Duncan's Blog

Picture it! San Francisco! 2025!

I have a dear friend (one of the first 5 people I met when I moved to San Francisco) who is still high on my list. He complains about the weather. It's a small city and it stands to reason that different neighborhoods will have different conditions.

BTW - San Francisco has a name for its fog. It's called Karl.

Mr. Chilly - Weather app for the San Francisco Bay Area

When I lived there I was ion Nob Hill and I heard fog horns. Evenings had moist, cold air. I don't ever recall being in direct sunlight because I lived on a street with tall buildings and very old, overgrown trees.

But Phil (my friends) sits on his balcony and chain smokes his generic cigarettes. It's too bright or too sunny. I told him he should make sourdough starter and keep it outside. I've given up listening to the complaints. I love the weather regardless of what the heavens send!

I won't post the photo here because... well... I have respect for the other person's privacy even though mine was not heretofore considered pre- and peri- feel-up.

I try to find social gay events that don't require any taxing activity from me. In other words, I don't want to go hiking and I don't want to spend much money to be in the company of others. So I have looked at gay male meet ups which tend to be at restaurants. Hopefully the conversation doesn't rest on the subjects of movies, theater, award events, or real estate. During one such luncheon in DTLA (downtown Los Angeles) I became the hottest ticket in town when I told them I was a federal employee. Everyone wanted to know if my job were on the line.

At the end of the meal, we moved to the front of the restaurant and posed for a group picture. The man standing next to me got a bit frisky. He knew I was taking the rail to the station where I had parked my car and he offered me a lift. During the ride he was giving me the heavy hitter pitch that he was looking for a FWB (friend with benefits). I told him I was only looking for friends. At this point, he told me he was married.

To a man?

Yes, of course to a man. What kind of gay man do you think I am?

I told him I wasn't interested, and he told me that he is in an open relationship that is sort of love-less.

I don't go that way. Someone gets hurt. Even if I never meet the guy and he never knew about me, I would still feel as if I were using someone whose love and intimacy are committed to someone else. And what would good would this do me? This would never grow into something meaningful for me.

It's nice to have someone's interest. It saddens me, however, that the affection comes from someone who--IMHO--is unavailable.

wedgie [ wej-ee ] noun

Informal. the condition of having one's underpants or other clothing uncomfortably stuck between the buttocks.

We've all had it happen at one point or another. Well, except, perhaps, for the nudists.



I remember seeing it on the menu of a summer concession stand. The bread was pizza dough, but the ingredients could vary. It had one of the most disgusting sounding names when considering what visions come to mind when the term wedgie is mentioned.

I used to see it on the menu during the summertime. Mind you, I did not grow up at a time when folks used anything other than bread to make a sandwich. No pita. No lavash. No tortillas. Can't say that I would ever eat one if it were offered. Just thinking one of those random thoughts that came to mind.

It was late November in Hawaii. I was about to lose my job and close on my first house/home. I was floating in the Pacific Ocean on Waikiki.
I was invited to an island Thanksgiving. My first Japanese-American traditional celebration. Mother was there and she was not fully lucid. I asked her questions about her job in the school back in the 1930s and 1940s. And cousin was sitting and watching a Japanese soap opera. My host was making rice for cousin. Cousin had to have white rice with every meal... ALWAYS.
So I asked him what he did for a living. He said he worked in electronics.
"That's fascinating," I told him. "My dad was an electrician and my brother is an electrical engineer. I've never met someone who works in electronics. So, what do you do?"
"I maintain vacuum tubes on Pearl Harbor."
My eyes bugged out. "PEARL HARBOR? Like on the ships?"
"Yes."

...

I don't remember too much after that. It was the most anyone had ever seen or heard this man speak. He would come with his wife to family events and he would sit near the television and watch whatever was on while is domineering wife commanded the kitchen by domineering it, I guess. All the husband would ask for was white rice. It was an addiction. Even during lavish, elaborate feasts, the man wanted to have his ration of white rice.
Not sure if I made him feel uncomfortable. He seemed capable of saying no if he had wanted to. And who on earth would really be fascinated with a discussion of vacuum tubes? Yet, I listened.
At the end of this month I will return to Honolulu and this time I will include a trip to Pearl Harbor.

I remember that day.
I was at his office in support of an employee who might be subject to termination.
He offered me and the employee a bottle of water.
When we had to return to his office a second time (for technical difficulties beyond our respective control), I brought with me a can of GINGER ALE.

...

It might seem relatively insignificant. The man was a ginger. Pale as Casper with spots of red in his cheek and blue eyed was he. The ginger ale was a bit of a statement. Although, in my defense, ginger ale is my favorite carbonated soft drink.

He smiled. Thankfully, I won the case and the employee still works there. Said employee is still f**king up and may get himself discharged again.