Kid unfriendly

I am dismayed to find myself living in a city that now likes to bill itself as "kid-friendly."

Kid-friendly?  Since when is NYC kid-friendly?  Oh yeah, since they turned Times Square into Disney-fucking-land.  I liked Times Square SO much better when it was all hookers and hustlers and drug addicts.  You know, my people...

There were a lot of things I hated about San Francisco, San Franciscans themselves were at the top of the list. (NO, not ALL of them. Stop yelling at me)  But one of the things I truly loved about the beautiful City by the Bay was how decidedly UN-kid-friendly it was.  There are more dogs than children in San Francisco, a statistic that always brought me untold joy.  It's not an urban legend, you can read the article right here.  Of course, the main reason there are more pooches than pre-pubescents is because San Francisco is so motherfucking expensive that anyone who makes less than half a mil' a year can't AFFORD to have children, but that is neither here nor there.  The important thing is, I didn't have to dodge baby strollers and whiny little brats screaming for soda at the grocery store every fucking day.

Here, they're everywhere.  There's a playground down the street, it might be attached to a school, I'm not really sure, but every day around 11am there's a cacophony of laughter and screaming and I swear one day I'm going to firebomb the place.  My apartment faces the back of the building, so there's no street noise, it's usually quiet and peaceful.  Except for that one hour or so a day when I think my head is going to explode.

I don't hate all children, I'm not a monster.  Nor do I blame them for their misbehavior, their screaming bloody murder on the subway, their howling in line at the bank, (the fucking bank!) their temper tantrums in the aisles of Duane Reade.   I blame THEIR PARENTS for allowing that shit to go on.

Parents!  Control your motherfucking children!  Have some respect for the people around you, especially people who had the goddamned sense to use birth control!  When your Satan's spawn starts screaming uncontrollably, TAKE IT THE FUCK OUTSIDE!!  I don't care that you don't want to lose your place in line and have somewhere to go and if you take your kid outside it's going to hold up your whole day, guess what, shit like that happens when you have a kid.  That's what you signed up for when you decided to breed.  I have a friend who once ate her entire meal in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant because her infant son was screaming like a banshee and wouldn't shut the fuck up and she had the DECENCY to not want to subject innocent diners to that bullshit.  Take a cue, people.  When an entire roomful of people are staring at you and your offspring with daggers in their eyes because they can't hear themselves think, GO THE FUCK OUTSIDE.  Or to the bathroom.  Somewhere.  Anywhere.  Just fucking GO.

This has been a public service announcement from someone who is ready to smack the fuck out of you.  Oh yeah, one last thing.  Congrats to Hans and Moni!  They will be wonderful parents.  Close to perfect, of this I am sure...

wandering

I'm in New Orleans right now.  I came in for a family wedding, to visit Sweetheart before I snap in half from lack of sex, and to take a break from the apartment from hell.  It's been great being able to shower without a wall full of peeling plaster staring me in the face.  It's been especially great having a kitchen (and a honey who makes me duck paninis for breakfast).  I had forgotten the simple pleasures of a stove upon which to cook.  I had also forgotten that apartments usually have kitchen sinks and people aren't supposed to be doing their dishes in the bathroom.  So I'm really enjoying a comfortable place to crash.

The wedding was lovely, as far as weddings go.  As you may know, I'm not the biggest fan of weddings, especially after what happened last time.  But this one was painless, a beautiful ceremony in Jackson Square followed by a second-line through the French Quarter ending with a great reception overlooking the river.  Food, booze, family.  Very nice.

Aside from all that though, I really fucking miss New York.  I'm getting spoiled as shit up there and I hate myself for it.  I hate it because it's going to make it impossible to leave, and I'm going to have to leave because I can't stay in one place for too long and I miss the West Coast and I kind of have a plan to move back there, maybe Seattle or back to (shudder) the Bay Area, but the plan requires me to stay in New York for a while longer, like at least a year or two and by that time I'll be so used 3am sushi deliveries and a 24 hour Duane Reade half a block away that I will be hopelessly stuck there for all eternity.  Or at least until I can figure out how to open a bar somewhere in South America.

Brazil.  It should be in Brazil.

