Showing up at the house where a room was for rent, sometime in 1992. Or was in 1993? For some reason I’m having a hard time remembering when this was. I also don’t remember the name of the guy(s) I lived with. And it’s not because I was embarking on my wine-drinking phase (in fact, it was well underway by then,) it was just because he was so utterly boring. He sold gutter and drainpipe for a living. Not that gutter and drainpipe salesmen are inherently boring (I saw Tin Men) but this guy just had nothing going on. Nothing to hook my memory on. Nothing to remember. Which is why I can’t even recall when this was. But I do remember two things:
1) As I pulled up to the house, I was listening to “A Good Idea” by Sugar.
2) The following exchange:
I pulled up to the house, West Side Santa Barbara, I think it was Palermo. Having called ahead, my arrival was expected, and as I parked and got out of the car, the front door opened. Out of the house bounded a large, black dog, full of hair and spit and joyful energy.
The guy I’d come here to see was coming out of the doorway now, dressed in board shorts, flip-flops and a Quicksilver shirt. “Hey,” he said.
I love a friendly dog, so I scruffed the dog’s neck and his face and his flank and said, “Hey, Buddy, what’s up, buddy? How’s it going, buddy? You’re a good dog aren’t you, buddy?”
He was a cool dog. And I told him so.
“What’s his name?”
As I later learned, I should’ve taken that as a sign.