A Sign at the Dog Park

I spotted this note below on the announcements board at our dog park this afternoon.

It reads:

We are devastated to announce our beloved Gus died suddenly last weekend. He was eight.

He was a fun-loving, squirrel-obsessed, energetic and joyful dog. We miss him greatly.

We are asking any and all who knew him to join us here on Sunday, Jan. 14, at 3 to raise a glass in his memory.

Patty, Mark & Marina

Dog people are the best people.

Keala Settle Should Get a Freakin' Grammy for This Performance

I just got home from seeing The Greatest Showman at Westfield with Bevan and I might've loved it even more than that goddamn Costco chicken bake.

My favorite character in the movie, besides Zac Efron's sideburns, was Keala Settle's bearded lady. I found the following video of her performing This Is Me during a workshop for The Greatest Showman and her performance in it is probably as close as I'll ever get to seeing god. I mean, even freakin' Wolverine was a sloppy puddle of mush by the end of it.

You Are Everywhere

B and I saw The Shape of Water at Kabuki with Dan and Steve tonight and B super duper loved it and Dan and Steve super duper didn't and I'm still on the fence but I do know that the words below were my favorite part.

Unable to perceive the shape of you,
I find you all around me.
Your presence fills my eyes with your love,
it humbles my heart,
for you are everywhere.

Livin' the Dream

It's the beginning of a three-day weekend, we snagged a table at Nara in the Lower Haight just before the end of seafood and sushi happy hour and at this very moment there's a generously-poured glass of ice cold prosecco making its way hastily through his bloodstream with another one on deck.

So yeah, Bevan should absolutely be grinning like a damn fool right now.

See Enough and Write It Down

Bevan and I finally found some free time last weekend (read: needed a night off from Gilmore Girls) so we used it to dig into the Nexflix documentary Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold. At one point during the film, author Joan Didion read a passage from an essay she wrote called On Keeping a Notebook. That passage has been on my mind ever since.

See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of doing what I am supposed to do, which is write — on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, paid passage back to the world out there...

Maybe that's the reason I've kept a blog for so long, to guard against those bankrupt mornings, to remember what it was like back then, what I was like.

Or maybe I just really like posting drunk airplane selfies.

Yeah, it's probably the second thing.

Out with Marf, or Don't Wait Up

We're well into the third hour of a long-overdue man date right now, my pal Marf and I, where thus far we've consumed three meat sandwiches stuffed with French fries and coleslaw and two and three-quarter pitchers of beer.

Oh, and he's using the restroom at the moment so if someone could please use this opportunity to pull me aside and not-so-gently whisper, "Corey, darling, your day tomorrow will suck a shit-ton less if you pound several glasses of water and then take a Lyft home immediately." I will give that someone any one of my organs, their choice, and the rest of this beer.