Beyonce--Single Ladies (Put a ring on it).

What can I say--the woman is FLAWLESS!

Return to Saturn.

This morning around 10 o'clock, I received a phone call from John.  He needed a favor.

"I'm gonna be heading to Las Vegas on Friday and I was wondering if you were available to house sit and look after Lester."  He said.  "I'm leaving on Friday and won't be back until next Thursday."  

I didn't give it a second thought.  Of course I would look after Miss Lester and while I no longer lived at Number 3, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to get out of Will's place--even if it was temporary.  I told him I would do it.  

Profiled--twice!

Okay, to date, it's been about two weeks since I moved from Hillcrest, post breakup and over to City Heights with my friend Will.  But in that two weeks, the most outrageous thing that has happened to me since my arrival to City Heights has to be my run ins with the San Diego Police Department.  

Two times in the span of seven days!  Check this out.  

My first run in occurred Friday (10 October) around 1:00 a.m.  I left Will's house and set out on my bike, heading for Kensington.  There's really no need for me to explain what my destination was, simply because--it was one in the morning and there I was out on my bike.  In other words, I was headed to a booty call.  At a stoplight along Fairmount Avenue, I noticed the squad car to my left, ready to make a left hand turn near the City Heights police station.  A few seconds before the stoplight turned green, I began peddling, crossing through the intersection and continuing on Fairmount.   I barely made it a hundred feet from the intersection before I had a spotlight glaring on me from the left side.  

It was the police car; veering towards me with one of the policemen climbing out of the car and running towards me.  

"Hands out of your pockets!  Hands out of your pockets!"  He yelled, flashlight glaring on me with his right hand ready near his weapon.   

"Then could you reach in my pocket and turn off my iPod," I requested.  I still had the earbuds in and the music was blaring.  The officer motioned for me to stop the music. 

They called it a routine stop.   "We do this all the time," the brown haired cop tried to convince me,  "it's routine."  But I think he saw the skepticism in my eyes because suddenly the reason for me being stopped went from being a routine stop to my running the red light--even though there was absolutely no traffic in any direction and, like I mentioned, it was one o'clock in the morning.  

"You can't be serious about stopping me for this,"  I protested, while the other cop was giving me a thorough pat down.  "It's one in the morning and there's no traffic out here.  Hell, I wouldn't have said anything had you guys ran that light back there." 

I had one cop going through my pockets and my wallet while the other verified my drivers' license information with their dispatcher.  The whole time that this scene is taking place, I'm trying not to glance at my watch or to appear anxious.   I heard the dispatcher radio back that I had no warrants or any kind of record with the police department (even though I'd told them this prior to the cop calling my information in).  

"You've never been in any trouble with the police," brown-haired cop asked me. 

"Nope," I responded. 

"Not even for a routine traffic stop--or anything like that?" 

"Basically," I told him, looking square in his eyes.  "I'm not one of those people that gets in trouble...or that gets caught." 

Needless to say, I didn't get a ticket for running the stop light.  In fact, nothing happened.  But I know the cops stopping me a one o'clock in the morning...when I was on a bicycle, and calling it a routine traffic stop--was nothing more than my being profiled.   And while I was a little frustrated, I wasn't angry.  I simply grabbed my wallet, iPod and cigarettes and returned them to the pockets that they were in initially.    Before the police car took off, I began pedaling up Fairmount Avenue towards Kensington.  

The following Monday (14 October) the same thing happened again!  Only this time, I was leaving my friend, Rich's house in Normal Heights returning to City Heights.  Monday night, Rich and Truc had a party at their place.  In preparation for Halloween and to commemorate the fact that Rich had gotten his backyard all spruced up for fall, he and Truc had a small get-together.  Of course, there was plenty of food, drinks and pot!  Around 1:30 a.m., full, drunk and stoned--I set out, once again, on my bike for Will's place.  

I wasn't even two blocks from Rich's house when the loud siren of an approaching police car pulled up behind me.  

"I saw you run that stop sign back there."  The police officer told me.  

"Are you fucking with me!" I exclaimed.  "I stopped at the sign.  There were no cars coming--it's almost 2 o'clock in the morning!" 

Once again, I handed over my drivers' license and waited while the cop pronounced my name into his radio.  Where the other cops gave me thorough pat down, thankfully this officer didn't because I had a small stash of pot in the front pocket of my jeans.  The officer returned my drivers' license and gave me a 'stern' lecture about obeying the rules of the road, "Even though you're on a bike, you still have to obey them as if you were in a car."  

You know, it's one thing to lecture me when something needs to be corrected or when I've made a mistake, but it really pisses me off when I'm talked down to.  

"Yeah, sure...whatever." I said and once again started pedaling towards City Heights.  

Two times in seven days.  That has to be some kind of record. 

Gracie

Part Rottweiler and part Labrador Retriever, Gracie is a massive beast of a dog.  Not even two years old, Gracie bounces and flops through this house--completely unaware of her own massive bulk and her invasive presence ensures that everyone around her will be aware that she's in the room.  I've known this dog since she was six months old; about the same amount of time as Will, when he took her in and has raised her since.  

