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Welcome to San Francisco

I had been in San Francisco for about five months. One weekend afternoon my newly-minted friend Kevin (also new to The City) and I decided to go exploring, so we bought tickets to the ferry and headed out to Alcatraz Island. The weather started out well, but by mid afternoon after we’d finished the tour and were ready to head home, clouds moved in and an epic downpour started. While we sheltered in one of the old guard shacks near the dock waiting for the ferry, one of the park rangers at the visitor center caught my eye. I do so love a man in uniform. But who doesn’t? He was blond, bearish, and as I remember, sported an enormous mustache as did most guys in 1987. I guess I was being less than discreet, because I’d apparently caught his eye as well.

When the ferry finally arrived, like two drowned rats Kevin and I made our way to the dock, where said ranger was assisting passengers boarding the ferry. As we walked past, our eyes locked on each other and he said, “Hope you enjoyed your visit. Come back any time!”

I took that as an invitation…or maybe a dare. Kevin and I looked at each other after we’d boarded and Kevin said, “He was so flirting with you.” “No way!” I said. “He was just being friendly.” (Not believing a word, even as I was speaking it.)

As the week passed, I couldn’t get that ranger’s face out of my head. I resolved that first thing Saturday, I’d head back out to the island.

He wasn’t at the visitor center when I arrived, and I was worried that I happened to return on one of his days off. After wandering the island for a half hour or so I returned to the center and asked if he was working, and they said yes; he was leading a tour in the cellblock—the one place I failed to look.

When I caught up with the tour group and he saw me standing there, he literally lost track of what he was saying and a big smile spread across his face.

After the tour ended, he asked what I was doing there and I said, “Hoping to run into you again.”

“I’m just about ready to go on my lunch break. Would you like to join me?”

Duh.

We sat on a bench that afforded an incredible view of the city, and after finishing his sandwich, Jay gave me a private tour, including several “restricted” areas on the northwest side of the island.

No Virginia, we did not fornicate. But we did make out for pretty much the remainder of his break on a grassy area by the prison laundry.

We exchanged numbers and made plans to go out later that week.

It was at that dinner that he dropped the bomb: he would love to see where this would lead, but he was moving to Australia in two weeks and didn’t think it would be fair to get involved with anyone only to say goodbye such a short time later.

We got together once more after that, and then as quickly as he’d come into my life, Jay was gone. And we never did get naked. Phone disconnected, a “For Rent” sign outside his flat, and all I had to remember him were my memories and a copy of “Gay Love Signs” he’d given me. I still have that book in a box somewhere.

Welcome to San Francisco, indeed.

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I Just Wanna Go Home

That’s a thought that’s been darting in and out of my consciousness going on at least five or six years now.

Even when I’m home.

I first noticed it after we moved to Denver. Understandable, since I’d just uprooted my entire world and was feeling very unmoored. But even three and a half years after returning to Phoenix it still hasn’t gone away. By all accounts this little brick house we’ve occupied for the last three and a half years is home, and the thought of having to move out in a little over a month’s time if I don’t find work is profoundly distressing, but still I find myself sitting at my desk, or watching television, or doing the laundry and out of nowhere that thought will pop up, often accompanied by a profound sadness at the direction the world and my life has taken lately.

But if you ask me to describe the “home” I want to go home to, I’m at a loss for words. If anything, I don’t think it’s a place per se, but rather simply a sense of security and…settledness that has been conspicuously absent since we initially left Phoenix. Compound that with the feeling the entire world has become a powder keg that’s just waiting for someone to light a match and well…you get an idea.

 

 

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Social Media

I just can’t any more.

I joined Twitter ten years ago. Until the arrival of Trump and his minions, the platform was kind of harmless, mindless fun for me—at least in the circles I traveled.

But lately it’s become a cesspool of hate. People screaming horrible things to each other and a total lack of civil discourse has soured me to the whole damn thing.

I can hear you now. “Then why don’t you just leave?”

It’s because I really don’t want to lose my @voenixrising moniker in case I ever wanted to return and there are still remnants of those halcyon days of mindless fun to be found if you look.

Take for instance, the wacky residents of the fictional Vaca Muerta Estates, and in particular, Myrna Tellingheusen, “retired executive secretary for Mr. Stanley Bogenshoots, Senior Vice President at Huges Aircraft.” Those accounts are a respite, a little bit of insane sanity in the sea of effluent that the social media platform has become over the past several years.

I have several lists created of some of the folks I follow: My Boo (obviously), Apple News, Apple Anons (loved the inside drama that was associated with that group for years, but now it’s slowly being overrun with political toxicity), and lastly, Vaca Muerta Estates, where I’ve gathered all the “residents” of the mobile home community under one roof.

I use Tweetbot as my Twitter client. On the Mac it allows me to show my regular feed and/or any number of lists I’ve created on screen in convenient columns. On the phone, it allows me to select either my main feed or any one of my lists as the default when I open the app. What I’ve done to minimize the constant stream of stupidity and hate is to have the phone app open directly to Vaca Muerta. The desktop app shows me only my lists, without the main feed appearing at all. It helps, believe me.

That may keep me on Twitter a while longer. I know the platform will never return to what it had been prior to Trump even after he’s ousted from office, but hopefully the cesspool will drain after he’s gone.

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But Seriously Though…

Does it come with wi-fi?

Come and listen to my story about a man named Jed
A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed,
And then one day he was shootin at some food,
And up through the ground come a bubblin crude.

Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea.

Well the first thing you know ol Jed’s a millionaire,
The kinfolk said “Jed move away from there”
Said “Californy is the place you ought to be”
So they loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly

Hills, that is. Swimmin’ pools, movie stars.

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Another Waste of Time and Gasoline

Okay, I will admit that when I put in the application—not really wanting the job because the commute alone would sour me to the whole endeavor but simply to satisfy my job search requirements for continued unemployment compensation—as a Desktop Tech at Scottsdale Community College a couple weeks ago I never dreamt they’d actually call me in for an interview. But they did.

I didn’t want to go—and as recently as on my there I entertained the thought of simply turning around and going home—but I resolved myself to the fact it would get me out of the house, and if I did somehow end up getting offered the job, it would at least be a job. I’m not anywhere near the point where I’m bored with not working (it would be a hell of a lot more fun if there was still income), but I am becoming more annoyed at the whole situation than anything else.

The interview ended up being of those horrid by-committee things where they slip you a paper with the questions on it and announce, “We’ll be going around the room to ask the questions.”  The committee consisted of the Lead Tech (who retrieved me from the waiting room but didn’t bother to introduce himself until we all sat down and then proceeded to let out an exasperated sigh after each of my answers), one peer who looked like a burnt-out hippie, the director of theater and music (Why?!), and the I.T. Manager, who seemed annoyed that she had to be there. After the round of 11 questions, there were two practical tests: one involving customer service (list the order in which you would address these issues) and one involving basic Mac knowledge (connect to the internet—the ethernet cable was unplugged), run Speedtest, and clear the Keychain). I was initially told the entire interview (including the practical test) would last about an hour. It took half that. It was almost as if they couldn’t get me out of there quickly enough, and I was happy to oblige. There was nothing about any of it (or the people for chrissakes) that made me want to work there.