291. Lunacy and painting

A new paint finish

The other day I was running around trying to feel a new paint finish. I’ve been a big fan of the semi-gloss finish, for both inside and outside, because it both looks good and stays clean longer/is easier to clean. I still think this is true, especially outside.

I’ve come around to the satin or eggshell finish for inside, as it does look better and is still better than flat for keeping clean. Benjamin Moore, in the latest issue of Dwell, is advertising a new line of paints with a matte finish they claim feels like soft leather. I was intrigued enough to look up some of their stores near where I was, in hopes of getting my hands on a finish sample. 

While I did an excellent job of spreading the word about this new “Century” line of their paints, I had no luck feeling the feel. Upon a little further online research I discovered that this line of paint is, as they say, but didn’t in the ad I saw, “for the trade.” I now have a list of fancy paint stores that do carry it and I still plan to get my fingertips on a sample, but this product is probably not in my future. And for so many reasons. First, I’m not sure they would even sell to me, not being in the trade. Second, they don’t offer any shades of white. They only offer seventy some colors -- very nice ones, I will say -- but nothing even close to white. And third, my current schedule for repainting my apartment -- whether it needs it or not -- is for nine years in the future. Since I’ve been changing my mind about my next paint color every year (or month) for some time now, my second reason may not hold up, but I really do anticipate painting the walls and ceiling to match my largest piece of “furniture,” a large storage assembly in bright white melamine. Now I’m imagining myself being thrown out of the “to the trade” paint boutique for admitting this. As soon as the words “white melamine” leave my mouth, security is summoned and I hear, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. White melamine indeed.” *Spits carefully into an understated vase sitting on the counter.*

Anyway, thinking about my nine year plan reminded me of Ari, my next door neighbor when I first moved to SF. His lover visited SF regularly but didn’t live here, so Ari was frequently at loose ends at night. One of his favorite ways to pass the night was repainting his kitchen. Noisily. I would sometimes get up in the middle of the night and go over to inquire if possibly a bear had broken into the building and to see if he needed a bandaid or a tourniquet. We would then talk for hours as he painted -- driving me nuts as he was a sloppy painter who did not do the prep. (There’s a reason my paint still looks fresh after twenty years.) My nine year plan (it was a ten year plan before I made some small changes and touch-ups last year) would have made him laugh. Given ten years he would probably have spontaneously painted a dozen times and quite possibly retextured or gutted and plastered. (Retexturing is what I would like to do, but it’s really too much work for how little of my walls you can actually see.)

I wish I could recall exactly when Ari died. I think it was right around ten years after I met him, so about ten years after he became Ari Ash, as this was a name he invented for himself. It was the AIDS version of tuberculosis, curiously, that took him. He wouldn’t have lasted a week on the Magic Mountain -- he would have gotten bored and run off to reinvent himself someplace more interesting. “Taking stock” was not his thing. He was more of a Peeperkorn character.

Not a day goes by...

The other day I was at the Bank Cafe and then went ‘round the corner for lunch at my favorite Vietnamese sandwich place. On the way back to the Bank Cafe, it occurred to me that I had not run into a strikingly crazy person all day. 


I managed to get one of the nice chairs facing out onto the busy intersection of Post and Kearny. Some time later, looking up from Genji, I noticed an odd looking person, barefoot, standing in profile right in front of me on the sidewalk. While I watched, he unfastened his pants, gave his genitals a good inspection, re-fastened his pants and then strolled across Post Street against the light.