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My friend Alex takes a dip in the bay:
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
11. Be warned, blog haters...
...this is blog writing at its self-indulgent best. Or worst, depending on your outlook. But essentially it's all about me. And my life. And there's no reason why I expect you to be interested. But if you've got this far, then maybe you are interested, and I'm grateful for that.
I am sitting in my kitchen. It’s raining outside, as it has been for about the last ten days. That’s fine though. ‘We needed it,’ as everyone keeps saying.
The apartment I rent is a sort of L-shape. The corner of the kitchen where I am sitting is in the crook of the L. Diagonally opposite, a couple of metres away, is my bedroom window. The paint is peeling off the window frame. Underneath, the wood is sodden. The peeling paint pleases me. It makes me think of seaside towns in winter, boarded up and empty. But if this were my own apartment, then the peeling paint would annoy me. It would be another thing to ‘get done’. Another item for the mental check list. How tiresome.
On the table in front of me is a plate with condiments: red Tabasco, green Tabasco (the large bottles are only available here in America), Kikkoman soy sauce, salt, pepper, Dijon mustard. I wonder about the mustard. Should it be kept in the fridge? Does it go off? I have never seen it go off. And in the middle of all the other condiments, a large and proud bottle of Lea & Perrins Worcester sauce. I use a lot of Worcester sauce; it goes into bullshot, my favorite beef broth-based vodka cocktail (beef broth is also only available here. It is similar to consommé but non-gelatinous and hence ideal for drinks, though possibly not to everyone’s taste).
I have a friend in finance who was once taken on a tour of the Lea & Perrins factory. He says he saw enormous vats of Worcester sauce slowly churning. The full recipe is a closely guarded secret but one of the more surprising ingredients is the juice squeezed from the bodies of anchovies.
On the walls I have two maps of San Francisco. I know my way around fairly well now, so they are not really necessary. But I have a friend in Wales who does lots of extreme army things and he has a big map of the Brecon Beacons on his kitchen wall. I think I may have projected my admiration for his extreme activities onto his map (not literally, that would be disgusting), which is why I like the maps on my own kitchen walls.
There is also a calendar on my wall. On the cover is a picture of a winsome blond waif with pouting lips and bedroom eyes. Cassandra Cass, Fantasy Girl 2009 is emblazoned across the front in a sparkly pink cursive script. Cassandra’s own handwriting reads: To Claus! Thanks for last night I didn’t feel a thing! Love! Cassandra Cass.
Let me explain: I have another army friend who lives in Los Angeles and who came to visit me in San Francisco for the weekend. He was one of the first openly gay officers in the British Army. As an aside, I once saw him show the shamrock tattooed on his butt cheek to General Sir Mike Jackson, then Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, in the Sunny Bar of the Kulm Hotel in St. Moritz. The formidable bags under General Jackson’s eyes, then still extant, wobbled visibly.
My ex-army friend took me along to a drag show brunch at the Sir Francis Drake hotel. At this bizarre event, drag queens parade up and down miming a number of gay anthems while a lot of octogenarians politely nibble at their waffles. One of the drag queens was the most attractive woman I have yet seen in San Francisco. Or rather, she would have been the most attractive woman, if she hadn’t been a man. From observing her/him, it was impossible to tell. Beautiful feminine features, perfect breasts and a slender stomach without a trace of male musculature. It was only when I spoke to Cassandra at the end of brunch that her manly voice confirmed what my friend had been insisting upon. It felt rather odd to have been taken in so completely. Nevertheless, I am sure there are many who unhappily don’t make that discovery until later. Or happily; who am I to judge.
I have been reading an article on Freud. He has been quoted as saying:
‘In distinction from the successful man of action who is able to impose his wishes on reality, or the artist who transforms them into works of art, the neurotic escapes from reality through his symptoms.’
If Freud is correct, then the more neurotic potential a person has, the better an artist they could turn out to be. At least, they would have more raw material to turn into art, so long as they possessed the means. This makes me worry that I may not be neurotic enough; if I were more neurotic, I’d have more raw material. I am worried about not worrying enough, which is neatly self-defeating. Although, having realized that, I have now temporarily ceased to worry and the cycle can begin again.