WHO DAT!!

I would be remiss if I didn't make mention of the fact that my (Superbowl champions) New Orleans Saints are squaring off tonight against the San Francisco 49ers, the city I formerly (and often begrudgingly) called home.  I had to laugh at the people who actually asked who I would be rooting for.  Seriously?  Is that even a question?

Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened at last week's game!  Jenelle and I decided to forgo Bar None, as it was disgustingly crowded three hours before the game and was only going to get worse.  We decided to go to dba in Brooklyn, another Saints outpost in NYC.  My friend James (also from New Orleans) met us down there as well.  We get there and I notice a guy running around who looks really familiar.  It took a little while, but I finally realized, holy shit, that's Jack.  He used to come into a bar I worked at ten fucking years ago.  I made a mental note to say hello when I got a minute.

Next thing I know, James is next to me saying, "Hey, wanderlust, have you met Jack?"

And I said, "As a matter of fact, I have.  I used to get Jack drunk ten years ago.  Shot of Jim Beam and a Budweiser, right Jack?"

The look on his face was priceless.

Of course he remembered me and of course we had lots of catching up to do.  Turns out he moved to San Francisco for a while and hated it too!  (OK, I'm being dramatic.  I didn't HATE living in SF.  Not all the time, anyway.  I just complained a lot)  He's much happier in NY, as am I.

That's the thing about New Orleans.  Once you've lived there a little while, it doesn't matter where you go.  If there's any sort of gathering involving New Orleans in any way, be it a Saints game, a crawfish boil, or oil-spill fundraiser, you WILL run into someone you know.  You just will.  Like it or not.  I once ran into a guy I used to HATE at the Black Magic Voodoo Lounge in San Francisco.  Fortunately for all involved, he was way too drunk to remember who I was.

But it's a beautiful thing, and I love it.  Anyway, I've got to go.  I have a date with James and Jack and the rest of the Who Dat nation.  Bar None has no idea what it's in for.

GEAUX SAINTS!!

Shadow Shot Sunday

Brooklyn, New York
Coney Island
Jenn Farmer on the Wonder Wheel

    


Jenn was in town visiting from San Francisco a couple of weeks ago.  I was so happy to have her here.  She herself is an extremely talented artist and photographer.  She's trying to convince me to let her paint a mural on my walls.  Actually, it didn't take much convincing.  I was like, when can you come back?  Check out her work here: http://jennfarmer.org/  Shamelessly promoting my friend, I know.  What can I say?  She deserves it.

       http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/

Baseball fans

Baseball fans are funny.  I'm not a baseball fan, regardless of how long I worked down at the ballpark in San Francisco.  I'm not a Giants fan, a Yankees fan, or even a Zephyrs fan.  But I like baseball fans nonetheless.  They amuse me.

I saw this the other day, and it amused me as well.  I'm putting it up here strictly to annoy all the baseball fans I know and love in San Francisco.  Miss you guys, go Gigantes, huh?

              

The short version of the long story

There have been requests from the blogosphere (Hi, Cassie!) and other random sources for me to please explain the story of how and why I moved from San Francisco to New York with a six-month layover in New Orleans in between.

OK.  No problem.  For those who know me personally and are familiar with the story, feel free to move along.  You're probably sick of hearing it by now.  For those who don't know me personally and are unfamiliar with the story, buckle in.  It's going to be a bumpy ride.

So.  Here we go.

After a complicated and convoluted initial twenty years of existence (another story for another time) I moved from Long Island, NY to New Orleans, Louisiana in 1996, found my Shangri-La, and remained there in a state of delirious bliss, my days and nights filled with music and dancing, great booze and even better food, family and friends, love and laughter.

After nine-ish years or so, I began to grow weary of my familiar bliss, car-jackings on my corner, murders twenty feet from my front door.  Yes, quite literally.  Twenty feet from my front doorstep.

So I began a search for a new home.

I wandered, as I always had, but this time with a purpose in mind.  Trying to find the next stop.  Quite frankly, the rest of the country left me cold.  Nothing seemed right.  Until I went to San Francisco.

