the crustacean sensation sweeps the nation: or how I learned to stop worrying and eat the crab

These crabs think they're tough. Truth be told, they were no match. It was like Willow trying to work inside game on Olajuwon, or Shirley Temple taking a coked out sack from Lawrence Taylor. A total mismatch. A crippling, never to walk or speak again, exoskeleton smashing, claw crushingly, grotesque mismatch.

*****mind you, the bay crab lovers had a great scare, what with our drunken sailors dumping 58,000 gallons of oil from the lower right hull of a cargo ship. relief washed over all of us to know that its all good now and crab are safe to eat*****

Jordan didn't even open the god-damned menu. He just says, "I think you know why we're here..."
"Okay two roasted Crab and garlic noodles."
"Plus a tanqueray martini, dry straight up," I say fuzzily warm with glee.
"Just water for now," Jordan says.

Fast forward half an hour; there is garlic, peppery oil glistening from below my ear to my lips and up the opposite cheek. Both of us are talking mad shit to the dead crustaceans before us and the nice, quiet couple next to us drops on the eaves, peering and leering over at us.

"You're no match for my strength, bitchcrab," Jordan says haughtily cracking a leg, pushing the meat out, juices of pepper and oil sifting all over his beard, tiny morsels of crab meat lodged into his scruff.

"I'm beating this fucking crab into submission," I say repugnantly, my greasestache stained with brown, salty oil and the fury of crab-death in my eyes.

Here's the thing; you gotta commit. You have to say, FUCK IT! I don't care if that family of five is staring at the puddle of grease on my bib. I don't care if small, half ingested sea horses are crawling up my long hair and into my ears. You can't care if your dream woman walks in and sees the trail of acne that will no doubt appear in a few days. You can't give a fuck and just close your eyes and commit.

After the grease bath they bring us warm citrus towels that we promptly order a second order of, plus a coffee for me. I use one on my hands and another on my face. That meal is so fucking satisfying that you feel the need to celebrate having finished it. Its a must. So, we went to a bunch of bars and got shit-hammered. Big surprise!

bookcase collapse chaos theory

new rule; when you wake and your goosedown pillow feels like a bag of bricks you may want to slow down with the drinking. there is a nice Filipino lady at work with sagging cheeks that would say "GOODNESS!" at that image. for real though kids stay away from mixing hot buttered rum with...well, anything. its so tasty and makes you so warm, but its like taking a chisel to your temples.

so moving on with the story portion here, it was friday evening, unassumingly drab as ever. i went to a friend's house then to kezar to watch the warriors play and eventually beat the lakers in the last seconds of the fourth. i celebrated with some cold lager. afterward i went to an ugly sweater party [let me just say that we need to come up with a new alternative for the fun holiday party] and consumed two small cups of hot buttered rum. it didn't do the drunk trick so i poured myself a double of bushmills. as i sat to sip my drink my ride arrived to pick me up. yes i drank the whole damned double at once and yes i'm stupid for doing so.

the rest of the night was blurry but i remember that i drank a lot more. more pints, more shots, more silly me. anyway i somehow mustered the good sense to go home at 1:02 am. thank the lord i didn't stay out any longer. i got home and blacked out, i have no idea what happened.

when i woke up my beanie was still on my head, my collared shirt and sweatshirt were still on but i had on no pants and no underwear, just my mismatched socks down below, the junk flapping in the wind. i imagined when i woke up that i had probably been sleepwalking as i'm liable to do when i blackout, that or i got raped. just kidding. i looked around my room and everything was in disarray. all the books in my middle shelf had shifted down and lay spines up, the wooden shelf sunken and caved in . the bookcase had been shifted about fifteen inches over and everything had fallen over that was on top, including an Asian flask my mother gave me that was now shattered all over the floor.

all this was a little disturbing, waking half-clothed-semi-nude a huge mess of my room and then the pain. this is the sickest i've ever gotten from a hangover, easy. i hurled, which was strange for me. so i was despondent to the temptations of my friends urging me to get up and go. i stayed in bed like a worthless piece of shit and tried to find the soft spot in my bag of rocks pillow.

