Okay, okay, so I haven’t been posting enough, or indeed at all, for the past month. I’ll try to do better.
Last night, I joined a couple of friends in the Mission for dinner at an unusual slice joint—each slice is really a miniature pizza, since it’s made fresh for its buyer rather than taken from a whole pizza and reheated. We then attended what may have been the city’s all-time worst short film festival, which shall remain nameless to protect the guilty. Let’s just say that there were two films of a performance artist who described her work as “outspoken-word poetry.” After one particularly excruciating entry, one of my friends turned to me and said, with a poker face, “This is a totally authentic experience.” We left early to cleanse our heads with some of the Latin American Club‘s infamous margaritas, which come in pint glasses and give one a sense of what it would be like to get hit in the head with a tequila-filled baseball bat.
Today I’m having a relaxed morning at home, reading the New York Times and listening to one of my strange neighbors playing quasi-Eastern-mystical banjo music in the building’s courtyard. I need to leave soon, though, so I can go see a movie about adorable penguins, who I trust will keep the outspoken-word poetry to a minimum.