Love Like A Balloon

My Love is like a balloon.

Wait. That's not enough to describe it.

My Love is like a balloon that has been, for whatever reason, let loose into the open sky. Let's say that I hold my Love in my hand. It's in the form of a balloon, and its connection to me is tenuous (it's held to my person only by means of a ribbon). At first, it's grounded; under control.

When someone special comes along I slowly begin to lose my grasp on the ribbon. I may let go of it quickly, or slowly, but eventually my grasp is not firm enough to hold onto my Love; my balloon. It sets off into the abyss of the open sky. What does it see? What does it experience? It rises quickly; perhaps too quickly, but Love is difficult to manage. It doesn't want to be managed. It runs rampant. It draws the "oohs!" and "ahhs!" of all that see it as it progresses, getting higher, and more intense.

But as it gets higher, more pressure is put upon it. The Love starts to experience its true test. What once was magical and mysterious quickly (almost instantly) comes to an end: the balloon implodes from too much pressure and falls swiftly to the unsuspecting earth below. No one ever sees it happen, but they know that it will; they know as soon as they see that balloon escape my grasp. The problem is that my grip gets firmer with each balloon that escapes me.

As I write this, a red balloon floats past my view of the city landscape, keeping a consistent altitude. I think that person's Love will make it.

San Francisco City Hall: My First Time

Earlier this week I walked over to City Hall to pay my water bill. The building itself has much more grandeur than even the Washington State Capitol. However, I'm not interested in remarking on such things at this time. Instead, I'd like to point out the rather ominous feeling that overcame me when walking inside. Everyone knows the horrific event that happened within its walls: on November 27, 1978, Dan White snuck into the building through a basement window and murdered Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk.

I thought being on the ground floor was eerie enough, but I was wrong. The basement is far more upsetting. I couldn't stop thinking "Dan White was down here. He got in through a window, with a loaded gun and extra bullets, and he was on his way to murder two of his (former) coworkers, one of which was gay." I got out as soon as I could.

Adam4Adam Profiles

Sic throughout:

Not looking for anything serious but fun time will be great

Not into crazy scene!! no 420, bareback, leather and nasty stuff. I'm "normal" as human and you better too! have a face that I knw im not talking to an alien

And sorry to looking at your profile without leaving you a msg, thats becuz i am too shy to say a word~ smile~

Out going but stay indoor Confuse?? Lollll

Where do I even begin with this?

Deconstructing a Dream

Last night, as I slept, I was transported to an unspecified clothing store in Los Angeles. I was with the last guy that I had dated, Joey, and his friend, Jason. As I tried on clothes, I could sense the agitation that Joey was feeling as he waited for me to finish with whatever I was doing. No words were spoken by me, but he finally snapped. "Why are you even here? No one wants you here?" he shouted at me.

My mind put me there to seek reconciliation; to retrofit a bridge that, in all rights, doesn't even exist. The bridge was there one day, and gone the next; it left no trace. But reconciliation isn't always possible. Sometimes it's better to just accept what the circumstances are and move on with your life. "If you want to get something, it's fine. I'll pay for it," Jason told me. He clearly felt a bit bad for me, but he was still on the side of his friend in that moment. Why was I there? I shouldn't have gone to Los Angeles. It was time to go. I told him "no thank you" and then I woke up.

Writing Under the Influence

Mustaches are divine, to say the least. Well, that's not entirely true. Let me back up and say that mustaches are magical. Yes, that's better. They're magical. They enchant those that see them; they disgust those that see them. There's always been, and there always will be, two camps: those that find mustaches appealing, and those that find them appalling. It doesn't make any sense. How can anyone be pushed away, instinctively, by a bit of hair on someone's upper lip? Questions and answers.

I worked with a gingerized twink who, upon sizing up my facial experiment, decided that I would be referred to as “Mustache” from that point forward. “Hey Mustache! When are you going to shave that thing off? He would ask me; insult me. The joke was on him, as he never knew how much more attention I was getting from my fellow fags. Mustaches, apparently, are definitely not straight-acting.

