I am dog-sitting at the moment and, incidentally, also parakeet-sitting. The parakeets, however, already had their food and water filled up so I basically just ignore them.

A few minutes ago I saw a blue streak flutter past, low to the floor. Simultaneously the dogs (mellow chihuahua, hysterical mini dachshund currently in Elizabethan collar) went berserk, yapping and pursuing the escaped blue parakeet.

Once when I pet-sat for these same people their lizard (which they had forgotten to tell me had seemed lethargic) dropped dead on the first night. How much worse would it be to inform them that their dogs ate their parakeet?

I pursued the dogs, which pursued the parakeet, around and around the living room. Finally I hustled the dogs into their crate (very much against their will) and pursued the parakeet by myself. It bit me. Hard. Twice. And would not let go, even when I put it back into its cage. I had to pry its beak open. OW.

I then saw that the cage door had not been left open, and there was no obvious escape route. Odd!

Upon releasing the hounds, I quickly saw what must have happened, as the fiendish dachshund, which has a back injury and is not supposed to jump, leaped up to the bird cage, popping the lever and snapping the door open! Irritatingly, the cage is too big to move to another room.

I have now constructed a giant barricade around the cage (two chairs, six pillows, one giant bean bag. The mini dachshund has been hurling herself against it and whining for the entire time it took to write this entry.

I think I may stick the dogs back in the crate and go to Starbucks.

ETA: Forgot to mention: the cage door isn't the only problem. The parakeets get hysterical if she jumps against it, and I'm worried that even if she can't release them, they'll have heart attacks. The cage, unfortunately, is in the living room.

ETA II: Decided cage wasn't too big to move and crammed it into another room. Dachshund now hurling herself against closed door and howling.

...that dog has lived with these same birds for four years but NOW they're interesting.

1. oyceter, sorry, when I took a shower this morning one of the sliding doors fell off. I propped it against the wall. Also, can you please pop the postcards I left on the bed in with your outgoing mail?

2. While walking near the SF Fisherman's Wharf, I passed what, out of the corner of my eyes, looked like a shrubbery. Then it leaped to its feet, waving the leafy branches it had been crouched behind and shouting. I was quite startled. Especially since, eight years ago when I was there doing disaster relief for El Nino, I saw the same tree dude terrorizing tourists. I suppose it could be a different tree dude, but can one city really contain two men who disguise themselves as shrubs to frighten passersby?

3. I also saw a bride in full gown and veil, but with tennis shoes and a ratty sweater pulled over the gown, running down the street sobbing. One of the people with her explained that she had been jilted at the altar. Ouch.

One of the worst jobs I ever had was as PA (Production Assistant) for a company that shot commercials. I ran errands for up to eighteen hours a day for sixty dollars a day. One night I got so exhausted that I fell asleep while driving back from a shoot, and woke up six lanes over, still moving at sixty-five miles per hour. Then I found what I thought was a good parking space in front of my house, parked there, and collapsed. The next morning I discovered that the space had been empty because it had a fire hydrant, and my ticket wiped out my entire earnings for the day that had almost gotten me killed. I quit.

But before that happened, I arrived at office early one morning and opened the lobby door. The lobby was typically packed with actors if auditions for the next commercial were being held, so it was no surprise to me to find it full. But to my shock and horror, this morning it was full of clowns! Clowns of all genders, shapes and sizes! Clowns in full makeup and costume! Clowns sitting in every chair, clowns leaning against the walls, clowns gesticulating and twisting balloon animals!

Up until that moment, I had thought the phrase “reeled back in horror” was a figure of speech. I reeled back in horror, fetching up against the door. Then I yanked the door open, fled for my life, and slunk back into the office via the rear entrance.

This was in the mid 1990s, when commercials were even more surreal than is common nowadays. I frequently saw commercials where I never even figured out what was being advertised. This may or may not explain why Holiday Inn commissioned a TV spot in which three dwarf clowns and a great big fat clown chased a tall skinny bald clown through a Holiday Inn.

“Every lobby has free computer access,” explained a portentous voice as the clown chase hurtled through the lobby and past the computers. As the skinny bald clown raced across the surface of the swimming pool, and his clown pursuers fell in and then floundered after him, the narrator added, “All our swimming pools are fully heated.”

