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San Francisco Gay Pride Parade

July 16th, 2005

And Remember
Friday. Home a little early, a walk down to the cash machine next to the Grand Lake Theater, a walk back to the Sushi place at the bottom of the hill. My first Monkfish liver. Rich, that Monkfish liver. Kenny makes it at the restaurant, which, I am told, is a mark in its favor. Most places buy it ready made under plastic. What do I know? Something to order at the beginning of a meal, though, tasting it in little tastes as you sort through the rest of your dinner.

I had a large bottle of Corona when I got home, had a large flask of hot sake at the sushi restaurant followed by another flask of Double Demon Onigoroshi. I could see myself slipping into a sake and sushi sea similar to a drug slipping into a vein, not quite the white knuckle neediness of heroin (one hopes), but a siren call: your faculties dimmed by sake, you palate sated on Monkfish liver.

Seated at the sushi bar, a conversation with Ms. Sake, the beautiful and seductive Ms. Sake: her California rolls, her New York rolls, her Monkfish liver. What's a Monkfish, I wonder? How did it happen that he gave up his liver to feed my head this evening? A thought to make you ponder. Monkfish. Do Monkfish dream? Do Monkfish dream a dream not dissimilar to our own human dream that hopes to live a life without predators who favor the taste of liver? No liver before it's time? We won't let this slide into what cows must dream standing in their stalls. Not on a Friday. Not after sushi at the bottom of my hill twisted on Onigoroshi.

You could Google Monkfish on the web.

I could Google my life on the web. Who would care?

Saturday. So. The weather's good. A little late to breakfast, but these things happen. A run down to Beverages and More to pick up a bottle of Veuve Cliequot to bring to the birthday party this afternoon. MSM suggested flowers so I'll pick up a bouquet next to the Grand Lake Theater. A friend of MSM who lives on the other side of the lake who was kind enough to run a couple of errands for me two years ago when I was recuperating from the prostate operation. She's turning 60. Hi, ho. We all turn sixty (if we're lucky). Perhaps that would be a good toast at the party: to all whom we knew and loved who never turned sixty, who will never turn sixty. They're with us still, here at this party, as we sip Champagne and remember.

The photograph was taken at the San Francisco Gay Pride parade with a Nikon D2x mounted with a 70-200mm f 2.8 Nikkor VR lens at 1/350th second at f 3.5 at ISO 200.