I am sitting in my kitchen. It’s raining outside, as it has been for about the last ten days. That’s fine though. ‘We needed it,’ as everyone keeps saying.
The apartment I rent is a sort of L-shape. The corner of the kitchen where I am sitting is in the crook of the L. Diagonally opposite, a couple of metres away, is my bedroom window. The paint is peeling off the window frame. Underneath, the wood is sodden. The peeling paint pleases me. It makes me think of seaside towns in winter, boarded up and empty. But if this were my own apartment, then the peeling paint would annoy me. It would be another thing to ‘get done’. Another item for the mental check list. How tiresome.
On the table in front of me is a plate with condiments: red Tabasco, green Tabasco (the large bottles are only available here in America), Kikkoman soy sauce, salt, pepper, Dijon mustard. I wonder about the mustard. Should it be kept in the fridge? Does it go off? I have never seen it go off. And in the middle of all the other condiments, a large and proud bottle of Lea & Perrins Worcester sauce. I use a lot of Worcester sauce; it goes into bullshot, my favorite beef broth-based vodka cocktail (beef broth is also only available here. It is similar to consommé but non-gelatinous and hence ideal for drinks, though possibly not to everyone’s taste).
I have a friend in finance who was once taken on a tour of the Lea & Perrins factory. He says he saw enormous vats of Worcester sauce slowly churning. The full recipe is a closely guarded secret but one of the more surprising ingredients is the juice squeezed from the bodies of anchovies.
On the walls I have two maps of San Francisco. I know my way around fairly well now, so they are not really necessary. But I have a friend in Wales who does lots of extreme army things and he has a big map of the Brecon Beacons on his kitchen wall. I think I may have projected my admiration for his extreme activities onto his map (not literally, that would be disgusting), which is why I like the maps on my own kitchen walls.
There is also a calendar on my wall. On the cover is a picture of a winsome blond waif with pouting lips and bedroom eyes. Cassandra Cass, Fantasy Girl 2009 is emblazoned across the front in a sparkly pink cursive script. Cassandra’s own handwriting reads: To Claus! Thanks for last night I didn’t feel a thing! Love! Cassandra Cass.
Let me explain: I have another army friend who lives in Los Angeles and who came to visit me in San Francisco for the weekend. He was one of the first openly gay officers in the British Army. As an aside, I once saw him show the shamrock tattooed on his butt cheek to General Sir Mike Jackson, then Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, in the Sunny Bar of the Kulm Hotel in St. Moritz. The formidable bags under General Jackson’s eyes, then still extant, wobbled visibly.
My ex-army friend took me along to a drag show brunch at the Sir Francis Drake hotel. At this bizarre event, drag queens parade up and down miming a number of gay anthems while a lot of octogenarians politely nibble at their waffles. One of the drag queens was the most attractive woman I have yet seen in San Francisco. Or rather, she would have been the most attractive woman, if she hadn’t been a man. From observing her/him, it was impossible to tell. Beautiful feminine features, perfect breasts and a slender stomach without a trace of male musculature. It was only when I spoke to Cassandra at the end of brunch that her manly voice confirmed what my friend had been insisting upon. It felt rather odd to have been taken in so completely. Nevertheless, I am sure there are many who unhappily don’t make that discovery until later. Or happily; who am I to judge.
*
I have been reading an article on Freud. He has been quoted as saying:
‘In distinction from the successful man of action who is able to impose his wishes on reality, or the artist who transforms them into works of art, the neurotic escapes from reality through his symptoms.’
If Freud is correct, then the more neurotic potential a person has, the better an artist they could turn out to be. At least, they would have more raw material to turn into art, so long as they possessed the means. This makes me worry that I may not be neurotic enough; if I were more neurotic, I’d have more raw material. I am worried about not worrying enough, which is neatly self-defeating. Although, having realized that, I have now temporarily ceased to worry and the cycle can begin again.
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