It is a ridiculously, absurdly warm summery day in San Francisco. By stroke of luck, I had a light workload and now the entire sunny afternoon is ahead of me. What to do?
This mug is apparently how the Crepevine in my neighborhood serves Fat Tires. I wasn’t expecting such a cute and unique shape. I’m by myself, with just one of my escapist Star Trek books to read. I was tempted to make some phone calls, get some company, but then I decided on this. I like being with other people, and I like just going away somewhere to read. I suppose there is room for both. The Fat Tire, which I haven’t had in a while, tastes more buttery than I remember. For dinner, I’m having a catfish sandwich and fries.
The game starts in about half an hour. Expectation is unsurprisingly high as you boys face our arch-rivals. But I won’t talk shop now. Do you ever have ladies who actually talk about baseball with you — and if so, do you ever just want to change the subject? It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to know anything about baseball to get with me. I wonder how many times you have said a variation of that pickup.
I saw a funny sight while I was on the bus coming from work. My bus goes through Market Street, and there’s this stretch of it that’s pretty seedy. The bus passed by the Market Street Cinema, an outfit with a rather ostentatiously palatial exterior for a strip club. The marquee was advertising half-off admission if you bring your Giants ticket stub. That made me laugh. But then I was suddenly reminded of how you guys were on the road today and for the next few. I thought to myself, They’re not in town, and that made me a little bit and unexpectedly sad. How odd, to feel such measure of attachment to guys whom I’ve no personal attachment. You know, Linc, folks have all sorts of dumb stereotypes for gay people — that we must fall in love with, or lust after, every guy with whom we cross paths. Surely we must all be effeminate, and God forbid that any homosexual — gay or lesbian — ever make it onto the Kiss Cam. Or maybe we’re like this because our dads weren’t around. (Pop loves that one.)
I don’t make any secret of calling out some hot ballplayer, some hot Giant, when I see him. But this fandom I have for baseball, this attachment that I have with the Giants that is perhaps no attachment at all, runs counter and perhaps even afoul of conventional notion. The Giants aren’t in town today, and the whole damned place feels emptier for it.
Strange. On subsequent sips, that buttery taste I picked up at first is gone, replaced now by the more bitter cider flavor I’d remembered and expected. Nothing is ever as it seems.