North Beach July, 13th On Green Street

The Beach was buzzing this night with local cats and regular misfits, some looking to be seen and others just drunk from an existential creative mind-fuck. There were amateurs from across the Bay there in the distance as well mind you, with a cloud of a different kind of drunkenness encouraged by cans of American beer, and shots of Fernet, purely because that’s what the locals drink and everyone wants to fit in at least some of the time. That quintessential fog that was not fog nor was it rain blanketed the scene and made us stop and stick out our tongues to the air as if to catch a snowflake, even though the City hasn’t seen snow since February 1976. Dino or Ron or whatever the hell his name was, spat flakes of spittle in my eyes and mouth as he talked. His sifter of brandy spilled with each gesture as he offered me a sip but I declined. You must be some kind of intellectual he said and I responded in kind. Lapo stood with us and carefully rolled a cigarette with more purpose and intensity than I have ever seen before. Dino or Ron spoke nonsensically about a translation he had done of some French work and complained about the nature of these types of parties. It had taken him twenty years and still no one had jumped at the idea of making it into a film and he couldn’t figure out why not. There were too many parties with crazy people and lesbians, “oh the lesbians,” he cried. He was giving a serious critique in his mind to what was before him; yet, he seemed to be enjoying himself quite tremendously. Brandy gives anyone perspective I am sure. Lapo smiles as he finishes rolling his smoke, and alludes to Dino or Ron’s criticism of this gathering as being as cliché as painting the kettle black and then disappears. Howie shows up and Momo has set up a community painting so we both add a few strokes to the canvas and it feels good. I wonder where it will eventually hang and if the future owner will appreciate it. Dino or Ron tries to talk to Jess about making his film her film but she is strong and says to him (even though he can’t understand and won’t remember) that she, “writes her own shit,” thank you very much. Instead, she buys one of Momo’s paintings, one that is somewhat of a self-portrait depicting his love for toast. We fumble around outside as the gallery’s crowd becomes weary and inebriated and Howie leans on a car on Green Street next to the mortuary that isn’t his. I smoke a cigarette and he bums one from me. Lapo is still nowhere to be found. It still feels like it is snowing in San Francisco and the echoes of the amateurs are now faint so we walk to Puccini’s and have bowls of pasta until they kick us out. They are closing.