I decided to walk in the cemetary this afternoon, perhaps precipitated by the Oblivians Play Nine Songs With Quinton blasting in my headphones, or maybe just multiple injuries, a recent landmark birthday or the cold, dry weather doing wonders for my thinning hair- who's to say, but the air was fresh and the grounds seemingly endless as I gazed up that big green hill at the rich folks' mausoleums staring down like the Capulets and Montagues were still battling for supremacy in altitude. Thought I might feel a tad guilty for exercising where others mourn but that concern was quickly assuaged when the first car I passed had a young woman with her pink All Stars sticking out the window and her eyes buried in a book- daddy's favorite? Not a minute later I spied a middle-aged woman looking around suspiciously while her dog peed on a tree. I saw no doggy bag in her hand, so I suggest you tread carefully on your next Sunday afternoon visit. Ever spent a considerable time looking at tombstones? Can never tell the motivations/reasons behind the size and shape of each one. Does height alone equate to the love your family felt for you? Do they just have the cash to buy off the guilt for leaving you in a rest home those last twenty years? Should the giant ones really be placed next to the puny ones? How does that make the loved ones visiting the puny ones feel? Cheap? Inferior? Unequal in the eyes of God? Or can they spin it Christian fashion, making the buyers of large tombstones rich men who will never make it into heaven? By that logic, an unmarked grave is the ticket upstairs, a true sign of ascetic discipline, even posthumously. These are confusing questions for you believers. I hope you're thinking about them and notifying your attorneys accordingly.
The last folks I saw on the way out were two older gentlemen wearing cameras around their necks, presumably to confirm the bitches were still dead, perhaps a Yuletide tradition followed by celebratory beers and pool games at the Kerry House. I then saw a sign advertising the mortuary had their own radio station for Xmas music- why would a mortuary get its own radio station for anything besides communicating with the dead? I thought my metaphysical confusion had reached a peak but there were two picketers outside the big building on the other side of the gate protesting unfair labor practices in the crematorium. Let your mind wander on that one for awhile.
I walked from my house down to the lake this afternoon, after a physical therapy session in which I almost threw a crunchy lesbian through a six-foot mirror. Mandana brought memories of getting thrown out of my apartment when my neighbors said it was like living next to Wayne’s World. Sadly, no one mentioned Tony by name in the affadavit. I noticed Rod Dibble is still doing his thang at The Alley, which is impressive given I thought he gasped his last breath the night we got banned from that place forever. Walden Pond books is still run by aging hippies waiting for the white Che to lead them. I’m pretty sure that Ethiopian joint is running guns for terrorists. I know that’s true of the Grand Lake theater, cuz there ain’t no way that dude could pay his rent otherwise. Despite the unbearable smell at the southeast end of the lake, I still enjoy making it around. I heard a literal drug deal while the dude puffed away on a brown cigarillo, followed cellulite so jiggly I had to stop and gather my balance, heard one mother call her son a “fucking laughingstock and a joke,” and noticed the Oakland Boathouse was being redone into a lakeside restaurant by the folks who brought you the Beach Chalet. Gentrification is a tough sell by the lake where the bodies never pop, but I wish them well. Mostly, I couldn’t help thinking how relentlessly tired Grand Avenue continues to look. Some may find it funky and multiculturally vibrant, but I find it depressing. Every storefront just looks worn. Granted, The Serenader may have the greatest potential for any nightclub in the Bay Area, but who dares enter to find if it’s for sale? Hell, even The Golden Bear is gone, not that I ever went there after 1992, but it’s always nice to know just in case, ya know? Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve lived down there, but Smitty’s has just lost its appeal. I’m a fucking yuppie scum and I don’t even care anymore. I spent 8 dollars for a small beer at The Trappist the other night and I felt privileged for the opportunity. I’m listening to Slayer as I type but what's a soundtrack. Just another suburban juicer looking for a reason.
