In regards to the frustrations of west side urban living, here's a revelation about the aforementioned events that's kind of outrage-inducing on a few levels. Because, you know, calling 911 because you feel like your life or body is threatened is totally frivolous abuse of city services. What the hell. I want to live somewhere where it's safe for me to walk around as a single female, safe for my gay neighbors to walk home from the bar, safe for the people walking home from work through desolate streets so they don't get rides home from strangers and end up disappearing.
And I have to remember that there are good friends and good neighbors who look out for each other. The couple across the street with the bulldogs who invite me over for chili, the guy in the apartment building with the pit bull who tried to help me fix my bike, the Queen of the Bondo one street over who hooked me up with grapes from their back yard, my fellow believers with whom I shared dinner and ponderings last night on a deck in my old almost-hood where we admired the orange half moon coming up over the neogothic tower of St. Stephen's and the heat lightning flashing to the north, the fellow geeks and punks and miscreants of various stripes who keep life interesting and beautiful and the melancholia at bay.
The other night, me and one of my compadres hung out and saw that Wong Kar Wai movie about Bruce Lee's teacher that I enjoyed a lot and knew nothing about beforehand. I have a huge soft spot for kung-fu flicks as it is, but I wasn't expecting something so beautifully shot and kind artsy with a lot of story. Evidently customers at the multi-plex get really upset about subtitled films and the ticket guy kept asking us if we were sure that it didn't bother us. Of course it didn't, it was enjoyable, beautiful, and kind of romantic (this sent us into giggles at first), and having the air conditioning for a couple of hours on the hottest September day in years was super nice.