Oh, San Francisco!  She was so sexy, so smart.  Gorgeous, truly stunning, natural beauty everywhere.  She really had her shit together, too.  I heard that all of the restaurants offered health insurance, and then someone mentioned medical marijuana delivery and I was sold.

So I moved there, got the best job I have ever had, and unfortunately discovered that the douchebag-to-cool-person ratio is painfully skewed in the wrong direction.  Again, remind me to tell you the story about The Incident With The Jumper Cables someday.  Please let me say, however, that what I miss the most about San Francisco is without a doubt the amazing, incredible, brilliant, talented, generous and beautiful friends I made there.  But in general, San Francisco and I, we just didn't see eye to eye.

So for four and a half years I struggled and tried to be happy in a city I really wasn't happy in and went to visit New Orleans on a constant basis and did my best to enjoy living in San Francisco and tried to make a square peg fit in a round hole and then I broke my knee in Peru.  This was about a year ago.  I was down for the count, out of work for several months.  While I was recovering, I had all the time in the world to think and travel and visit home (New Orleans) and realize WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?!?!  I miss New Orleans, my family, my friends, my life, my joy, it's all there, what the fuck am I doing in San Francisco, living half a life, laughing only half my laughter, crying way too many tears?

So, while on a knee recovery visit to my beloved New Orleans, I made the decision that I would move back.  I tied up my loose ends, made some calls to San Francisco, told my job I wasn't coming back.  Gave notice to my apartment manager and room mate.  The decision was made, the deal was done.

Three days later, I got a phone call saying that my mother was dead.  Seems she jumped off the roof of an apartment building in Manhattan on Christmas Eve.  As a matter of fact, I was sitting right here when I got the call.

By the way, here I should probably mention that until that day, I had no idea where my mother was or what she was doing with her life.  For twenty-three years, I had only a vague clue where the woman was.  Suspected she was in Manhattan.  Didn't know for sure.  Again, another story for another time.

Turns out Mom owned an apartment in a co-op building in New York City.  Turns out she did pretty well for herself, in a round-about way.  Turns out the apartment was paid for, cash.  No mortgage due.  Lucky me.

There was no will, I'm the only heir, by default it goes to me.  Maintenance fees are due each month, at what amounts to a very affordable price, by NY standards.  So logically, it made sense for me to move in.

Regardless of the fact that I was in the middle of moving back to my beloved Nouvelle Orléans.  Nevermind that I was about to go to lots of trouble and spend a bunch of money dragging all my shit halfway across the country.  Forget that New Orleans was welcoming me home with arms wide open.

I had some things to think about.

Like I said, my move from SF to New Orleans was already in motion when I got the news, and initially it was all such a mess that I needed a minute to figure things out.  Where better than home, surrounded by friends and family, loved ones?  I packed up my shit, drove across the country, went to New Orleans, went to work, and starting thinking.

I decided to move to New York.

Regardless of how happy I was.  Nevermind that my day to day life was so fulfilling I really thought I was crazy for leaving.  Forget the fact that I had just (finally) met an amazing Sweetheart that put me on a pedestal, treated me like a queen and made me scream so loud in the sack I forgot other men even existed.

New York just seemed like the right thing to do.

So I packed up my shit, (again) and drove across the country (again) and moved my ass up to New York.

Here I am.  I just got here.  Don't even have a job yet.  We'll see what happens.  I'm sure it will all be fine.  I'm actually getting on a plane to New Orleans tomorrow morning.  Just a visit.  Only a week.  Had a ticket with Southwest I had to use up before the tenth.  I figured, where else but home?  Go dancing, visit Sweetheart.  Eat some gumbo.  Ride down by the river one last heartbreaking time.

Hmm.  That makes, what?  I've been gone eighteen days?  Eighteen days and I'm already salivating, scratching, clawing, foaming at the mouth, chomping at the bit, dying to get home?  How long will I make it in New York?  A year?  Two, three, five?  Who's taking bets?

Sorry.  I know I promised you a short story.  But it was, really.  It could have been much longer.  Trust me.  You want the long version?  Really?  Send me an email.  Make sure you've got time to spare...

Moving day

Hi!  I'm back!  Did you miss me?  Yes, you did.  Don't lie to me...

