Oak Town

Flannery was cat and apartment building sitting in San Francisco over the three day weekend. I spent Thursday and Saturday nights with her at the apartment building gig and had a decidedly hard time falling asleep. The apartment is right next to a hotel, so there are people smoking and talking late into the night. It's also a half block off Van Ness, so the traffic is incessant, and often turns up the hill that goes by the bedroom window. Some of these cars carry the kind of stereo system often featured in Oakland: One where the system is worth more than the car which has to struggle to maintain structural integrity against an onslaught of bass from the trunk. I realized, as I was lying awake listening to sub woofers trying to escape, that I've moved to the country.

Now, sure, those of you who live in the actual country might take exception. And you'd be right to. Somebody just recently took a giant poo in the relative privacy provided on three sides by my car, my scooter, and our recycling bin. He then left a white piece of paper sticking up from the pile which made it look like an enormous, putrid Hershey's kiss. And I've also noticed a lot of small animal bones scattered around on my way to the BART station in the morning. Either the hobos have figured out a way to smuggle roast chickens out of Safeway or the Canadian geese down by the lake need to hire a security guard. These are not country things.

None the less, as I type this, I can only hear a single helicopter - not bad for Oakland. And even that is off in the distance. From halfway across the room I can clearly hear Clayton purr as he massages my recliner - because I've moved to the country.