Pants

I do not like to be constrained by things like pants.

I think that the concept of "nudists" is really pretty gross in a hippie, dirty-feet kind of way and would never, ever, EVER in a million years consider myself one. But if the option presents itself of "Wear Pants" or "Not Wear Pants" I will choose the latter.

I'll bet you didn't know that about me.

Sometimes when I go a long time without posting real entries regularly, I not only feel guilty, I feel absolutely paralyzed with writer's block fear. Like I'm some kind of bigshot movie star who has dropped out of the movie-making world for a few years to deal with personal issues, and then returns to the silver screen in a blaze of shameful glory, appearing as the love interest in some sort of lesser-known Wayans vehicle. You think to yourself, "Oh yeah, what ever happened to THAT actor?" and then you see the preview and go, "Oh. THAT'S what happened. The poor dear."

So I'm trying not to make a big deal about it, or think that I need to provide you with some sort of spectacular series of entries in order to make up for my dearth of posts. Instead, I'll just tell you about my disapproval of pants. And stuff.

I have noticed that I have a whole lot of pictures sitting around on my hard drive and in Flickr that are all very amusing (to me) and that I took with the express intent of sharing them here and then never did.

But it's a lazy Sunday morning and I'm ignoring that it's Father's Day and while I have work to do later this afternoon, I thought maybe I'd post some of them for both of our sakes.

* * * *

Downtown San Francisco has only three types of people. Tourists, people trying to make money from tourists, and locals who are annoyed with tourists because they do not know how to walk at a city-appropriate pace.

Among those in the second group of folks are those who are, shall we say, "colorful."

There's the guy who stands at the corner in front of Sacks Fifth Avenue and sings "Darling youuuuuuu send me...darling youuuuuuu send me...darling youuuuuuu send me...honest you do, honest you do, honest you do."

Now, those are the only lyrics he sings. He dresses in a top hat, and is very, VERY good at those lyrics. He will tip his hat at people walking by, and raise his eyebrows at the ladies when he sings the word "darling." But if you find yourself around Union Square for any length of time, you will soon find yourself wanting to kick the man, much like you would want to kick a jukebox that is skipping a record.

I don't mean to be cruel to the man whose entire income may be dependent on these six words, and yet I have to wonder why, if indeed his entire income is dependent on these six words, he has not taken to learning, say, a seventh, or eighth, or fifty-second word. But who is to say. San Francisco.

And speaking of "colorful," there is also the silver guy. I do not know what kind of day you have to be having to decide to become The Silver Guy, but it can't have been a good one. I picture this gentleman having a boring, corporate job, and sitting quietly in a conference room as another man goes over the monthly numbers. And then just snapping.

I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS!

And then instead of an accountant, he decides he'd rather be a robot.

I've had those days, you know?

But so anyway, I wonder what your taxes start to look like, once you've decided that you're going to be a robot for a living. Do you claim your job title is "other"? Or do you go ahead and put "robot"? How does the Federal Government feel about "robot" as a profession, anyway?

Truth be told, I had never stopped to think about the robot man's taxes until I happened to run into him at the bank.

Here, he is filling out a deposit slip:




Robot man has an account at Bank of America, in case you were wondering.


* * *

One afternoon, Ben and Emily and Ish and I found ourselves at a local bar. I realize how shocking this must be to all of you, but try and get over your disbelief.

Anyway, we were there, and there was this guy at the end of the bar who everyone called, "Colonel." And that is because, he was all too happy to explain to us, he had been a Colonel in the United States Army. And we thought that was pretty cool and impressive, especially as he started telling us alllllll about his experiences in the armed services.

His stories were fantastic.

I'm not real sure of their veracity, however. I suppose it's possible he's a close friend of the Kennedys. And was in the first convoy into Baghdad. And charged up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt. And had some run-ins in the jungle and I sort of don't remember all the women he was involved with, but you know.

* * * *

So I saw this sign on the door to a deli. Phew, I say.







* * * *

I took a few pictures when Ish/Pete was moving out of his tee-tiny studio apartment and into his real, I actually live in San Francisco as a single man apartment.



If the label on the top box doesn't sum up Ish's kitchen, I don't know what does:



Pete decided when the movers came that it would make the most sense to put the cats in the large, cozy closet with the doors shut.

I happened to notice that Eddie was very interested in what was happening on the other side of the door.





Finally, I had this image sitting around. Pete got a television the day he moved in -- because a man has his priorities -- and Em thought it would make a great fort. I couldn't blame her.

Except she fell on her way into it.




And thus concludes my cameo in the Wayans brothers movie.