Graffiti Jules – Rolling into San Francisco for Sunday brunch on my 47th birthday, I felt particularly welcome.
Admiring the big round letters, I couldn't help but think of the notebook covers I filled with that same scribble – big loopy J and swirling S – the name I swiped at 17 from a character in the first R-Rated movie I ever saw. A name that is now as much mine as the one my mother gave me, but also – clearly – belongs to someone else. Perhaps the graffiti Jules is a love letter, scattered about the city in bits and pieces, or an artist glorying in the name they've chosen to wear as I once did. But on this day, I perfer to imagine it as a celebratory welcome from the only city I have ever loved. Thank you San Francisco, for the graffiti Jules and everything else you've ever given me.
We came into the industrial part of downtown MoTown at dusk last night. At Ninth and G Street, we noticed a haphazardly parked SUV between two buildings, its driver's door flung wide and a shadowy couple nearby. With our windows rolled up, we couldn't hear what was going on, but I saw the boy grab her with both hands and then fling her away. Hearts pound. Adrenaline rushes. Then just as foreceful as he shoved her, he yanked her towards him again. In an instant, she spun away and kicked out her foot just so. Only then did it occur to me that this shadowy pair were dancing. Like really good swing dancing. And somehow it felt like catching sight of a falling star; this young couple dancing in perfect communion in the dusky shadows of an empty lot near Ninth and G Street. What I mean to say is that I felt blessed.
Time tears past me at an alarming pace and the expanse between you and I grows wider by the hour. How have I’ve made it this far from where you left and what does it mean of love that I can survive each day, month after month, all these fucking years?
The Receptionist TBA … oh wait, I guess she's been announced, hasn't she?
The Bullish Receptionist has nearly completed her initial training which is good news for the office, the introvert who longs for her cozy cubicle and the blog baby she's neglected during the shift-change. Please stand by while we collect ourselves and find our groove once again.
There are only 3.5 working days left before Bullish joins me in The Office and all hell breaks loose Sister-Style. Oh I could promise you that we'll be serious, professional individuals during the two-week training period, but really, who'd believe me? The best we can hope for is the silent hilarity of early cinema.