We had a[n Unofficial] Pet Named Jeff Goldblum

the year i lived out on 35th ave and balboa, i promised myself i would never live in a place that required a commute again. there was no point in riding the 38 geary an hour to get to work when i could just live in san jose [for free] and ride the caltrain an hour to work instead.

i hated having a huge apartment so far out into the richmond that the space didn't make up for the fact friends dreaded visiting. i hated never seeing the sun and i hated paying $75 heating bills.

i promised myself the next apartment would be in no way similar.

i've moved twice since and been happier away from the outer richmond and its inexpensive boredom.

but lately, what i've realized is i miss jeff goldblum.

jeff goldblum was our pet-- our unoffical pet-- and he was a possum. it's sort of like the opposite of that one scene in semi-pro:

"if you see a possum, kill it. it's not a pet."

jeff goldblum used to sneak his way along our backyard fence at night and never really seemed to care that we were outside smoking until the day i shouted "jeff goldblum?" at him.

he stopped and eyed us all for a moment and then decided to sit and watch us. in fact, from that day on it became very clear he would only stop to hang out if we referred to him as jeff goldblum. we'd tried tom cruise and other names, but it was very apparent those names were not his name.

and now, i miss mr. goldblum.

downtown, i will likely never see him again. but it's not just that. you see, we ended on a fairly awkward note well before any of us moved out of the frigid apartment.

the last night i saw jeff, he had a series of furry lumps covering his back. and as he wandered closer to us, we all realized those lumps were baby jeffs. there were a good eight or nine baby possums riding him like a school bus and while we stared it suddenly all became horribly clear:

jeff goldblum was a woman. a mother. jeff goldblum was a geena davis.

she looked at us one final time, turned, and walked away never to return.

that was the absolute last time i saw jeff goldblum and no new amazing apartment can erase the loss i will feel.

emo sigh.

on a tangent, this is the last thing i saw at my bush & powell apartment:

i have no idea who he is-- just that he is sleeping on our porch. and that an hour later, he had somehow managed to make his way to our apartment door and fall asleep there as well.