I know Gracie's secret.  

When I moved into Will's place, I knew that I would have to adjust to living in Gracie's space.  The day that I moved in, my shorts were covered in her drool.  Where I once had to deal with Miss Lester's hair all over me, this dog drooled on everything that she came in contact with.  I don't have to mention how much I love dogs, but this was one dog that I refuse to bond with.  Partly because even though I'm not with Miss Lester, I still consider her my dog.  Don't get me wrong, I don't ignore Gracie--it would hard not to, it's just that she's not a dog that I would play with.  I barely even pet her.  And whenever she comes begging for food, I give her a hardened stare that sends her the opposite way.  

A few nights ago, I was getting ready to go out for a late night bike ride.  As I was moving my bike out of the living room and onto the porch, Gracie decided to lay down smack dead in the living room floor, between the front door and where I was standing.  Rather than demand that she move, I instead continued to roll my bike backwards, forcing her to jump from where she was and to immediately back out of my way.  

The narrow hallway that leads from the front of Will's house to the bedrooms was the next location of Gracie and my showdown.  Where she would normally bolt through, causing Will, Glenn or me to jump or be knocked out of her way, I now stand firm and push her out of the way with my leg.  I make it a point to never been in a position to where she can see me at my eye level; instead always looking down at her--again, my stare sending her the other way.  

In spite of these actions, which will eventually teach her which of us is in charge, I'm not mean to the dog.  I know how much Will loves her.  I don't know how he does it, but he does care about the dog.  

But it doesn't mean that I have to care about her.  

Late night at Lestat's.

After the long, event filled day that I had today, it came as a surprise that I was still wired up once I arrived back at Will's house around 7:30 this evening.  I spent the day, running around--tending to a bunch of small errands in  Hillcrest.  All in anticipation for the job fair that was going on downtown.  

The paycheck from the last catering gig that I'd worked arrived at John's house yesterday and this morning started with me riding my bike from City Heights to Hillcrest.  From there, a brief stop in Buffalo Exchange then to North Park for a haircut.  I needed to get all of this, plus a few small errands in between, all completed by noon.  Just in time to catch bus in order to get downtown to the job fair.  

And for once, everything went according to plans and on schedule.  

When I arrived downtown, I was met with a line of close to 200 people, all for the job fair.  A new luxury boutique hotel was opening downtown and apparently, everyone had seen the same ad on craigslist, talking about the hiring process that was going on today.  The line stretched the length of the city block!  Only when the line was moved across the street and out of the glaring sun, did I finally settle in--realizing that I would be there for a few hours.  

Four hours later and meeting briefly with a guy who I'm pretty sure I didn't leave an impression on, I left downtown feeling as if I'd wasted a whole day.  Once I finally left Hillcrest, stopped for dinner in City Heights then returned to Will's house--I decided that I would spend the later part of the evening, sipping coffee and hanging out at Lestat's.  I didn't want to be at Will's and Lestat's was open 24hours, so why not, right? 

I caught the last bus that runs through this part of Fairmount Avenue and rode my bike the rest of the way to Normal Heights.  Even at close to midnight, Lestat's was full of people; insomniacs, students and people who just wanted coffee at this hour.  I was tired of thinking about my problems.   I was tired of feeling sorry for myself.  I was tired of trying to get over the breakup.  And I was tired of being at Will's.  

I stayed at Lestat's until almost 8 o'clock the following morning.  Only when Normal Heights seemed to wake from its sleep and the late night staff at Lestat's was starting to clock out, did I decide to finally ride my bike back to City Heights.  Still wired from the many cups of Kenyan coffee, I packed my things and left.  

No More Number 3.

After John and I decided to split up, I moved into the condo next door to Number 3.  With all the renovations and construction going on in the building, it was highly unlikely that the empty unit--the show model, would be shown to any potential buyers.  For the month of September, I basically lived upstairs but--as John and I agreed on, I would be out of the unit at the end of the month.  

Today was that day.  

For the past couple of days, I've put off packing the remaining boxes of my stuff.  I still had clothes hanging in the closet--waiting for me, but I would instead look at the stuff before moving into the next room to occupy myself with useless nonsense.  I even skipped out on hanging with my neighbors...I just wasn't quite ready to end it.  

My buddy, Fred, offered to help me move my stuff and I gladly accepted his offer--I would've been crazy not to.  We set up a time for him to stop by, leaving me time to get the rest of my stuff packed.  Of course, I delayed and hesitated until a half hour before Fred was supposed to be here.  And when I wasn't delaying the inevitable, I was thinking about all of the good times that John and I shared together in Number 3.  

I've always believed that Lucy had it correct when she said that condo was like another person in John's and my relationship.  

"There's four people in your relationship," she would tell me.  "You, John, Miss Lester and that building."  She was speaking the truth whenever she said that.  

I'll admit, I'm not exactly looking forward to moving across town and I'll definitely miss this place...but I think I'm only now coming to the true realization that my relationship is truly over.