I've been busy.  Wandering the country, near and far, far and near.  Went to visit Leigh in North Carolina again, had way too much fun again.  I moved to New York in the meantime, too.  As far as moves go, it might have been the easiest transition I have ever made, even easier than when I left San Francisco.  Because I can't seem to keep still for more than six months at a time lately, I have managed to pare down my personal belongings to the point where they fit into the back of a Jeep Grand Cherokee, more or less:

            

Which is great, because that's about as much space as I have in this apartment, more or less.

Loading the truck was easy, mainly because I didn't have to do it.  Mainly I stood around saying, "I don't think everything's going to fit" while Sweetheart loaded the car and said, "That's everything.  What else did you want to take?"

When I got up here, things were just as easy.  Remember the dude from craigslist I told you about, the one who took all the crap from this apartment that I didn't want?  He had said to call him if I needed help unloading the truck when I got back, he said he'd be happy to help me, seeing as how I had given him so much stuff and he really appreciated it and blah blah blah.  So I called him the day before I got here.  Do you know what he said?  "Absolutely, I'll be over at noon tomorrow, you just hold the elevator door open and I'll do all the heavy lifting."

Wow.  Welcome to New York City...

This, by the way, is a completely different version, in fact, a completely OPPOSITE version, of the story about my first day in San Francisco, my "welcome" to San Francisco, if you will.  Remind me to tell you that little gem someday.  Advance apologies to my friends and former co-workers in the Beautiful Bay Area, who are entirely sick to death of hearing that story by now...

A reasonable request

San Francisco Gay Pride Parade
June, 2009

              


              

Things I miss about San Francisco

Walking past this house almost every day.  On the way to work.  On the way to catch the train.  On the way to Rosamunde.  On the way to the store.  On the way to the park.  On the way to pretty much everywhere and everything.  I loved the funky-ass doorway.

          

Things I miss about San Francisco

The Bridge

        

              

        

Things I miss about San Francisco

These Two.  So, so much.

            


I've been scheming.  Looks like These Two might have some company pretty soon...

Things I miss about San Francisco

Lots of trouble.  Good times.  Late nights, early mornings.  It's all the same, isn't it?

Uhh, go Gigantes?

Sorry I'm late.

I meant to acknowledge opening day for the San Francisco Giants last week, because if I were still living out there, that would have been a huge deal for me.  At least work-wise.  To be honest, I really don't care about baseball.  Are they doing well?  I think they are.  Even when I worked right there, literally next to the stadium, I was only vaguely aware of the team.  The only reason I'm even aware that opening day was last Friday is because I have a 2010 Giants schedule on my refrigerator.  Why, you ask?  Because someone sent me one in the mail.  Fucker.

I did think about my friends at the ballpark last week, and I missed them.  I was busy working an opening day of a different kind last Friday.  It was the first day of French Quarter fest, really a warm-up for the upcoming Jazz Fest season.  Greedy, insatiable, howling, thankless crowds for hours on end...

Actually, maybe it wasn't really all that different from opening day at the ballpark.

Hope I can get out to San Francisco sometime.  Looking forward to checking out the view from one of these bar stools next time I'm in town.

Things I miss about San Francisco

Wandering down to the Red Vic to watch a movie then going for cocktails at Alembic.

                

I really liked Alembic, great food and cocktails.  Even though some of the bartenders were total douchebags with shitty attitudes, and once when I was in there alone and looking at the drink list some other douchebag sitting next to me, in a misguided attempt to hit on me, asked if I "needed help with that."  What?  What exactly are you implying dude?  That I can't fucking read?  Something similar happened to me in NOPA once, another neighborhood joint I used to wander down to once in a while.  I don't miss the fucking men in that town, that's for damn sure...

Things I miss about San Francisco

Wandering down to the Ferry Building at night and stopping in the Slanted Door to harass Leader.  He always made me the prettiest cocktails...

        

        

Hey Leader, whenya comin' down to New Orleans so I can return the favor?

Shadow Shot Sunday

San Francisco, CA
January, 2010

The ferry ride to Sausalito

    

 

          

 http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/

Things I miss about San Francisco

      

The best Thai food I've ever had outside of Thailand.