Deconstructing the Word "Fit" in Gay Online Profiles

I'm fat. Scratch that. I used to be fat. I still consider myself fat, though. Once you're fat, you never ever think of yourself as anything other than that at most times. I'm flabby; I have a gut that droops over my belt. It's not pretty. Depending upon how straight I'm standing, you can hardly tell that that's the case. This is probably why people tell me that I'm thin. "Let me take my shirt off for you and then you can tell me that again."

So, let's just be honest, guys. When you say that you're looking for "fit" guys, what you really mean is that you're looking for skinny/slender/slim guys. The flabby need not apply. And I don't. It doesn't matter than I can get up right now and go for a ten mile run without much, if any, difficulty. Oh, I'm fit, but I'm not the fit that you want. I can think of one person that I know that can't walk more than two blocks without considering hailing a taxi; you would consider him "fit" because he's very skinny. All other qualities aside, if you were to put us next to each other and select the "fit" person, you would (probably) pick him.

Speak the truth: you want someone skinny. And I'm done.

Poetry In Motion

Imagine being the person that is just having the shittiest of days...and then you get on board this train.

Via Muni Diaries.

All Those Innocent, Weather-Worn GAP T-Shirts

Discovered on Broadway (near Jackson Square).

My Morning Commute

Yesterday was the first time that I saw rain in weeks. Strange. Other than that, my commutes over to San Francisco have always been pleasant, due in part to the fact that this is where it begins: Walnut Creek BART station.

My New Favorite Brewery: 21st Amendment

Not the BFOD IPA.

I no longer have the luxury of going into a bar and asking for a Manny's or Mac & Jack. (Oh, how I miss you both!) That being said, I have to find something new; something that will match or exceed the taste and quality of the aforementioned microbrews. And in doing so, I discovered a magnificent brewery in South Beach: 21st Amendment*.

I walked over there from work Thursday night, found a place at the bar, and ordered myself a Brew Free or Die Hard IPA. By their own admission, it's their top-selling beer, and I can see why that is. It's fucking delicious. After I polished that one off I merely ordered by pointing at whatever looked good around me at the bar. The gents that were sitting next to me had the beer pictured to the left. Unfortunately, I forget which brew it is. After the first beer I was starting to feel hungry. So I ordered a Reuben, and it was well worth the $11.95. Good beer, good food. (Fuck you, Ram.)

The best part is that while you can absolutely order from a huge list of specialty microbrews--they have a fucking wheat beer that is fermented again with watermelon!--these babies are available in cans in local stores around town. My only concern, thus far, is where in the hell I'm going to keep all my beer cold when I move in to my new place next week. (There's hardly any room in the refrigerator!)

I highly recommend you check it out; if not at the brewery itself, then pick up a six pack and go have fun at Mission Dolores Park.

*Named after the amendment to the U.S. Constitution that repealed Prohibition.

How They Hire Those Shirtless Boys to Open the Door for You at Hollister

Watch until the very end. Enjoy.

Via Towleroad.

Starstruck: Meeting Robin Williams

When I worked at Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park, Washington, I was lucky enough to be the only available cashier when Robin Williams--yes, the Robin Williams--walked up to buy some magazines. He was filming a scene for "The World's Greatest Dad," and he was on a short break. The scene that they filmed in our store is shown within the first five minutes or so of the film. It wasn't anything too exciting, except for, you know, fucking Robin Williams being in our bookstore!

Here's how my conversation with Robin Williams should have played out:

"Hi, there!"
"Hello."
"Just these for you today?"
"Yes, please."
"You know, I must say that your performance in Dead Poets Society was absolutely amazing."
"Well, thank you very much. I appreciate that."
"You are very welcome. And thank you!"
"Have a good day now."
"You too, Mr. Williams!"

(Note: Money would have been given, and change returned, but I didn't feel it important to necessarily include that in the dialogue. Get over it.)

Now, here's how my conversation actually played out:

"Hi!"
"Hello."
"I LOVED YOU IN PATCH ADAMS!"
"Oh, well, thank you."
"... "
"Have a good one."
"You too."

My coworkers all had the same response when I told them what happened: "PATCH ADAMS?! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?! WHAT ABOUT (insert any number of good Robin Williams movies, or any number of awful Robin Williams movies)?!

Baz Luhrmann's "The Great Gatsby"

This actually looks really good.

