this little dude hung out at the lair last week. the camera refused to focus where I wanted it to.
the more I look at this picture, the more I like it. the parallelallelallelity, the crappy tags, the passive-aggressively covert core, the
cement dribbles, the way the colors match.
...and
yesterday, my last day in San Francisco. Wednesday and Thursday I fell in thudding unreasonable infatuation; Friday felt like the morning after a one night stand, when you can see the appeal and forgive yourself for your actions and may even play with the possibility of potential, maybe we'll see each other again, but you still want to slink away as quietly as possible.
*
seductions like this lurked around every corner.
there's a part in the Beverly Cleary novel "Fifteen" where they go to a restaurant in this very Chinatown. when I was a kid I loved that chapter because of the way it described the fog, the lights, the exoticness, her trying to feel mature. now I remember it as one of the most fucking racist things I've ever read.
somewhere downtown.
I like buildings that tell you exactly where you are.
the "ghastly 1950s cookbook" filter.
the sandwich board says "welcome to our store and become 'lucky'."
Grant Street.
accidental San Francisco self-portrait.
Powell Street station.
in contrast, seattle feels like someone who's a totally unpredictable affection-rationing asshole but about whom you masochistically think maybe this time it'll be different.
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