Jeez, what a day. I was flush with insights and realizations as my birthday wound down. I found myself sitting outside the Geary Theater, waiting for A, B and C, and watching the people shuffle around the downtown streets. It's funny how my timeless, urbane identity kicked in, and I began to walk differently, and engage people with some greater flourish. The city guy.
Then, when A, B and C showed up, i was so pleased with the company that I just flowed with their energies and ideas. I did something a little crazy. We re-entered the theater just as the second act was beginning, so we all four sat down on the balcony stairs. The usherette approached us and whispered that we couldn't stay there for some fire-code reason, so each of us bailed into different rows of seats, with A returning to our original seats at the front row of the balcony. I felt like going back down there so we could watch the play together, and as a gag I decided to slide down the darkened (carpeted) stairs (about 20 or so) on my stomach. I'd even planned on hissing like a snake, as I slithered by the other patron's seats, but as I began my descent, the keys hanging off my beltloop made a horrible clinking in the dark theater... It was bAD, BUT NOT RTHAT BAD.

It was a really sweet night, not to mention memorable, but when i got on my bike to ride home, I began to feel shaky and unconfident. The streets seemed so random and chaotic to be rolling through on a motorcycle. I was really uneasy as I drove west on Turk st., and then it hit me that i was back in the Tenderloin, where I almost died. I just don't know. I couldn't conceive of why I suddenly, for no reason at all felt afraid of EVERYTHING that moved. Like a neurotic. It's not like such a feeling has never come over me before, but it's been awhile, and I wasn't ready for it.

When I got home, it hit me that being out with A, B, and C, passing such rare time on the exciting downtown streets, seeing theater, being culturally awake... All of this managed to soften me like detergent on tough stains. I saw, with a calm clarity, that the hardness I've felt of late; the deadness of impulse was something that began the last time I was in Los Angeles. The low-level depression which has made it so hard to get out of bed in the morning, and which has affected my focus and decision making, stems from the shit I went through as I moved mine and J's stuff out of the house on Sanborn. Christ, what alienation! Myriad bad. gross, butt-knuckle feelings, of the last hard days at the house with J. Shit, no wonder I feel so low; I let this hard coral grow all over me so I could muddle through this seemingly endless confidence course of sour relationships and houses that never stop needing paint (like goddamn puragtory). Of course I never have anything to write in my blog; I'm covered with a hardened crust, so I can't see shit, i can't feel shit. Half the time I don't even want to know shit.

And that's what the hell is going on. No wonder I slithered down the steps of the theater like a snake... I'm half out of mind! I've lost sight of the essential Vincenzo... I gotta get that guy back! What a goddamn great birthday present. I got the best guy in the world driving this bus now. Hoo Ya!

I'm 33 years old today. As of midnight... What can I expect to be different about life with that taken into consideration? Probably not a great deal. I jujst reread a list of projects I emailed to myself on Jan 31... Like a letter to myself from one year before. Among other things I promised myself I'd go to Mexico. Now, the idea of having such a surplus of time and money seems like an impossibility. I hate to write such negative thoughts, especially on my birthday, but the truth remains unchanged.

I find myself with nothing much to write in my blog, because I'm doing all the exact same things I was doing last time I sat down to log something. I'm even wearing the same clothes (and my hands are still covered in paint. I'm sort of half-thinking about starting some resolutions today, such as working out a little. Maybe one or two push-ups... Oooof, what a thought. I reckon my muscles are too cold. Maybe I'll have another coffee instead. Og God, that is so 33. I'm going to be one of these obese Americans!

I think what makes dogs attractive to people is the animal's ability to fit in the human world. I was watching the dogs running and goofing around Dolres Park; sniffing asses and doing the usual gross dog stuff. The only dogs that really stood out were those that returned to their owners on command, and hung back a bit from the whole humping/ass smelling ritual. Untrained dogs are really not good for much; they may be pretty to look at, for a moment, but if they bark for no reason, or jump on you, or simply geek out, then they're pretty much useless. And that's when I see them as a conspicuous, first world relational dysfunction. Owners of ill-behaved dogs are probably unable, or unwilling to get the animals to do their will; the dogs end up running the show; calling the shots: That's no good. What's dogs bring to the world of manners is worth less than their shit. Everything good about them, they get from us.

As I'm raise my new dog, I hear from a lot of people the suggestion that I should just let the dog find his groove, and sort of let him find his own behaviour. What a mess that would be. If dogs were allowed to shit and piss on floors, houses would be unlivable. It would be like letting children set make decisions about food.

A dog that strives to fit in among people; that's sensitive to situations and vibes; and that can minimize its canine-ness when it doesn't help the situation... That's a cute dog. That's a star. That's what Baby's going to grow up to be.