Back from the rabbit hole

Here I am. I disappeared down the rabbit hole for a while there. Just finished my first production cycle with the magazine. It doesn’t seem to matter where you are, getting a publication through the birthing process is tough—it takes longer and is much harder than it bloody needs to be. But there you are: it would be silly to complain, wouldn’t it, cos I know just how much worse it could be. We drove past the bookstore last night after a night out—dinner at a Nepalese restaurant and a function at the UC, listening to a four-star general talk about his Cold War tour of duty in Germany. (Are we geek chic, or what?) He was funny—much funnier than I thought four-star generals were allowed to be. Anyway, on our back to San Fran, we passed the bookstore, all lit up like a nuclear power plant, and realized that people would still be in there, ringing up purchases and shoving books in bags, smiling away like third runner-up in Miss Idaho Potatoes, and I just felt sick for them. Probably an over-reaction, but I was tired and had polished off a bottle of Indian beer, then been trapped in a hot auditorium with no air circulation.
We’ve spent the past couple weekends exploring our city. I really liked the Mission, after having discounted it after a tense, rainy day spent there looking for cheap furniture. (We went into a shop with secondhand household stuff and found a homeless man sleeping on one of the sofas, poor sod.) After we’d toured Mission Dolores itself, one of the 30-odd missions that form a spiritual spine up the state, we hit the pavement. Of course, I found jewelry I wanted—rings with vintage buttons as the centerpieces. Adorable. I bought one with a brass bird alighting on a branch. Then we stumbled on a bizarre gothic store selling “artful” taxidermied items. I was enchanted with a standing white mouse to which the artist had added two extra paws, so it looked like that Indian goddess. Bird skeletons were dressed in petticoats and hats and such. A wooden cabinet with many tiny drawers was stocked with oddities such as raccoon penis bones. I hate to think what one does with a raccoon penis bone but I bet it’s interesting. I felt a little ill when we walked out, but if Tim hadn’t been there I would have stayed much longer.
BTW. This morning on my way to the train I saw the guitar-strummin’ country boy with the red mohawk again. I think he’s Australian.