Room, Raiders, Raunch

[It was all about the three Rs during the weekend just past. I spent much of Saturday at home rearranging my room. The raison was trying to find a place where my pre-Intel (d'oh!) Mac Mini will receive wireless goodness fo' fwee. So far, nothing; however, I like that I found a configuration that will finally allow me to have a small sitting area. The problem with my studio (well, one problem) always has been that there's really no place to sit except on my bed or in the hard plastic chair I use at my desk. It's a problem for visitors (unless they're the rare ones whom I invite specifically to occupy my bed), and for myself, since I tend to live on or in bed when I'm at home. Crumbs. There are always crumbs. Or sesame seeds.]

[Now, with the desk against the mirror/Murphy bed combo and the bed against the window (yes, I'm sacrificing one of the uses of that mirror, but it's a use that's been rarely effectuated), there's a whole quarter of the room that will be a nice little parlorette. The ottoman left over from the John years is there; my grandmother's cedar chest will serve as a coffee table once I find a suitable surface cover; I have enough ersatz end tables to furnish a Bizarro-Versailles; and...wait, what am I missing? Oh, yeah...a comfy chair. Hmmm. Here, or here?]

[I finally got out of the Downtown Apartment that evening to join my Dolores House friends and appurtenances thereto at Dolores Park, where Raiders of the Lost Ark was being shown on a big, inflatable screen. This is the second time I've been to one of these movies-in-the-park dealies, and they're a lot of fun. San Francisco community events can be little much (see below), but this one balances that good small-town, picnic-in-the-park feel with enough youthful eccentricity so you know you're not in Mayberry.]

[As for the movie itself, I think this is the first time I've sat thru it as an adult. Spielberg is inevitably Spielberg, and it came clear once again how much he and George Lucas have to answer for, not just for the state of Hollywood product today, but for the way we're entertained in every medium. From being hit over the head repeatedly by John Williams's theme music (so our subconscious knows just when to release that adrenaline), to cheering on the death of the Nazi monkey, and to the sadist giving us the sight gag of his nunchuck coathanger, Spielberg gives us that heady mix of schmaltz, irony and broad Borscht-belt humor that we're hard-wired to expect...and to buy, again and again and again.]

[Sunday, I indulged in the other side of packaged entertainment by heading down to the Up Your Alley Fair. For reasons I've yet to satisfactorily analyze, I was looking forward to the fair this year, even though I knew there would be nothing novel about it. Well, here's a little analysis: sex is a big muddle for me these days, I don't know what I want anymore, and I figured why not go where heaven knows there are lots of options, and enjoy a little window shopping?]

[Well, it wasn't novel, but my attention was occupied and amused for a few hours. Flogging demonstrations really are all about context, don't you think? Allen and I had a few beers, tried to navigate the crowd, and gave our always scintillating commentary on what we were seeing, hearing and...smelling. He was there (with boyfriend), as was he (without boyfriend), and I saw him and him from a distance. I got sunburned again (this is the Summer of the Latent Melanoma), and was home alone and reading some improving book before 5:00. And, no; I didn't see anything in the window I needed to have.]

[Tonight's the Giants at AT&T Park with my dad. I'm more glad than not that my upbringing included a fair enough exposure to sports so that, no matter how Quentin Crispy I get with my affectations, I can still tell when the ump's made an outrageous call, and can enjoy inquiring loudly where he got his glasses prescription, ya bum?!]

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