cranes, sinatra and the litany

trying to think in smaller terms.  trying to escape the idea of size.  i look at this pond, actually a marsh adjacent to a lake that is actually the Pacific.  there is a wet beauty filling this mass.  a single crane, examines the scene of a thousand ducks, stationary and long, elegant and above the quacks judging.  i wonder through a window if they're cold right now, the way my feet feel after i drank too much coffee, sweat drenched and sandy in my toes.  the lite reverberation of caffeine draining out the food below.  pure diuretics inside as such like beer and wine, coffee and straight vodka with no chaser.

the crane is staring them down. the crane is a lofty objection, a thing to be desired, but i'm just a funny little quack, duck diving, not trying to stay dry.  I want to channel my inner Sinatra now, as an exercise in levity.  Sinatra tells me;

"Got my tweed pressed, got my best vest, all i need now is the girl.

Got my stripped tie, got my hopes high.

Got the time and the place and I got the rhythm. 

Now all i need's the girl to go with'em.

If she'll just appear we'll take this big town for a whirl.

And if she'll say, 'My darling, I'm yours',

I'll throw away my striped tie and my best pressed tweed.

All  I really need is the girl."

She's blank in my mind to be filled in later.  Her hair smells like cinnamon, her eyes are blue like sapphires, her face is carved out of soap. She's imperfect in all the best ways.  Her butt's big and thick with a tiny waist, her breasts are just a tad too big for her frame.  One of her teeth is crooked, but in that Lauren Hutton sexy gap-toothed way.  when she touches my face she rubs my beard against the grain with the backside of her hands and presses her cheek next to mine irritating the delicate skin of her face.  she doesn't mind my forty pound chin or the elongated features of my face. she toys with me though and says,

"why the long face?"

she's five foot six, give or take an inch or two, always has nice breath and wears clothes that are just tight enough.  she loves all the music i listen to even though she's barely heard of most of it.  she prefers wine over beer but can maintain regardless.  her apartment is immaculate and white, but she pays her rent with her own money.  she rolls joints better than i can which isn't saying much.  

she makes me want to stay in on the weekends.  she makes hangovers tolerable.  she holds my hand when we cross the street.  she dresses my wounds when i fall.  she pops the pimples on my back.  when we french kiss she doesn't jam her tongue down my throat. she bites my lower lip.  

i hold her hair when she gets sick and i don't laugh.  when she gets mopey we hangout and listen to depressing folk music that only makes things worse.  she loves dancing with me.  we go to bed at nine sometimes. she loves my natural body odor and sometimes sticks her nose in my armpits. she steals the covers from me in the middle of the night.  she's like a goddamned radiator in bed and i sweat when she snuggles next to me in the middle of the night.  in the shower she has amazing soap that makes me feel grotesquely clean.  i can be myself around her and she doesn't play stupid games.  

this is the litany. idealistic, i know.  I'm looking for the crane in the sea of ducks flying, whirling around everywhere.   i don't know where she is.  i don't know her name.

delay, steel and magnets

when you go to the airport to the ticketing counter, you ever notice those little poles connected by straps that define the never ending zig-zag you will no doubt be stuck in for what seems like eternity. I was at the hemlock tavern, one of my favorite places in the world to drink minding my own as usual. there was some sort of commotion or tussling that began at the opposite end of the bar. my curiosity got the better of me, when a friend of a friend joked that Ben [the person I arrived with] was being accosted by the bouncer. arriving at the site of all the drama i was relieved to see Ben was merrily entreating some fine young lady with his usual humor and charms. At this i began on my way back to the other end of the bar when suddenly wrought iron weighing easily forty pounds in the form of one of those poles from the airport, came flying from the front door directly onto the back of my knee, making my half drunk smirk of insipid joy transform to something all together ugly. reasoned contentment was morphed into agony and silence.

i'm thinking to myself, "uh...why me?"

lets leave this question in the rhetorical range.

this shit always happens to me. injuries are a part of my identity. its kinda cool to come back to work every weekend with some brutal limp and people can't help but wonder. it made me think about how tired people must get though, when they get a cast or a brace and every dumbfuck and stranger comes up to you and asks, "what happened?" today alone i had about four different answers to that question. when i went to get my afternoon coffee, this young girl behind the counter asked me what happened and i told that i got into a barroom brawl. a lie, yes, but composed of elements of truth, kinda?

anyway, after they kicked the shit out of the guy who threw the fucking pole at me the bouncers came over and offered to let me drink for the rest of the night for free.

