This evening Bevan and I made stuffed peppers for dinner and my Grandma Beckman’s special-occasion Cool Whip and sliced fruit dish for dessert while carrying on with one another about big things and small things and nothings as Buddy and Ellie snoozed on the furniture in the living room and the soundtrack from A Star is Born played just above a whisper around us.
It was my plan to stay home and watch The Dark Knight for the nth time tonight but B insisted I go with him to a party on Lake Street so I shaved and put on a tie and a pair of slacks and within the first few minutes of our arrival a handsome older gay fellow said I look like a young Scott Bakula.
The moral of this post, Future Corey, is when in doubt, go out.
Also, you probably need a haircut.
B and I visited Dan and Steve’s casa in Cloverdale last weekend where the four of us spent two days tasting wine and taking walks. During one such walk I divulged to Dan that I’d been struggling as of late with the mass exodus of my friends from San Francisco. Jamie’d moved to Portland a few years ago and Sam to London last fall, Kelly and Trevor packed up their shit for Seattle at the beginning of this year and then, much to my surprise, Blazer bailed for Walnut Creek last week, which while technically is in the Bay Area might as well be in Wakanda for how often we’ll see each other.
“Of my first group of friends in San Francisco,” I told Dan, “three remain.”
And then last night happened.
While dining together at Nopa Marf broke the news that he and Marlowe had “made the decision” to move to Mill Valley sometime next summer.
“Ryan has a better shot of getting into a good school there,” he told me.
I nearly barfed my over-priced French fries into his hair.
But I understood, sort of.
After dinner I picked my heavy heart up off the floor and Marf helped me drag it down to The Page for a nightcap. We were near Kari’s apartment so I called her and she texted Ray and suddenly we had an impromptu party going. While sipping beers and snacking on slices the four of us teased each other about the silly shit we did when we were young, dumb and broke.
It was like old times.
“What’s everybody up to this weekend?” I asked during a lull in the conversation, my mood having been bolstered enough by the encouragement of very many beers to let Marf’s nasty news slip away for a while.
“Ray and I are going apartment hunting,” Kari said.
“Oh yeah?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “In what neighborhood?”
“Um, in Oakland.”
This morning, shortly after waking, I sent Kari, Marf and Ray a cute photo I’d snapped at the bar to show that I wasn’t harboring any hard feelings about their impending abandonment of me and the City of our youth.
Then I realized that I was, in fact, harboring hard feelings about their impending abandonment of me and the City of our youth and decided to follow the aforementioned cute photo up with a less cute text message.
Marf is, all at once, a truly good person and an exceptionally bad influence.
Tomorrow gon hurt.
Bevan and I saw a matinee performance of Come From Away at the Golden Gate Theater today and I whole-body happy-bawled the entire damn time.
When it was over and we were slow-shuffling our way to the exits, Bevan squeezed my hand and said, “I’ve never seen you cry like that at a show.”
Because I haven’t.
When the Twin Towers fell in 2001, 38 airplanes were diverted to Gander, Newfoundland for several days, stranding nearly 7,000 passengers. Without giving it a second thought the 10,000 inhabitants of that tiny town in Canada turned their lives upside-down to welcome them. They donated blankets and clothing and food, lent out spare rooms and phones and barbecues, and made the darkest of situations a great deal brighter for 7,000 terrified travelers.
And the incredible part is, the story’s true.
I’d braced myself for a musical about 9/11, and while Come From Away sort of is, it’s mostly about strangers showing genuine kindness to strangers.
And that’s worth crying about.