the hour between
May 19

San Francisco

Jean Rhys wrote "It was the hour between dog and wolf..." in one of her novels; she was referring to her anti-heroine who had fallen on tough times and beginning to turn desperate. But don't worry, I'm not there yet, more like somewhere between AKA Registered and high yellow shepherd.

In case you haven't heard, the economy has taken a beating, everywhere, for just about everyone. It's the worst kind of shrinkage for a guy in my position: I can almost hear the tightening of purse strings and the evaporation of the client pool. As egalitarian as I'd like to think of myself, my services are a luxury compared with paying off a credit card debt or watching your portfolio leak on the business page.

I have even crossed the wrong side of the tracks and set up camp on AOL (keyword: moral high ground sell-out) where I did tread once before (keyword: Palm Springs a year ago for like two days), but then I was a slumming tourista, not driving in stakes.

But what could I expect, living like minor royalty on holiday? I drove down to Palm Springs to observe the White Party (keyword: I didn't go to the party, I was just playing Jane Goodall) and hang out with my friend Sid, whose own trajectory to coin scratching has been a warning. I was also doing research for a parody I'm writing. And I did manage to pull a couple jobs (keyword: heist).

A lovely drive back and I was ready to do it again, right after volunteering for the San Francisco International Film Festival (more on that in another installment), so I while I was driving film makers to screenings and Chez Penny, I was ignoring work.

My second trip to Palm Springs was for more volunteer duties, this time for the Bad Boys Pool Party. I ended up doing more work than I was expecting, but it was for a good cause, and I got to spend more time with Sid AND I found a trustworthy mechanic in Yucca Valley. I may have to grab a seam ripper to find those silver linings, but find them I will. With no ad or computer in Palm Springs, my only revenue was a check that covered some gas expenses.

And if that wasn't enough, I had my heart set on attending the West Coast Gay Rugby Invitational in Seattle. I left two days after a Palm Springs to Laguna Beach (keyword: drop off a twenty foot high lube bottle balloon) to San Francisco drive. But my truck was jerking and making strange gasping sounds so I took it in to my local mechanic and he wasn't sure the vehicle would make it.

But the universe provided a reprieve. I did a gardening job in the morning and saw a client in the afternoon, and combined with the money I borrowed from a friend, I was able to pay for the repairs and scrape together a trip. I packed my sleeping bag, mats and tent and headed north. Determined to catch the first match at nine in the morning, I made the trip up in one leg, and camped just outside of Seattle. Little did I know I was the hit of a party I didn't attend.

The next morning I had a fantastic time, it was such a thrill to watch the guys play. Also, I saw another porn star rugby player and I tried to talk to him but he wasn't interested in chatting (keyword: or anything else having to do with me). Somehow my loyalties managed the delicate balance of being associated with two clubs, and I got plenty of comments regarding my wearing of the Seattle Quake t-shirt for a porn shoot. A poster of the box cover and an X-rated pic of me was ciruclating around the welcome party the night before.

At the drink-up I bonded with Mike, one of the Seattle players, who won Man of the Match for his team. What a gentleman, even when thrashed. That night I stayed at a local's with another LA player, and the next morning attended the Farewell Brunch. I had worn all my team neutral shirts up to that point and found myself in a dilemna. If I wore my LA shirt, the SF guys would pitch and moan, and vice versa. The only way out was to wear the host team's shirt- just like I did in the video.

After brunch I headed back to the tournament field and searched in vain for two lost rolls of film. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and I decided to take advantage of the weather and drive along the coast. After some difficulty finding Route 1, I witnessed some of the most beautiful scenery ever. I camped in Oregon that night.

The next day's drive was as stupendous as could be. I stopped to look for agates (keyword: Agate Beach is a total LIE!), explore the dunes, and take the scenic loop at the Klamath River. I didn't think anything could top seeing a Bald Eagle, a first for me, until farther down 101 a heard of wild elk blocked the road.

But as the light faded, so did my giddiness. The once quaint curves now presented a challenge. And no matter how much I drove, I didn't seem to be getting anywhere, it was if the road kept stretching out ahead of me. Around midnight I pulled off to get some gas, and came across a pack of hippy redneck zombies swaying along the side of a bridge. Lit only by my headlights, it was like a deep sea camera had stumbled onto a colony of thermal sea worms.

The 'gas station' was hidden in a valley beneath the road, and when I got there, there were no attendants, but the lights were on! You could only get gas with a credit card or a trucker's card. I hightailed it out of there, careful not to hit the Johhny Appalachian Bad Seed children with their Daddy Deliverance on the way out. I picked up snacks at another gas station with the feeling that it was about to be held up.

Nodding off constantly for the next hundred and eighty miles, I was surprised I made it home, at half past two. But I crashed, from the overwhelming fatigue and the satisfaction that I really did make it, not only all the way up but all the way back as well. I haven't taken my truck out since.

So now begins the process of catching up on my life of low-rent jet setting. After a final splurge this weekend of attending a live Eagles match and a plant show, it's a diet of humble home cooked. Even after the theft of my bicycle last night, I still have something that makes me feel rich.

That special thing is the belief I have in myself, that I have the tools and resourcefullness to make the best of what's in front of m, the anchor that everything will work out. It's what separates me from the pack, and why if it comes to the hour between dog and wolf, I'll choose coyote.

what I'm listening to: Working Assets Radio.
what I'm reading: Craigslist



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