(Also, excellent choice for the background music: Jack White's cover of U2's "Love Is Blindness" from their 1991 album, Achtung Baby.)

Finally, A Song for Marathon Runners!

158 Days Later; Or, Part II

Twin Peaks and Sutro Tower (As Seen From Noe Valley)

Where was I? Oh yes, I traveled to San Francisco twice in 2011. I had a blast each time. Don't even get me started on how Cinco de Mayo went down. I don't think that I will ever top that night. Memories! Speaking of topping that night ...err... never mind. I digress. You know how people always share with everyone that they're going to move to (or live in) _____________ someday? Well, I started to tell people that I wanted to live in San Francisco someday. Did I have any plans to do it anytime soon? No. Most of the time people just say that they're going to move, and then they never do. They get comfortable; the risk can be too much for them. It's understandable.

I soon realized that my life was in decent enough order to put my words into action. I mean, why wait? In fact, what would I be waiting for, exactly, before I decided to move anywhere outside of Seattle? Fear of the unknown would be the major element holding me back. As I told several people, "if you wait for everything to be perfect, then it'll never happen." And it's true. I would still be in Seattle if I had decided to wait until I had a huge chunk of money saved, and until I secured a job and a place to stay. But that's not to say that I didn't have a plan.

My timing (with quitting) was perfect; the bookstore that I worked at for nearly three years was just beginning the process of hiring seasonal gift wrappers. I emailed the manager and inquired if I could apply. She sent me the available shifts, and I signed up for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The job didn't start until the day after Thanksgiving, and it went all the way through Christmas Eve. That extra money would definitely help me out. Of course, at that time I didn't yet know that I was going to move to San Francisco. I was merely covering my ass with bill payments and rent until I found that replacement job (that would never come to fruition). I would be valeting five days out of the week, and gift wrapping three days out of the week. As I recall, I only ever had one day off during the week, if that.

I was able to put away a good amount of cash during those four weeks. A few days prior to my last day at the bookstore, my manager approached me and asked if I would like to come back and back fill a bookseller position while one of his employees was out on medical leave. Honestly, he beat me to the punch, as I was going to ask him if I could stay on and help out wherever needed.

And that was my life for the next four months. The first week of January I started working at the bookstore as a bookseller on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays; I valeted Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

In an effort to cut costs as much as possible, I asked one of my fellow office coworkers if I could move into the spare bedroom that she and her girlfriend had in Queen Anne. They acquiesced, and I was supposed to move in at the end of January. However, I managed to talk one of my good friends into letting me stay at her place in Northgate. You really can't do any better than free. Although, there were some conditions: I would surrender my furniture, and agree not to cash out my IRA. (She cares about my financial future.) We definitely made some great memories in the three months that I lived there.

To be continued...

New Album by Animal Kingdom

One of my new friends (in Walnut Creek) introduced me to this amazing band from London. This is their first single from their newly released album, "The Looking Away."

The video is...um...unusual--I don't understand it--but the song is really good. "White Sparks" is my favorite track on the album. Check it out!

Perks of the Job (Location)

Beautiful view of San Francisco City Hall

156 Days Later

Pink Apartments in the Mission

"I've realized that Seattle has nothing more to offer me. It's been fun. Time to move on. I'm thinking...Bay Area." I posted that on Facebook on December 16, 2011 at 5:19 p.m. Three days later I purchased my plane ticket to San Francisco and never looked back. In the 156 days since I first declared that I intended to move away from Seattle so much has happend.

Let's start at the beginning...

For 19 months I worked in an office that was populated by fucking idiots and kiss-asses; the CEO was an asshole; the wages were unfair. In the beginning of November, days before our annual performance reviews (the time when we're typically supposed to get raises), the decision came down to lay off 30 people (seven percent of the company's workforce). According to several seasoned employees this was in order to prevent people from getting raises and weed out the people that weren't doing the company any favors (financially). This came the week after I was spending significant amounts of time merely sitting at my desk weighing the pros and cons of simply getting up and walking out on that piece-of-shit job.

