327 Market

Sunday

This is turning into one of those endless Sundays. I went to bed at 1:30 this morning (after spending a delectable evening eating home made pizza and canning Pogonip plums at the house of the Mister and the Missus. We stayed up late and discussed words, and contemplated the etymology of the word "horny" (does it come from the latin word "fornix" (which means, btw, "arches"-- ancient brothels had arches... makes me think of the Golden Arches-- that is an interesting connection-- where we get the word "fornicate") or a scottish term, horn, for the "penis" ) and then I had to wake up early to sing anthems at the Lighthouse Field (surrounded by the Bay-- it was foggy and drippy, making my littl coastal heart very happy). Then we had to sing again at 11 for the second service. And then we had a BBQ with the choir, and then we had 2 hour rehearsal. And finally, after 8 hours, I am home. I curled up with the new issue of Mc Sweeney's (I don't ever read it, but this was the "comic" issue and the immortal Chris Ware edited it). If I really bury my nose in it, I can smell Valencia Street.

I don't feel like going any where else. No one invited me to the big party in el vallito. I am not bitter, it was the talk of the coffee hour, though.

[insert melancholy pause]

I think the Mountain People might be doing something... see above entry.

I am thinking about dragging out the ladder and climbing on the roof to watch the fireworks. Me and my bottle of Merlot.

My mail box is empty.

So is the house.

My parents invited me to come up north... but I don't feel like driving.