I was writing my review of yesterday’s movies, when I felt someone’s footsteps from the next room — someone fat, walking heavy. Which is weird, because the guy who lives in that room isn’t fat. 

That was my first moment’s thought when the earthquake hit, but not even a fat guy could shake the floor like that, so I darted to the door of my room, and stood under it like you’re supposed to.

I was wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. Hey, you want me dressed, I need advance notice. I wasn’t gonna stop to put on pants, so my butt was exposed to the hallway, while my willie looked into my room.

A stack of zines toppled off the edge of my bed, and the floor visibly moved just a little. I’ve been through several 3s and a few 4s since moving to California 5 years ago, but this morning’s quake sure caught my attention. It was either a Richter 5, or this building is flexible enough to make even a trivial temblor feel bigger.

When it seemed to have stopped, I put on pants and walked to the fire escape, but there was the same view as yesterday — no buildings were missing, no smoke in the distance, nobody screaming, no crowds assembling in the street, and only one siren in the distance, but there’s always at least one. So what the heck, I went back to the typewriter.

(Addendum: Wednesday’s paper says it was only 4.8. That makes it the biggest quake I’ve been through in SF, but it was nothing much, really.)

♦ ♦ ♦

Took a few sandwiches to a nearby park for lunch, and while eating noticed a pretty woman approaching. I do notice such things.

A man walking the other direction looked at her and put a surprised look on his face. “Didn’t you go to Mission High?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, with a small smile.

“Neither did I,” he said, “but you’re sure beautiful—” but he was talking to the empty space where she’d been a moment earlier. Her smile had disappeared just before she did.

This was right in front of me, so I said to the guy, “Does that line ever work?”

At that his body started shaking like this morning’s quake, his arms rolling around like an episode of Soul Train, and he answered me with a rapping rhyme:

    “I’ve always got a line
    for the women who so fine
    might like to squeeze my lime…”

There was more to it than that, but that’s all I jotted down, after he’d seen another pretty woman across the park and trotted toward her.

Other than that, nobody interrupted my lunch. Nobody tried chatting me up. I’m not sure anyone in the park even noticed that a fat man was eating sandwiches. It was perfect.

Something I know I’ve written before and will probably write again: I’m sure glad I’m not a pretty woman, so I can be invisible my entire life instead of always being pestered by men who imagine they’re charming.