Our floor manager got us all together and informed us of the news. "If you're at this meeting, then you still have your job. It sucks (having this dark cloud over us), I know, but let's just get back to work, people." It's really fucking difficult watching a grown-man cry in front of his employees. (Note: this was the only manager that I could tolerate; he was one of the only reasons why I managed to stay there as long as I did.) We all went back to our desks and commenced in the obligatory gossip: "Who got canned?" "Why do you think s/he did?" You get the point. I went to my desk and decided that I wasn't going to keep working. Instead, I decided to make the decision about whether or not I wanted to work for a company that engaged in all of this bullshit. You have to stand up for yourself at some point, right?

I put in my headphones and found a song for inspiration: "Paradise" by Coldplay--don't judge--blaring it until I nearly went deaf. Now trembling with anxiety, I got up from my desk and walked into my manager's office and asked to speak with him. "Not another one," he said. As clearly and coherently as I could, holding back my emotions, I explained to him how I felt and what I was doing:

"I'm done. November 14 is my last day."
"Can I ask why?"
"Honestly...I fucking hate it here..."
"Okay."
"I have nothing against you. You've been a great boss, and I'm sorry if I've been difficult at times. But I fucking hate how this company is run, and the people upstairs can go fuck themselves. I'm not working here anymore after the fourteenth."

I shook his hand and proceeded to make my rounds around the office letting people know the news. (As a side note, a handful of other people quickly followed suit and quit.)

Did I have another job lined up? No. What I did have, however, was a part-time job that I could easily convert into a full-time job, as well as a chunk of money saved from said job. I started valeting on Fridays and Saturdays back in mid-August in order to pay down debt faster and just to have some money saved in the bank; living paycheck to paycheck is a real bitch. My original plan was to utilize my valet income and savings to stay afloat long enough to find a new full-time job. What really happened was that I became lazy and applied for maybe three or four jobs max. I interviewed for one, but I didn't get it. In hindsight, I'm glad that I didn't; if I had, then I would probably still be miserable, and the rest of this story would not have come to pass.

I was in a rut. I needed something new, or else I was just going to perpetually take on the same shitty office job that pays the bills again and again ad infinitum.

Earlier in the year I made two trips down to San Francisco: once in May for both a vacation and a good friend's wedding, and again at the end of July to run in the city's marathon. I wish I could explain what drew me to the city, but I can't. I was just drawn to it. It was different and exciting. Perhaps I could have wound up in a different city if I had traveled elsewhere (Chicago, New York City, Boston, Portland: major cities).

To be continued...

Beginnings to Stories That Were Never Written: Father/Son

“I'm sorry that things didn't turn out better,” my father told me one day.

“Don't be; it's made me into the person that I am today, and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

"Seattlest Runs the San Francisco Marathon"

Originally published on Seattlest:

Imagine that you're standing on Embarcadero Street at dawn, looking out across San Francisco Bay to see the Bay Bridge lit up in all its glory, hearing Sufjan Stevens' "Chicago" in the background, and surrounded by near 25,000 other people who spent however many months training for what comes next: 26.2 miles of scenic, albeit physically demanding, running around and about San Francisco.

Well, this fat-kid-at-heart didn't just imagine it; I did it! This is my second marathon, after Vancouver, B.C. back in May--and it was a grueling endeavor, to say the least.

Runners had the option to run the full marathon, or the first or second half, which ended and started in beautiful Golden Gate Park. If you ever decide to partake in this rewarding experience, I suggest you run the first half (if not the whole), as that is where all the scenery worth seeing (Embarcadero, the Fisherman's Wharf, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Presidio, and part of Golden Gate Park) is to be found (as well as some glycogen depleting hills).

The second half consisted of several back-and-forths through Golden Gate Park before shooting you out to Haight Street, continuing down through the Mission and Potrero before heading back north to AT&T Field, and finishing right back where you started on Embarcadero. It was a snoozefest, which is why I decided to make the most of it around mile 24; spectators were handing out hot dogs and cans of Tecate. As I had already "hit the wall" twice--yes, twice! Around miles 15 and 22--I couldn't resist. My body was craving sustenance no matter what it was.

At mile 26, with the finish line square in my weary sight, I put on a smile, let the roar of the crowd fuel my final moments of the race, and snapped open that can of Tecate the instant my feet crossed that finish line. My final time was 4:03:41. It wasn't my best, but come on! It was hard!