Joining the Circus

The Too Cool For You Coffee Shop is inexplicably compelling. The coffee is* really good. And I am* a creature of habit (for about 4 month intervals anyway). And I do* need another decent substitute for Coffee Shop Where Barista-Not-Actually-Flirting-With-You works.

[“The thing to remember about love affairs,” says Simone, “is that they are all like having raccoons in your chimney…we have raccoons sometimes in our chimney…and once we tried to smoke them out. We lit a fire, knowing they were there, but we hoped that the smoke would cause them to scurry out the top and never come back. Instead they caught on fire and came crashing down into our living room, all charred and in flames, and running madly around until they dropped dead.” Simone swallows some wine. “Love affairs are like that. They are all like that.” ]

However the TCFYCS is, a bit embarrasingly, a place to see-and-be-seen. The most unusual people show up there. Yes its bougie as fuck, and sits on Valencia Street, that precipice between Dolores Heights and Mission Street, shiny BMWs and secret grandmother tamale vendors. But it is a gathering of bohemians none the less, just richer ones, entire herds of students, graphic designers, aaarteests, party crawlers getting their pre-disco latte on. Dreadlocks and designer shoes, aging hipsters with their fllock of children and pale literature graduate students.

The workers are all in their mid to late twenties and unequivocally, Beautiful, Hip and Strange. Their dirty ripped clothing, their bored air of contempt, the precisely mussed hair, the perfection with which they sculpt miniature van gohs out of the swirls of steamed milk and espresso--exude a definitive ratio of their coolnes to your coolness at a bout 3000 on any given day.

I show up, annoyed by these feelings. And yet hungry for it. Since they are busy crafting impressionist art out of every drink, the wait is inordinate, plenty of time to stare blankly at all the people lounging around the bar

Today was "Matty's last day" the signs all said. "Which one is Matty?" I ask. The bulky man covered in tattoos and plaid at the register points to the fellow in a handsome bowler hat. I was quite sad. I loved that guy. He had an exquisite handle bar mustache, wore dirty overalls with a very nice tie and shirt and was also scribbled with tattoos. He was dark and handsome and had large brown eyes. You must imagine a very good looking Super Mario say, except dressed with the elegance of a Parisian Surrealist sketch. i over heard him banter with some woman about the circus shows he would do all summer--the bed of nails, the bugs he ate, the imitations of his audience at Very Famous Museums and grand theatres.

I wanted to tell him something. But their conversation continued. i didn't know what to tell him. Only that i was terribly fond of him, his presence, his whimsy, his existence. Bowler hats and handlebar mustaches will no doubt be at the Gap this time next year, but still, a man who wears it with such talent is a force of nature. So on my out, i tell him as earnestly as i can without being too creepy, "You will be missed!" He is cheerful and tells me to stop by for beer every sunday, where he hangs out. This sense of warmth, ease and inviting made me incredibly happy.

I left with all sorts of plots in my mind. Perhaps this fellow could be my link to the circus. I had been thinking about this for some time now. In fact, have been practicing my handstands for 3 years now (with little to show except tendonitis). What would it take to be in a circus? Would i have to look as exquisite in a bowler hat? That could be difficult.

Summer is so close, it teases me, i must work so hard -- write and write and write. Go to clinic. Memorize drugs and bugs and poisons. But oh...the circus.

I will go to this bar and find out more. slowly but surely. For surely, there must be a talent i posess that people find strange and upsetting and willing to fling quarters for.