( What if the house was filled with his evil clown confederates?! )

The thingie which makes the doorknob work jammed, so I was unable to open the door to get out. I was also unable to telephone for help, as I had left my phone in the living room. Frantic jiggling did nothing. My only options seemed to be to email for help or scream out the window.

But then I remembered that my emergency supplies, including a screwdriver, are in my bedroom. Granted I had assumed "emergency" to be something a little more far-reaching than "trapped in bedroom by jammed doorknob," but an emergency is an emergency. I unscrewed the plate, but that failed to free the knob. But I was able to manually push the lock thingie down, releasing myself. My landlord is fixing it now.

Yesterday I was buying groceries at Whole Foods... taking my time... careful not to spend too much. I had finished and was on the last aisle, about to go to check-out, when I was suddenly drenched in a torrent of liquid that fell from directly over my head.

My hair was wet, my arms were wet, my glasses and pants and shirt were spattered. I rubbed a little between my fingers. It was sticky. Before I could freak out, a woman standing beside me, who has also been splashed, said, "It's juice."

Indeed, the color suggested apricot or mango, though I didn't taste to find out... because the juice had no obvious source. There was no juice dripping from the ceiling, no broken glass or debris, no sounds of commotion, and we were not on the juice aisle.

Baffled, I wiped off my hands and glasses, and informed an employee. He seemed completely baffled, and directed me to customer service. I went there and repeated my story. It was the kind of story ("And then suddenly liquid fell from the sky!") which makes you feel like you're lying.

"Maybe it was water from the air-conditioning unit," one surmised.

"No..." I said. "It's juice."

"So you were in the juice aisle?"

"No... Look, I know how crazy this sounds," I said, "But I swear it happened! Look at me! I'm all wet!"

The customer service guys exchanged glances. "We believe you," they said. "And we'd like to get to the bottom of this too. Can you show us where it happened?"

I walked them to the area. Soon we saw a guy cleaning up a spill in the juice aisle.

"Ah-ha!" They exclaimed.

"Er... No," I said. "It's another aisle over."

We continued further, and found another guy cleaning up another spill. A juice spill.

"There it is!" I said. "And look!" I pointed upward. Juice was dripping down the opposite wall from the shelves closest to the juice aisle, from a height of twelve feet up.

It turned out that a bottle of juice had fallen in the juice aisle and hit at the exact angle to pop the top and make a geyser of juice shoot out, clear a ten foot wall of shelves, hit the opposite wall, and rain down on me.

Whole Foods gave a $25 gift card. I was pleased with the outcome, overall, though I had to wash my clothes and take a shower. Until I sliced open my index finger on a Whole Foods gift carded artichoke leaf.

Yesterday I had what I believe was the very strangest moment of my whole entire life. As those of you who have read my memoir know, that is saying a lot.

It all began when we went to Asakusa in the hope of finding traditional Japanese handicrafts, or something like that. But when we exited the subway station, we were surprised to see huge crowds crowding along the road, with police keeping order. Clearly, a parade was about to begin.

I asked the police what was going on, but as has been my all-too-common experience lately, I knew enough Japanese to ask the question, but not enough to understand the answer. I tried asking, "Is it a festival?" The word I used for festival, "matsuri" does mean literally that, but generally means "Traditional Japanese festival," like the one where they parade a giant wooden penis down the streets, or the one which the guidebook mentioned without explanation as "the bean-throwing festival."

"Yes, a matsuri," replied the cop.

"Which matsuri?" I asked.

The cop said what I thought was "sanban"-- "number three." "The third festival?" I repeated bewilderedly.

Stephanie rescued me. "Samba," she explained.

Indeed, we were just in time for the Japanese samba festival!

( And that wasn't even the strange part )

This weekend Oyce and I were eating lunch at the Ferry Building, overlooking the bay, when we began perusing the discount book rack that was outside the bookshop, on the pavement next to us. It was an odd mix of pretty good YA (like Nancy Werlin and Paul Fleischman), decent-looking gay lit, and horrible self-help books, like Healing the Amazon Wound and Cry of the Soul-Daughter.

