Sunday Data Dump

I was up at eight and hitting tennis balls with Craig at USF by nine fifteen. The courts were empty when we arrived but filled up pretty quickly with college kids sporting hangovers and weak backhands and Craig and I warmed up and played a set which I won 7-5 and then two tiebreaks which we split and I was back home before eleven eating eggs and doing laundry and answering this week's first discussion question about The Hunger Games for class. Blazer came over a little while later and we walked to Bean Bag Café in Alamo Square for mimosas. Well, I had mimosas. Blazer drank beer. I should note, for the sake of historical documentation, that Blazer's actual name is Beth but she wore a blazer to work once like three years ago and Marc called her Blazer while we were all eating lunch together at the standup tables by the board room and then I reinforced it by say something like, "Yeah, Blazer!" and it stuck and now everybody calls her that. After a couple of hours of chitchat Blazer and I parted ways and I took the 21 bus downtown to look for jeans at Westfield because all of mine have droopy butts but I couldn't find any that fit me well enough so I bought two pairs of corduroys that were on sale at Urban Outfitters instead. Actually, as I typed that last sentence I remembered reading that the founder of Urban Outfitters donated a bunch of money to Rick Santorum's presidential campaign in 2008, so maybe I'll return the pants. Come to think of it, all of the guys that helped me find stuff in the store were most definitely gay. I wonder if they know about the political contributions. Probably not. Anyway, after I had finished shopping I hopped on the N at Powell and got off at Church and Duboce and then walked home. Bevan was waiting up for me so we could start this week's episode of Looking. A new episode of Girls and gluten free pasta followed and now I'm in bed typing this and wishing I had tomorrow off like everybody else and thinking about how I'm gonna find time to make it back to Urban to return those goddamn pants. Fuck you, Rick Santorum. And you too, Sunday night. And pants. Fuck pants, too.