I was telling Clara about one of the songs that I want to be played at my wedding, and her jaw all but dropped. The reason why that song even came up in the first place is because it was she who was listening to the soundtrack from, of all things, a Zelda game while I was getting a ride home with her! It immediately brought to mind the song. Clara’s reaction was, “But at your wedding, though…?”
Hm, maybe I’m a little bit unsophisticated. I don’t know. I do know I’ve changed. There was a time when I said that I could never stop drinking carbonated beverages. That was my vehement — and youthful — defense for drinking sodas. Now they are barely in my life. That was when I was a teenager and in my twenties. More recently, I used to make fun of hipsters really badly. But when I realized that I also liked some of the same things they like to drink and wear, it occurred to me that even harassing them in the confidence of friends might be a little like the vocal homophobe who secretly scours Craigslist.
I was once sitting at a cafe and I overheard a conversation between two women talking about a graduation party one of their acquaintances had. The conversation was one of those friend-of-a-friend deals. Here is the reconstruction.
“Have you ever heard of Joe’s of Westlake?” asked one.
I have, I thought in private response, recalling the decor of vintage mobster architecture in Daly City. But I had never actually eaten there.
“You’re kidding me,” said the companion incredulously. “That’s where she had it?”
“Yeah. Don’t you like Joe’s?”
“It’s all right, but come on. It’s a special occasion. You’d think she would have chosen some place better.”
I was reading a book at the time but some side conversations are inescapable. I lingered on the haughtiness of that final remark and thought to myself, Well, what if that’s just what she wants? And then I thought of my own modest plans for a wedding and the reception to follow, and how I might not even want to have a ceremony for the wedding and in its place I’d just throw a really cool reception or maybe do something else unconventional that might produce haughty conversation to burn my ears while I’m away…
Last night, Clara and I were coming home from seeing Magic Mike. I know you’re thinking how totally unsurprising it is that I went to see that movie, but here’s the thing: Steven Soderbergh has directed many of my favorite movies, and Magic Mike was one of them. And, OK, I totally went to see it for hot guys. When Clara, Spencer and me took our seats, I went to the concession stand to get snacks for everyone. When I came back, I proclaimed to them, “Ladies, I’m already horny!”
That was just me being playfully flaming, though. By the end of the movie, what stayed on my mind wasn’t even the half-naked bodies — I won’t lie and say that I didn’t look, because I did, but I didn’t expect to leave the movie stricken with thought and emotion and not as aroused. I wasn’t inclined to go home and have Me Time. Instead, I wondered about the fate of the world — and then, about my own life, and how I relate to guys, to my male friends, to Pop, and of course how you might perceive these never-to-be-sents.
I won’t tell you how the movie ends, but let me just say that I liked it. It was a very unconventional happy ending. I think that I would like the end of Magic Mike to happen to me in some form. Something simple, without any promises yet still headed in the right direction.
What is it about Carole King that makes a Saturday afternoon just right? I love “soft rock” or “adult contemporary” or whatever this stuff is called nowadays. It’s the music that I grew up on. In fact, if I think really hard, I can confidently say that the first pop song that I ever consciously heard was by The Commodores. I can’t remember what it was, though. But if you ask me if it was “Brick House,” I’ll crack up. Anyway, it wasn’t that.
So last night, I did something that really turns my stomach even now.
I left a ballgame early.
The guys were down by 4 and it was the bottom of the sixth. I’d been up since six in the morning. The thought of staying until the end of the game and fighting the crush of 40,000 people and then having to wait through the commute home — even if I did go with Ray, and he always gives me a ride home when we go to games — was very exhausting. I left right when the Kiss Cam was starting, which is appropriate, I guess.
I didn’t like the idea of leaving a ballgame early. This is only the second time that I’ve ever done that. Ever. In my life… well, I’ve only spent a very short part of my life as a baseball fan. This probably shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is. On the train ride home, I was kept racking my brain about how something about me had grown so old that I couldn’t even stay for a full ballgame that night. Because in addition to being tired, I did have a lot on my mind, too much to sit still even at the sanctuary of a ballgame. Anyway, I think the next one I go to, I’ll go by myself. I do way too many things with my friends. I think this is a direct consequence of growing up an only child and having a lot of time to myself, but these days I can’t even go to a movie without picking up my phone to see if anyone wants to go.
That’s what today is for. It has been a very slow Saturday and I only emerged twice: to go for a run, and then later on to go to Safeway. The rest of the time has been spent in my room watching movies. Right now I am on The Royal Tenenbaums. I have seen this before but it has been a while, and also, Wes Anderson has a new movie out that I will try to catch next week. He’s considered a “hipster” director because a lot of “hipsters” like him. It was only until about a year or so ago when I was one of those people who hated hipsters. I’d say things like how they were overrunning the Mission and I would mock their fashions. I don’t really even know what constitutes a “hipster,” though I also still don’t get skinny jeans — come on, how is your junk supposed to breathe? A lot of stuff that “they” (as if only they are allowed to like these things) are actually things that I like, too. PBR? Check. Arcade Fire? Check. Plaid shirts? Check times half a dozen, or so.
You’re only two years young than me Linc, so you know that when you get to be the respective ages that we are, labels just become pretty ridiculous. If you like something, who cares if it’s a “hipster” something? A while ago, there was some picture of you making the Tumblr rounds and everyone said you looked like a hipster. Well, good for you.
I wonder if you’re feeling any pressure or anxiety about your start tomorrow. Last night’s game was shitty but I saw a picture from today’s game and the standing ovation in it looked like everyone pretty much regarded Vogelsong as a hero. A lot of those same fans have a cruddy sense of fandom and loyalty and will probably talk smack about you and throw peanuts even before you get there. This is the kind of thing I’ll never adjust to with sports.
Speaking of sports, there’s a Pacquiao match on right now. I wonder if you’re watching that. As for me, I’m in my Super Mario Bros. pajamas and I’m going to go back to my little hipster movie.
Then I had to endure standing in line at Pearl’s Hamburgers with a guy who actually said, “This line upsets me.” Really, dude? Then he proceeded to dictate a long-ass order in which he tediously listed every fixing he did and didn’t want on his burger. Actually, this behavior qualifies more as douchy, but he looked more like a hipster. There is a distinction.
“I knew my husband for only four months before we got married. But I heard from others how protective, tender, and devoted he was to her. Because of...”