And then there was God is Gay.

It was a slim, yellow, self-published paperback. The back cover quotes (which we decided were sock-puppets) were decidedly strange:

Ah, it is marvellous... I read and read and then ponder over it.
--Dr. K. D. Chauhan
Jagdishnagar Society
North Gujarat, India

I just read your book and I felt 'happiness creeping over me.'
G. Rommersheim
Munich, West Germany

['Happiness creeping over me' turned out to be a quote from GiG; the narrator, Bob, feels that sensation when he talks to his soon-to-be cult leader, Daniel.]

The chapters are all headed with peculiar drawings reminiscent of the Rider-Waite tarot deck, but with more animals, some with faceted eyes and all a disturbing cross between cute and evil, like the subliminal octopus in Serenity.

It's the swinging 70s. Bob, along with God, is gay. He lives in San Francisco with his lover, Steve. Then Bob meets Daniel, who is obviously a crazy cult leader. Only Bob doesn't think so. GiG is a love letter to Daniel, Daniel's superb musculature and gentle smile, and Daniel's whack-job philosophy, which consists of crazed nattering about androids and mouseries and "the sound of hearing, the music of the spheres," not to mention "the sight of seeing, the vision of the third eye." (No, there is no scent of smelling. Alas.) Daniel points out that Asia and Asians are spiritually superior to non-Asians. (A concept which, in addition to creating many awkward encounters between obtuse Westerners and unfortunate Asians, ruined my childhood.

Bob is overwhelmed by Daniel and his circle: A very handsome, muscular man let us in. As I was introduced to him, any doubts about his gayness were resolved when he cruised me. Plus, there is gay boxing (normal boxing, gay boxers), and Daniel takes Bob out for a banana split.

But Steve, whom Bob describes in phrases like an ugly sneer crossed Steve's face, cannot appreciate the wonder that is Daniel. In fact, he accuses Daniel of being a cult leader. But Bob finally drags Steve to a meeting, where Daniel goes on for pages and pages of gibberish, including Isn't it obvious that male gays are men, with the understanding of women; who understand instinctively that war, violence, and hatred are wrong. Bob is sure this will make Steve see the light. But Steve takes Bob aside and tells him that Daniel reminds him of Charles Manson.

Horrified, Bob runs to Daniel and says, "You won't believe what Steve said about you!"

Daniel says, "Did he say I reminded him of Charles Manson?"

Since Daniel wasn't there, this convinces Bob that Daniel is clairvoyant and telepathic, because there is no other way Daniel could have known Steve said that. It does not occur to Bob that perhaps Daniel often reminds people of Charles Manson.

Needless to say, Bob dumps Steve and runs away with the perfect and telepathic Daniel. That was the point when we noticed that the book was coauthored by Ezekiel (who presumabably used to be known as Bob) and... Daniel!

There is a clearly fictional chapter in which Steve later apologizes for not being wise or brave enough to embrace Daniel. Oyce and I think that Steve is now happily working for Google, and he and his handsome live-in lover sometimes do dramatic readings from GiG at dinner parties.

Having finished Gig, we then picked up a novel by bestselling fantasy author Terry Goodkind, and opened it to a six-page scene in which the heroine is menaced by... an evil chicken.

No, this is not played for laughs. There are more excerpts at fandom wank if you don't believe me.

The bird let out a slow chicken cackle. It sounded like a chicken, but in her heart she knew it wasn't. In that instant, she completely understood the concept of a chicken that was not a chicken. This looked like a chicken, like most of the Mud People's chickens. But this was no chicken. This was evil manifest.

She is terrified! For six pages! This is the heroine-- scared of a chicken.

Kahlan frantically tried to think as the chicken bawk-bawk-bawked.

In the dark, the chicken thing let out a low chicken cackle laugh.

In between being terrorized, Kahlan remembers her perfect boyfriend, Richard. Brilliant, strong, probably omnipotent, Richard comes across as a cross between Daniel and Diego. Did I mention that he is wise, too?

Richard had been adamant about everyone being courteous to chickens.

Several people have inquired about this icon. Here is the origin story for "naked and dripping wet."