"fuck yeah," i replied, thanking my unlucky stars that i was caught in the crossfire.

as a wannabe writer i must relish these moments as the ones that defined my desire to put thoughts to the page. every writer needs these bruises, broken limbs, limps, injuries of the mind, body and soul that scar them for life. these are mine to carry, so to that drunk fuck at hemlock with 80's metal hair, alpha-maling your way back inside, throwing hitless punches to the sky, throwing forty pound poles at my leg as an innocent bystander, I say to you, thank you. thankyou for validating my parking in the writer's lot. thankyou for five pints of pilsner, two rounds of fernett and a jameson "neat" for good measure. thankyou for the heavy limp in my left foot and the inevitable hyperbole that has and will ensue. 

the divine hangover

dopamine inhibitors fully ingested, slack-jawed like a yokel, light piercing through a basement of an acquaintance, not really talking as much as filling the silence with useless sound and with this i decide to be homeward bound. pounds all around, a nod, perhaps a wink and out into the big bright world, purple sheeted and veins pulsing from my eyelids covering everything. every creaking step, all the dust and dry dead leaves leaping and flying, whirling around at my feet, blades of grass wet with dew and me on my long walk home.

fugazi is in my head. Ian and Guy are in my head saying; 

"i'm so tired. barely see my breath, surrounded, by jealousy and death." I can't remember the second verse so i just rewind back to the beginning and sing with them.

uphill's a struggle, morbid struggle. in my hamstrings i feel all the grit and tenchun {sic} and there is a swelling sensation, boiling into my knees. Full House feels close, and it is, so i walk up to Alamo Square park. I'm moving so slow that the little man inside says, "move you, fuck." 

There is hope on a hilltop. I arrive at the top of the park as the moon sets on the pacific to my right and the sun rises over the Oakland hills to my left. I just stand there atop the park, letting my eyes dilate from the 7 am sun, dopamine flow shot, grime beneath low nails, a sudden shake out the neck via the jugular, sweaty hands that clench, steam and beauty rise off my tattooed back, breakneck speed is now draining through my sinus cavity, chest aches into nothing, all my leftover glory drowned knowing that 8 am is a bad bedtime. soundless forestation, wet dirt bonding with my slipons, not a sound or a murmur, till this nice old lady asks me if i saw the full moon set and I say,
"why yes, it was lovely."

a first; my first moonset of recent memory.

I look back at Full House and I can picture the whole family in there. I can see John Stamos counseling DJ on how to handle her rapidly developing breasts and the Olsen twins getting advice from Bob Saget on why its unfair to pee on her sisters bed. I think about TGIF and all of my innocence now lost in the subdued underground futility i find now on friday nights fueled by chemical dependence. i need the uncles to give me a talking to about my self destructive habits, but they're long gone. How sad...

the divine hangover is upon me and I know this because the shudders say so. "bluuuuhhhhhaaaaaallljahhh"
work with me.

everything is still purple but the heavy ache sets over everything waiting for my body to go horizontal. mr. 21 hayes moves his fat ass up the hill with that beaming, pinging repetitious sound buzzing up. i slide down the park grass, on my flat ass ruining my jeans. i hop on the empty bus and sit at the back waiting patiently for me to strengthen my resolve to stop this nonsense.

EPILOGUE
"...this epic problem's not a problem for me
and inside i know i'm broken
but i'm working as far as you can see
and outside it's all production

it's all illusion
set scenery
i've got this epic problem

this epic problem's not a problem for me"
-fugazi

my last great skate

We can forget all this and concentrate on what's important. Its a big step for me.

There are so many empty, wordless songs in my head overlapping. I can close my eyes this last time because I know the ground, the cracks, faulty pieces of pavement, manhole covers like the back of my hand. The ground, she trusts me like an old friend.

"Yes, old friend," I say, "its time to say goodbye."

Back to my mind, in the center combining both sides of my brain into one tiny membrane I can remember my love affair with skateboarding. The struggles, dedication and sacrifice I put forth through skating gives me the hope that I can do anything. I'm not an accomplished skater by any means, but I'm deft enough to impress. The accolades are personal and fleeting, of a time and place that only exists with the sensations as they are experienced.

