Quote of the day:

We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.
--Milan Kundera
 

8:46 AM Sunday, June 30

 SF

 (Pete's house)

 Stayed at Pete's (again) last night after a day and evening of wandering around SF, the Castro district the day before the Gay Pride parade; the city was alive and crackling yesterday, the object to see and be seen in a myriad of flattering poses affected by the posers and that's what we all were, just by virtue of our very presence on the street. I didn't think so.

 Boogied with a Belly Dancer last night at the El Mansour, a Moroccan restaurant over on Clement and 32nd. She clacked in, she swayed in, she bumped and ground in, just as our food arrived. As a T-shirt we saw waking around earlier in the day said: "If you don't get it all over your face, it probably isn't worth eating!" The food was great, the lamb furry going down your throat, the prawns succulently pink, the rabbit not stringy at the bone, not stringy at all. I would guess that our dancer was approximately 38 yrs. old and her body and spirit were beautiful; her face, pretty as well, the only indication of her age.

 She flirted with as many men as timing and decorum would allow, some of the wives(?) faces becoming strained as the feminists in them prepared to disembark the ship, until they too we invited into the fray for a little menage a trois avec the sha-sha-shaking of the hips-woman. Many of us (most) were invited up to waggle it with the maestro and I for one did not allow my opportunity to pass me by. Her dance with a curved sword was perhaps the most impressive and definitely the most dangerous: she almost impaled a smiling gentleman, who oblivious to the danger, or titillated because of it, or oblivious to all but he clackers, just continued smiling up at her as she cha-cha-chaed her apology; oh, give me a woman who can smile and keep wiggling her hips in apology when she almost kills you, any day. Any day.

 Stopped at Cannery Row evening before yesterday on our way from Big Sur to SF. You know those food products that they sell in the store (they're too many to name, you'll know what I mean) that are absolutely neutral in taste, so as to offend as few people as possible, thinking somehow that this is the equivalent of pleasing as many people as possible? Well, that's what Cannery Row, and to even some degree what little of Monterey I saw in the process of getting in and out of Cannery Row, reminded me of. But then again it was a long day and I was tired. It's amazing what Steinbeck--am also reminded of traveling through Calveras county (the High school mascot is, never fear, a jumping frog) and Mark Twain--was able to do with a few carefully crafted words about an area depressed and on its last legs. I could be wrong, but I would hazard to guess that he wouldn't be particularly proud of one of the by-products of his fine efforts.

 Supposed to meet down between 1rst and 2nd downtown today to watch the parade from in front of--get this--the Sharper Image store; wanna make sure we get a good view.

 Feeling Parade Proud, Mac Pilsner