This is not a particularly interesting story.
In fact, it's not much of anything at all.
I never really understood the term
, even less so than the ugly and vaguely hateful German variant of "old wives' summer". But, that's what it is: a beautiful October day, bathed in a warm, pumpkin-golden light. It's absolutely enchanting to look at (in theory, anyway).
I should really go out for a walk and enjoy my favourite season, fleeting as it is. But it's Sunday, and I am not in the mood. I never leave the house on Sundays anymore. I hate Sundays. I always have.
Technically speaking, though, it's not even Sunday anymore. It's actually Monday afternoon by now, and I have only just realised that I have been sitting here for almost 24 hours … while the soundtrack of
John Carpenter's THE FOG
has been playing on an endless loop in the background.
I have no idea where the time went, but the music and this time of year go so wonderfully hand-in- hand that I am not surprised, my mind had wandered off, and I lost track of …
It happens, sometimes.
I was reminded of my own visit to that particular location … (I mean the lighthouse from the movie)… and I am kind of in the mood to write about it now (and thus make sure that I will hopefully always remember it).
Sadly, though, there is really
interesting to tell.
There was just this
slightly amusing thing that made me chuckle … - and only weeks later.
It's stupid, really.
Whatever … at one point in the plot I had ended up in San Francisco for two days, and while I have absolutely no recollection anymore of how or when that happened, I do distinctively remember that my accommodation was arranged by a professor-friend of mine. He had contacted an old acquaintance of his, who used to work as a prison-shrink in San Quentin, until he had suffered a nervous breakdown.
I do not remember his name, but I can still vaguely picture his face … and his hairy ass-crack, as he was standing almost nakedly in front of the open fridge (wearing nothing but a red speedo, which was at least one size too small) … surrounded by hundreds of porcelain turtles, which he had carefully placed all around the apartment.
It wasn't difficult to figure out that he was still close to the edge.
Anyway, he had graciously offered to pick me up from the airport, and then decided right there and then that - since it was my first (and possibly last) visit to the city - we should have a brief sight- seeing detour, before heading to his place.
So, we drove to the Castro, miraculously found an empty(-ish) parking spot on some steep side- street, and then proceeded to walk around through the crowded streets in the afternoon heat, where he occasionally pointed out and explained things of homo-historical interest, which I instantly forgot. All I remember is that at some point we stood in front of Harvey Milk's old store, which only recently had been reclaimed by gay activists. Or so he said. (I think).
On the way back to the car, we ran into a group of old leather-friends of his, which resulted in chats and further delay ... and then we drove the winding street up the hill to that tourist-y "must-visit" spot, which overlooks the city.
Here something unexpected happened ...
There was a small group of husky mexican guys, all kind of sinister and "cholo" looking, who kept staring at me intently, as I tiredly (but full of grace) climbed out of the little, yellow car, after we had pulled into the parking lot, and my host had opened the passenger's door for me.
Naturally, I am used to getting stared at, so I didn't pay them any further attention and simply walked up to the fence to take in the view.
Out of the corner of my eye, however, I noticed that two of them had gotten up and were now walking over to my chauffeur. Expecting the usual, I thought:
Shit, is this going to get violent now? I thought this is supposed to be fucking San Francisco, the gawd-damn, cock-sucking gay capitol of the world?
", but I was way too exhausted, and, frankly, too annoyed now, to even care.
Besides, the breeze up here felt really nice, and I was honestly convinced that my host was crazy enough to literally rip their faces off with his bare teeth, should anyone even look at him the wrong way.
I had just gotten my camera out of my bag, to take a few uninspired photos of the hazy scenery below … when the two big guys now came walking towards the fence and stood next to me, clearly waiting for something.
I finished my snapshots, sighed inwardly, packed my camera away and turned around to face them.
That's when the bigger one of the two stepped forward ...
I cannot remember what
but, much to my surprise, it was one of the
I had heard in ages.
Seriously, it was quite charming and sweet.
I couldn't help but smile (I may even have blushed a little underneath the tons of layers of sun-blocker and powder), thanked them both and floated back to the car, where my host stood leaning against the hood of his vehicle, grinning from ear to ear.
As we finally headed towards his place, he told me that the two intimidating looking guys
(who may or may not have been gay, I really don't know)
had only approached him to ask, whether they were permitted to talk to me ... as, apparently (according to my host), "
it's a Hispanic macho thing, a sign of respect, to talk to the MAN first, before approaching his WOMAN
I am not going to pretend otherwise, because
made my day, and I was trying hard not to smile for the rest of the drive.
+ + +
Eventually, we arrived at our destination, somewhere near the industrial area of the city. His place was a large loft on the third floor of an apartment building.
Once I had freshened up, he insisted on showing me the way to the elevator again, after I had told him that I had plans of meeting someone the following day. He said, he wouldn't be around, as he had errants to run, and also there was some kind of construction going on in the building.