With all of this I still ask myself why quit? Why now? Well, let's be real, its not like I'm never going to ride a skateboard again for the rest of my life, but I feel that my reliance on it as the only means for transportation maybe catapulting me toward an untimely demise or some other casualty. So I'm not "quitting" per se.

The reasoning is harder for me articulate. I believe my first real questioning happened on a date with this girl I was really digging at the time. She told me to meet her at Dolores Park. Turns out our date was more like an audition. When I got there she was surrounded by her two best friends and their boyfriends. Resilient as ever, I overcame the astounding awkwardness of the situation and got comfortable with her and the five heads of state peering down on our second date. I had skated to the park and as we were leaving she turned and looked at me.

"Only kids ride skateboards on the east coast," she said blankly, oblivious to the deep sting such a comment would have on my confidence.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, shrugging off the insult, looked away and then rolled my eyes.

She sensed my antipathy for her and began to qualify her statement.

"But here, you see guys your age still riding them all over the place."

I hope this girl does yoga so she can stick her foot in her mouth I thought.

-Dumb bitch is insinuating that guys who are 27 years old need to grow up and buy a bike or worse an automobile?

-Of course not. She's insinuating that you need to grow up and buy a bike because she feels like she's baby sitting little Bradley from down the block. Oh, and remember she's drunk.

-Phew.

I went on with the rest of my date, trying to negate my feelings of nausea and anger at her by being pleasant and drinking all the booze in sight. On the skate home that night, I bombed an old friendly hill that drops onto Divisadero and the thought of quitting, her dumb comments and the anger was wiped away by some cute girl winking at me as I cut her off.

My concussion was the second hand pointing me away from skating. The doctor told me not to skate for six weeks. I took the next two days off work. The doctor said I had to. She said that if I fell again I could go into a coma. She told me that I should wear helmet if I was ever going to skate again. I lasted about twenty four hours following her advice.

The third signpost was the whole Timmy and the piglets incident. Just as a small aside, they've posted a bench warrant for my arrest at 850 Bryant because I've neglected to pay my ticket. I've been hassled by cops all of my skating life so I didn't take the ticket or harrasment as anything to take too seriously.

The fourth was another injury, this one maybe the most embarrassing of my life and almost as painful. I was showing off for some friends and strangers, drunk and possessed by some strange will to draw, what a dear friend termed, "unnecessary attention to myself". I did a powerslide on fourteenth at Noe, going downhill too fast, too soon and too much. The board gave way to my ass and at the impact it felt like I broke my tailbone. So I writhed in pain, lincoln-logging across the road till I finally rested my nose against the pylons, as strangers and friends alike had a nice little chuckle at my expense. I deserved every sharp biting pain, every crumbling bit of bone fragment, all the excruciating blaring of laughter, sharpened nails attached to long creepy fingers pointing in my direction and the humility, the blood gushing out my elbow and everything afterward. My board continued sailing down the block until it stopped near the closest intersection. I gimped my way down the street and hopped right back on like nothing ever happened.

The last straw was my last great skate. It was one of those beautifully slow, dreary SF days where the fog and the sun are fighting for the city's affection. After attending a few birthday parties and bar hopping around till midnight I took a late skate to the chillier climes near my apartment. I found myself at The Transfer for their Frisco Disco party. It was a little too intense for my liking and once I ran into some friends we decided Amber might be more our speed. So I grabbed my board and when we got to the bar I placed in the same spot I always do, except when I left with a friend a little later it was gone. Stolen!

Enough is enough. Now, without a proper farewell, I'm separated from a part of me. A womb apart. A cloak of serenity. A skateboard was to Elliott what a security blanket was to Linus. At my age, I had a time machine. Once the wheels were pressed and the rolling thunder pounded down your block, making all the dumb dogs bark, I would breathe deep a man and exhale as a twelve year old boy, rosy cheeked and innocent, scabless fury and the gumption, ready to fail or to fall. And in an instant, breathless, many blocks from where and when it started, I'm walking like the rest of the sheep, ankles unrolled, concussion free, clean elbows and knees. No speed downhill, no coarse cement to bond with, just a memory of something simple that felt like home.

EPILOGUE

"If we never meet in this life,

let me feel the lack.

A glance from your eyes,

and your life is mine."

-Malik