A Gay Day in San Diego

I.

It was my first full day in my mom's breezy upstairs condo between Adams Ave and El Cajon Blvd in San Diego. For half the day I sat and read "Play Money", a book by Julian Dibbell, who once did business in the imaginary world of MMORPG. He farmed gold and hawked suits of armor from Britannia on Ebay. Dope!

Then Dad and I had some nice, cold, tall dark beers at the microbrew/sportsbar Gordon Biersch. The entertainment for the night were the few shriek-laughers in other groups.

We were crunched up against the table next to us because the waitress--who looked like she didn't give a shit about her job, but acted very diplomatically--had to force ours perpendicular and away from the stage. A band was going to play in an hour or so. Halfway through the meal a tall, roundish youg man with a long brown pony tail walked up to the stage to our left with some amps. He left the patio area, returned with more, left, returned again. Nearby a plump Samoan fellow with a long grey ponytail walked up and produced an electric guitar from a soft case. A man stepped in with a piece of an ivory colored drum set. I guessed they were a reggae band.

They were a reggae band! A pocket one at that, the drummer rapping away with all his midguts' might; the Samoan laying out some reverbing du-duh, du-duhs; the bass player cooing in a Brad Nowell drawl. And the whole time, the young man sat diligently beside the guitarist, swigging not even a droplet of Dunkles.

Then they started playing the type of nasty pop song normally reserved for Sea World commercials. "Somethin'...sweet daaarlin'" I can't even remember right now but it was something like that. Ew. Check, please!

II.

Back at home, I was talking to Travis for a bit about Iraq. Here's a thought. I feel like people who don't have soldiers or families in Iraq can check out of Iraq, just as they would decide to not see a movie or not watch the news. Tell me, is it easy to get by with the war or are you affected by Iraq? How?

Later that night, the subject came up again when I met up in P.B. with my old friends Peter Ryan and Sam Goodman and a few of their interesting companions. I said I had just read "The Assassins' Gate" by George Packer. Actually, I didn't tell them the title. This time I was too drunk to keep on going. But more so, I actually felt embarrassed. Like I was going to ruin the party! I chuckled and we all chuckled a bit about how the idea is absurd. Of course we should discuss! But then a moment passed and we carried on to another conversation.

And here I sit, 3 in the morning, sorting this through my brain. Maybe it's idiotic and selfish to say, but maybe I need a break from Iraq.