So he walked with me to the elevator, and said:
Just take this to the first floor tomorrow, it will get you right to the entrance of the house
", I replied, as we walked back inside.
+ + +
The next day I had a date with a semi-pedo from Hawaii, who I had met about one year prior, when he was travelling Germany by train.
I probably shouldn't call him a pedophile, though, because he wasn't
into little boys. He just liked them young and smooth and barely legal. One of his happiest moments was later captured on a selfie, when he was elbow-deep inside a 19-year old local lad. I had never seen him looking more proud then in this picture. It was kind of endearing, albeit in a pervy sort of way. (But I am digressing).
So, the next day, Jim (that is not his real name, by the way) arrived 20 minutes late and then waited for me at the gas-station on the other side of the street. He sent a text message, and I replied that I would be down in just a moment.
I could see him from the large window.
I grabbed my bag, and headed towards the elevator. I pushed the button, but nothing happened. I waited. Nothing. I could hear construction noises echoing up the elevator shaft, so I figured that I better use the stairs instead. Something I prefer over the potential death-trap of a small elevator anytime anyway.
Much to my confusion, though, the stairs ended on the second floor, the building turned out to be a completely psychotic maze, and there seemed to be no way at all to even get to the front door. What in the hell?!?
I eventually found a flight of stairs that led down to the subterranean parking space, and from there I somehow made it out of the building, though ended up on a different street and nowhere near the gas-station. By now
was ten minutes late myself. Urrrgh.
Jim and I had decided to spend the day together, and the plan was to visit Point Reyes, and, since it was on the way, to stop at some sort of park (I forgot the name) and look at the mighty Redwood trees.
This forest turned out to be very majestic indeed, but as much as I enjoyed it, I was way more excited to eventually visit the lighthouse.
And I will tell you why:
As I had mentioned before in a previous blog-entry, when you are suffering from untreated, severe sleep apnea for decades, you, eventually, are never quite "there" anymore, and it sometimes becomes hard to tell, what is/was dream and what has actually happened … because NOTHING ever feels real anymore, as you are merely existing in this perpetual state of
déjà vu & uncertainty
(for lack of a better terminology).
anxiety inducing, and I absolutely CANNOT recommend it. At all.
So, what could be more fun than visiting the filming location of one of your favourite
, and actually walk through a place that you know from your dreams? ;)
I say "dreams", because, at this point, dreams and movies are basically … well, though not really the same thing, they are very much
nonetheless. Actors on film ARE the living dead. Their characters never age, never change … and neither do their stories. Just like your own recurring nightmares, they stay the same. Forever.
As such, visiting this particular location was an actual "vacation"; a break from that perpetual uncertainty.
Because, for once, I was totally clear on where I knew this place from. Ha! ;)
+ + +
I don't remember much of the drive. I must have drifted off.
In fact, today, I only remember the trip at all, because of the few photos I took.
+ + +
I knew from (I think it was) John Carpenter's audio commentary on the DVD ... that the scene, in which we see Stevie Wayne (Adrienne Barbeau) in her jeep on the way to her radio station, that scene was filmed on the
l road to the lighthouse.
So, at one point I was looking out of the window, and,
having no idea where I was (as usual), I said:
This all looks very familiar. I guess, we must be close to the lighthouse now!
But then I noticed the cows, and I thought: "
Oh, maybe not ...
", because, unlike in the movie, this area was full of cows. Like, seriously full of cows.
I had watched this movie many times, but I had never spotted a single cow in it. Not once.
(Certainly not on my VHS copy on my old tube TV).
Luckily, it was a beautiful day, and the lighthouse was actually open to the public (they close, when it gets to stormy, which happens frequently).
One semi-interesting thing to note:
Those stairs are rather exhausting to walk. Not because it's a particularly long way down and back up again … but because the steps themselves have this really annoying size. They are kind of small, so you have to take uncomfortably tiny steps … but they're also too big to take two steps at once (unless you're athletic, which I am not). So you end up walking rather oddly.
Next time you watch the movie, pay attention to how carefully Adrienne Barbeau walks downstairs.
+ + +
A few weeks later, back at home, I felt like watching THE FOG one day, which I hadn't done in quite a while. I now had the movie on my harddrive, and I watched it in
on my computer monitor …
… and when the scene came up, in which Stevie Wayne drives to the lighthouse, I saw them for the first time … only for a second, but there they were, in the far background:
+ + +
(There you have it. I told you, it wasn't much of a story. Just … cows).
As we drove on for a little while, I looked at the ocean on my right, drifted off once more … and when I eventually looked ahead again, we had just come around a corner, and I said:
Wait, I KNOW THIS TREE! This is ridiculous. We MUST be close now!
And, indeed, we had arrived!
+ + +