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Roxie Theater in the Mission. It's like it was made for me.

The clock on my laptop has remained stuck in Eastern Standard Time, even though I'm on the West Coast. The iPhone knows where we are, but on the laptop most times I need to do the three hour math subtraction in my head. I subtract. We're not there yet, we're not there yet. Sometimes I forget and startle. How is it midnight already!? How is it eight? How is it five already?!

The easy math of 1-2-3 hasn't stopped me from texting people at wildly wrong times, just as I do when I'm home in Florida. The curve of the earth and the daily repeating sunrise-sunset-but-it's-not-really-setting thing just means I'm a walking spoiler alert on both sides of the meridian equation. It means it's midnight for me but 3 am for you, so I have to let you sleep. It means it's noon for me but you're just starting work at 9.  It means we forget to call each other at the right times and then think of each other when someone must be sleeping. Hi London, what about you? That's even crazier. I have no idea if it's tomorrow or yesterday in Australia, and I'm embarrassed by this. Plus and/or minus a few. I want a bank of clocks on my wall like I'm working in a Swiss bank. Tick tock tick.

You can't overthink time, there's no good in that game. The problem is tilt, tilt explains everything that you tried to hold too hard, like time, hearts, alpha and omega and the end of the pinball game. TILT.

So is it possible to feel more in sync with one zone or another? Because if so, I like the West Coast. 


  • I wake at 7 to a bit of dread that the rest of the country has a head start on me, but whatever. By the end of the day the workday feels short and I've caught up. East Coast slackers.
  • 2 am feels like you own the world. Stone cold own.
  • Television seems deader than usual. I'm not watching it. Old news.


There are other things to like out here. Food and water taste better. Tolerance is very sexy. A few blocks of western town facades make me swoon. Succulents: These gardeners love their fat, thumbelina, dinosaur-back succulents and I sort of want to pretend I'm scooping dog droppings but instead steal all the succulents into covert plastic bags and Coke cups because they look like they can heal like aloe but instead of healing burns they lighten your soul and sooth your dendrites and worries. The air smells like gold rush and hippies. Such lovely oysters. BART. Movie palace signs call my name. So much smartness, it gives me ideas.

Pacific Standard Time bends to welcome me and tells me to grab a pickaxe and take a walk towards ribbons of gold. At the (past midnight my time) moment I'm swinging.