When I was in grad school, I had a job interview at 7:30 am. I am not a morning person. I mean, I am really not a morning person. So when, having woken up that morning at 6:30 and found that my nice burgundy pants that I meant to wear to the interview were still not dry from having been washed the night before, I decided that it would be a really good idea to dry them as I showered by draping them over my tall halogen lamp.

Just as I began to shampoo my hair, the fire alarm went off. I dashed into the living room, and found that my pants, still draped atop the lamp, had burst into flames. I yanked them off the lamp, and they came apart into three flaming pieces, one of which remained in my hands but the other two of which flew off in opposite directions and set my carpet on fire in two places. I hurled the piece I was wearing into the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet, grabbed the second piece, which was by the front door, and hurled it into the hallway, where it set the hall carpet on fire and made the fire alarms for the entire building go off.

I ran into the bathroom, grabbed a totally inadequate towel to attempt to cover my nakedness, retrieved the third flaming pant piece from the carpet, flung it into the sink, dumped water over the carpet fires, went into the now smoke-filled hallway, grabbed the still flaming last pant piece, and hurled it onto the fire escape. People kept opening their doors, then closing them. I got more water, put out the hall fire, then went to the fire escape where the pants were still burning, but had not set the fire escape on fire because that was metal. Then I put the last flaming pant piece out.

I didn't get the job.

When I was later telling my grad class about the incident, one of my classmates interrupted to say, with a lascivious look in his eye, "So the whole time, you were naked and dripping wet?"

"Pretty much," I said.

The postscript to this story is that the apartment manager fled to Mexico along with his family and everyone's files seven hours before the cops busted in his apartment for selling crack out of his apartment. Consequently, I told the new management team that my burned carpet had been like that when I moved in, and that marked the only time I've ever gotten my security deposit back, although it was also the only time I've ever damaged an apartment I rented.

I have other tales of disasters that occurred while I was naked and dripping wet, but I have to get to work now. They all happened pre-morning coffee.

First off, what I initially wrote was perfectly true: Jake seemed like a nice guy, I had a reasonably enjoyable evening, and it really was the least painful first date I've ever been on. (Ten minutes into a typical first date, I realize that loathe and detest the person sitting across from me.)

So I wasn't going to post about what really happened, just in case I did end up going out with him again and it turned out that the peculiarities of the first date were a total fluke and he was actually the man of my dreams. But even a few days worth of the passage of time wears away the first blush of "He didn't seem like a bedwetter, pathological liar, or Rush Limbaugh fan! Yay!" Also, I obtained some information which threw an even harsher light on a certain memorable moment.

So here, cut for length but trust me, you really want to read this one-- here is the true story of my date with Jake. ( the True Story of my Date with Jake )

I don't usually torture people by recounting my dreams, but then I don't usually dream about... Hippo World!

The world was much like the one we know, except that hippos were the dominant race and humans were a small and rather pitied minority living on the fringes of their society. I was a hippo. My friends were hippos. You were all probably hippos too.

But I was addicted to human movies, which I rented on VHS from a small video shop owned by a human gentleman who resembled BUFFY's Giles. After years of watching these movies with all-human casts, I began to wonder about my world. Why was it that hippos ruled? If hippos had always ruled, why was it that archaeological excavations turned up hundreds of human skeletons for every hippos skeleton?

I finally went to Giles (I'll call him Giles) and asked him. Solemnly, he handed me an ancient encyclopedia. "This has the answers you're looking for."

I sat down in a corner of his shop and began to read. It seemed like an ordinary, if old and outdated, encyclopedia. Then I realized: it was a human encyclopedia. All the references to "people" referred to humans. It was a text from when humans had ruled the earth!

Giles explained that many years ago, a great catastrophe had wiped out almost all the humans and destroyed their civilization, allowing hippos to ascend to the top. Humans and some hippos knew the truth, but felt it was best not to rock the boat.

Sobered and grateful for this knowledge, I went to Crabtree & Evelyn, the shop "for the discerning hippo," to buy Giles a gift basket containing preserved apricots, tender slivered almonds, and candied chestnuts, in return for revealing to me the secret history of the world.