I spent Friday night and Saturday morning in a low-level nonstop panic. John and I were going to San Francisco for the Morbid Curiosity reading. The Bay Bridge was going to be a traffic nightmare (a worse nightmare than usual, I should say) due to some major repair work and detours, and the TV stations were warning travelers to avoid it at all costs. To make things even more interesting, the eastbound lower deck of the bridge would close at midnight, meaning we'd either have to get out of there by eleven thirty or take the much longer Golden Gate Bridge/Marin County route.
John's the kind of person who likes to wing it and let fate take charge, but I'm anal retentive to the nth degree and I can't stand vague planning. John's plans for the day were to leave "around" three, "possibly" take the bridge if traffic seemed okay, "maybe" go "somewhere" and do "something" after the reading, and take "whatever" route home. My only recourse was to drink myself into I-Don't-Careville before he showed up "around" three, which I did. It worked.
I didn't care what happened, and whaddya know, the whole day was perfect. Everyone on earth heeded the dire warnings of the TV reporters so we sailed onto the bridge like it was our own private road. We got to Valencia Street with two hours to spare, which isn't great because it takes an average of one and a half hours to find parking...but lo and behold, we immediately found a spot right around the corner from Borderlands. We had enough time to enjoy dinner at Cafe Ethiopia and then visit Paxton Gate. I found this book there - yeah, it was a spur-of-the-minute splurge, but I have this thing for old crime scene photos. I considered it a reward for putting up with all that self-induced stress.
Alan from Borderlands just leased the building next door to the bookstore, and that's where the reading was held. Spiderwebs hung from the rafters, the walls were bare lath and plaster, there were holes in the floor, the windows were covered with paper, and a pigeon flew around up near the ceiling. It was perfect. All the readers were enthusiastic and their stories were interesting. I love reading for an audience and I had a blast. They laughed more than I expected them to, and I got many compliments during intermission. The only disappointment was Keith's cancellation. Apparently his colon (the subject of his essay, "I Hate My Guts") was acting up again and he had to stay home near the toilet.
It was a bittersweet evening, since this is the final issue of Morbid Curiosity. Loren has decided to concentrate on her own novels for a while, plus she has a three-year-old who demands a lot of her attention. After the reading all the contributors from this and previous issues had a champagne toast, then a bunch of us went across the street to the Phoenix to celebrate. (I guess this was the "somewhere" and "something" John had in mind.)
John thought we should head out by eleven and try to get over the bridge, and I agreed. I was pooped. Before we left, Alan took me aside and gave me a huge compliment. He told me my writing is good enough for other, paying markets, and he expected me to start submitting essays to other magazines. He's even going to give me suggestions for markets that might buy my kind of writing. I was so flattered! I'm going to follow his advice, not because I think I'm that good but because I've trained myself to look for weird, interesting aspects to everything I do and put them into stories. I might as well keep doing it.
John and I made it to the Bay Bridge onramp at 10:46. (There's a big digital clock there to remind you that your life is ticking away while you're sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.) By 11:15 we were on the other side of the bay. Whew. I hate that claustrophobic lower deck, and it was even creepier with huge chunks of concrete torn from the pillars and crazy spikes of rebar sticking out of columns.
So I survived the trip, everything went beautifully well, I had a great time, I saw lots of friends I only see once a year, I got applause from the audience, and I spent today doing absolutely nothing. I had a good weekend in spite of myself.
John's the kind of person who likes to wing it and let fate take charge, but I'm anal retentive to the nth degree and I can't stand vague planning. John's plans for the day were to leave "around" three, "possibly" take the bridge if traffic seemed okay, "maybe" go "somewhere" and do "something" after the reading, and take "whatever" route home. My only recourse was to drink myself into I-Don't-Careville before he showed up "around" three, which I did. It worked.
I didn't care what happened, and whaddya know, the whole day was perfect. Everyone on earth heeded the dire warnings of the TV reporters so we sailed onto the bridge like it was our own private road. We got to Valencia Street with two hours to spare, which isn't great because it takes an average of one and a half hours to find parking...but lo and behold, we immediately found a spot right around the corner from Borderlands. We had enough time to enjoy dinner at Cafe Ethiopia and then visit Paxton Gate. I found this book there - yeah, it was a spur-of-the-minute splurge, but I have this thing for old crime scene photos. I considered it a reward for putting up with all that self-induced stress.
Alan from Borderlands just leased the building next door to the bookstore, and that's where the reading was held. Spiderwebs hung from the rafters, the walls were bare lath and plaster, there were holes in the floor, the windows were covered with paper, and a pigeon flew around up near the ceiling. It was perfect. All the readers were enthusiastic and their stories were interesting. I love reading for an audience and I had a blast. They laughed more than I expected them to, and I got many compliments during intermission. The only disappointment was Keith's cancellation. Apparently his colon (the subject of his essay, "I Hate My Guts") was acting up again and he had to stay home near the toilet.
It was a bittersweet evening, since this is the final issue of Morbid Curiosity. Loren has decided to concentrate on her own novels for a while, plus she has a three-year-old who demands a lot of her attention. After the reading all the contributors from this and previous issues had a champagne toast, then a bunch of us went across the street to the Phoenix to celebrate. (I guess this was the "somewhere" and "something" John had in mind.)
John thought we should head out by eleven and try to get over the bridge, and I agreed. I was pooped. Before we left, Alan took me aside and gave me a huge compliment. He told me my writing is good enough for other, paying markets, and he expected me to start submitting essays to other magazines. He's even going to give me suggestions for markets that might buy my kind of writing. I was so flattered! I'm going to follow his advice, not because I think I'm that good but because I've trained myself to look for weird, interesting aspects to everything I do and put them into stories. I might as well keep doing it.
John and I made it to the Bay Bridge onramp at 10:46. (There's a big digital clock there to remind you that your life is ticking away while you're sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.) By 11:15 we were on the other side of the bay. Whew. I hate that claustrophobic lower deck, and it was even creepier with huge chunks of concrete torn from the pillars and crazy spikes of rebar sticking out of columns.
So I survived the trip, everything went beautifully well, I had a great time, I saw lots of friends I only see once a year, I got applause from the audience, and I spent today doing absolutely nothing. I had a good weekend in spite of myself.
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Love your description by the way
Bleach + hair = endless possibilities. I just got a cheapo manic panic kit off ebay and did it quick, in like an edward-scissorhands-type inspired frenzy.