Los Angeles used to hold that title, their Thai restaurants are consistently very good, but Ploy II has set the bar pretty high for me in recent years.  I went there on my very first visit to San Francisco, in June of 2004 on the recommendation of a friend of a friend that I met my second night in town at a party in the Mission.  It was a brilliant, brilliant recommendation and I never even got a chance to see her again to thank her.  When I moved to SF, it was one of my first stops.  Also one of my last when I left.

It's in the Upper Haight, by the park.  It's tiny, it's cute.  It's delicious.  I used to be able to walk there in fifteen minutes.  Now it's over two thousand miles away.  Four days in a car.  Way too far to walk...

http://www.ployii.com/

Love affair

I was riding my bike down by the river today.  The sky was red from the setting sun, casting a deep pink shine on the water, all sleek and sexy.  The lights were coming on downtown, and the city was glittering.  It was then that I had to stop pedaling, because my eyes were blurred with tears.

I am so fucking happy to be home.

Have you ever rekindled a love affair with a former flame?  A former flame that you were passionately in love with, that you had sheet-grabbing, shirt-tearing, back-arching sex with?  You know those initial stages, when you can't get enough, when you can't wait to retrace every pleasure-zone, reveling in the familiar nooks and crannies of your sweetheart's body, delighted by what is still the same and discovering the ways you both have changed?  When you want nothing more but to gaze into each other's eyes, to kiss and caress, to devour each other, wholly and completely?

Yeah, that's pretty much where I'm at with the city of New Orleans right now.

My love for this town, it's almost unbearable sometimes.  No other place on the planet can do it to me like she does.  I wish I knew why.  I've tried to break away, oh sweet Lucifer have I tried.  San Francisco did her best, but could never seem to completely satisfy.  Like a neglected wife, I kept having to sneak away to the seductive arms of my former lover at every possible opportunity.

Sorry, SF.  The song was mistaken.  I left my heart in New Orleans.  You're beautiful, you're well put-together.  We had some amazing times, didn't we?  You have a lot to offer.  We'll always be friends.  I'll always love you.  But I'm not "in love" with you.  Don't worry, I'll still come around.  We'll still have lots of fun together.  Hey, you never know what might happen in the future.  Seriously.  But right now...

Right now I'm exactly where I want to be.  I hope you understand.

What are the odds?

So I'm at work yesterday and this guy...

      

...walks in and orders a Kobe beef burger and a rusty nail.

A big part of my job involves talking to people.  Which is great here, because generally, in New Orleans, I enjoy talking to people.  Generally, in San Francisco, I didn't enjoy talking to people so much.  Generally, in San Francisco, I wanted to smack the fuck out of people after talking to them for even a short length of time.  I generally enjoyed working the service bar out there.

But down here in the Big Sleazy, talking to people is generally a pleasure, and I really enjoy working the front bar and socializing with the people.  Tourists like talking about New Orleans, as do locals, and I LOVE talking about New Orleans.  It works out well for everyone.  So when homeboy came in, I ducked in the corner, finished the last two bites of my sandwich, and came over to make conversation.

It started off in the normal way.  Whereya from, whadaya do, yadda yadda yadda.  Turns out his name was Matt and he lived in Albuquerque.  In town for business.  Delightful man.  While digging into each other's personal lives, we discovered that we both had lived on Long Island.  While reminiscing about his time on the East Coast, he mentioned that he had worked at the beach at Robert Moses State Park.  This is where things get interesting.

"No shit," says I. "My father worked there years ago.  Maybe you know him.  They used to call him King Rat."

Matt: "You're shitting me."

Me: "No I'm not!"

Matt: "Rat was my boss!"

Me: "You're shitting me."

Matt: "No I'm not!"

Turns out they were good friends.  Hadn't seen each other since 1973 or something like that.  So of course I text King Rat.  We get him on the phone, the two of them get to catch up on the past thirty-something years.  Matt was headed to NY in July anyway.  Now he has another reason to go.

Love when life throws shit like that at you.  The odds?  I would call it about 3,987,645 to 1.

Shadow Shot Sunday

 
 

San Francisco, CA

The bromeliads in my former home.

      

http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/