at all but plenty of toxic waste and automatic weapons, then see the movie. It was practically written for you.
While in the Mission we cruised by a bookstore. Kira said, "Dewey, dude, you got to see this." Then she showed me a copy of the book, "Tom Swift in the Caves of Ice," which looked about 300 years old. The book was first published 98 years ago, and this copy didn't appear much younger. Included free with your $11.88 purchase of a book that was written for children? The most racist note I've ever seen written on the inside cover of a book, and definitely the most racist thing I saw today:
To the person that receives this book —1: "The Rollercoaster Ride," from The Boy with the Arab Strab
"Remember Pearl Harbor"
Go out and lick those Japs clear off of the map.
"a loyal Yank"
It's been fifteen years since the death of Kurt Cobain.
Sixteen years ago tomorrow I saw Nirvana at the Cow Palace in Daly City, immediately south of San Francisco. To this day it's one of the best concerts1 I've ever seen. I went with my brother Doug on a whim. We took public transportation, the MUNI. I remember feeling like it took three days to get there, and that we were passing through some dreary San Francisco neighborhoods, but I was fourteen years old and thrilled2 out of my mind.
The concert was a benefit to raise funds and awareness for rape survivors in Bosnia-Herzegovina during the Bosnian War, but what I remember most about that day is Cobain, during the show's final song, jumping3 from some speakers into the drum kit. Even today I can remember thinking how much that probably hurt.
1: Others being Guns N' Roses (D.C. in the early '90s) and Paul McCartney (D.C. and Miami in the early '90s) and Phish's Big Cypress.
2: Doug and I were both huge Nirvana fans. I still am, I suppose, though I don't listen to the music more than a few times per year these days.
3: You can see it at the 8:05 mark of the video, by which point the "song" was nothing but feedback and static.
Today Natalie and I took a field trip to San Francisco's de Young Museum, which is in Golden Gate Park over near where I used to play disc golf, which I haven't played in roughly forever because of two reasons: duh, I broke my finger; deux, too many folks who play at San Francisco's disc golf course have jerky etiquette. Even in Philadelphia—the meanest city I've ever experienced; nothing even comes close, to be honest—people have the good sense and common decency to not act like selfish babies. I've played at disc golf courses in Pennsylvania, Maryland, elsewhere in California, Delaware, Minnesota, maybe Connecticut and New Jersey, and probably one or two other states I'm forgetting. Only in San Francisco have I seen such buffoonery. I don't understand it. San Francisco is hands-down better than your city in every other way. This is the greatest place on Earth. Or at least in America. But we have a lot to learn about disc golf.
We stayed at the de Young Museum for only an hour1 or so, at which point we were kidnapped by hunger and dragged blindfolded, first to the Castro, where Natalie bought "good produce," and then to the Mission, where sans blindfolds we gobbled oversized vegetarian burritos at Taqueria Cancun. I suggested maybe checking out La Castro Taqueria, but Natalie wasn't having it. Probably for the best. I've been to both places and Taqueria Cancun is usually better. That slightly grilled tortilla is the hot sauce.
Oh, for all you job seekers out there: Taqueria Cancun is hiring but you need burrito experience, at least that's what my rudimentary Spanish gathered from the sign. It probably helps if you not only speak Spanish but also have experience listening to Mexican jukebox music2 for eight-hour stints, minimum. I love taqueria jukeboxes. The album art is unbeatable. Seriously, take a look sometime. I'm not even joking. I wouldn't do that to you. There is no time for jokes when talking about taquerias and Mexican music.
1: We saw maybe 15 percent of the museum. I want to go again and spend at least a few hours there, preferably after eating.
2: Full disclosure: As much as I love Mexican jukebox music, right now I am listening to Belle & Sebastian whiny Scottish Euro-pop.
Basically it's a fact that I'm an excellent dancer. I know this because the way to a woman's heart is through laughter, and all the ladies laughed at my wedding dancing. So I must have touched their hearts. Some of them also pointed. Those women must have been especially impressed.
Nara's and Tom's wedding was the hot sauce!
These random photos are in chronological order because I'm a great dancer lazy. The wedding also featured a professional photographer, of course, but I doubt that dude can match my iPhone photography skills.
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The Mayflower Hotel is an excellent hotel. I know this because we saw a U.S. Senator at breakfast Sunday morning. If the place was sketchy or lowbrow, I'm sure we would have seen at least six or seven Senators lurking in the shadows. Even so, I think the Mayflower's parent company holds itself in an esteem that's perhaps slightly too high.
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Tom waits for Nara at the World War I Memorial in D.C. during his last few minutes as a free man. The beautiful bride is Brazilian but of Japanese descent, so it's a good thing the wedding was here as opposed to the World War II Memorial. If that doesn't ring a bell, perhaps you should brush up on your World War history with regard to allies and enemies.
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Nara is too good for the Hammond family. Whatever. Her loss is our gain.
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The guy who officiated the wedding is a Wall Street Journal reporter. Mike something or other. I can't remember his last name right now, but I know he delayed a business trip to Afghanistan so he could be with Tom and Nara this weekend. He wrote a beautiful matrimonial preamble for the occasion.
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It's official. No turning back.
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I was partly responsible for the bubbles. Probably the most important job of them all.
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Apparently cherry blossoms are all the rage. Washington D.C. has about 50 billion of these trees, gifts from Japan way back in the day. Across the river you can see the Jefferson Memorial.
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I wanted to take a photo of Tom's ring, but Mom couldn't keep herself out of the way—too excited, I suppose—the result being a photo including everything but the ring.
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Duh. The ring.
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Thomas and Nara.
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Nara faked like she wasn't going to smash the cake in Tom's face. Then she smashed the cake in his face.
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We almost passed the White House without even noticing that it was there. I took this photo with Caity while we were walking to the Eighteenth Street Lounge, which is where we all went dancing, and also where Tom and Nara met. It was basically 100 percent excellent.
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This place was a huge letdown. I took Tom and Nara here for breakfast on Sunday morning. It's a beautiful bookstore that doubles as a café. Unfortunately the food is overpriced and below average. I almost bought Philip Caputo's, "Acts of Faith," but I didn't feel like carrying it around. Reminder to self. Get that book.
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Nara is a physical therapist, and some of her Brazilian girlfriends are also, so they were generally interested in my broken finger/knuckle. They recommended low-level laser therapy, which isn't approved by the FDA but is widely used in Europe and abroad. I trust Nara, and normally I listen to pretty Brazilian girls anyway, so we went ahead and did some "illegal" laser therapy on Sunday afternoon. Selfishly, it's great to have a physical therapist in the family. I'm clumsy, reckless and constantly finding new ways to get hurt. Laser therapy is certainly cleaner than ultrasound.
Then it was time to go home to San Francisco.
Weak sauce.
The silver lining is that Nara and Tom will be throwing a party in Brazil at some point.
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