People, I would much rather you stalk me than make official plans with me to meet for lunch or coffee or something. I mean, if we schedule, say, an afternoon tea time together, I will actually be expected to engage in conversation with you and to pay a sufficient amount of attention to you. But if you stalk me, you can satisfy your primal urges and neither of us have to talk. I can go about my day, doing whatever it is I do without interruption.
I'm subletting a room from playwright Brian Thorstenson in San Francisco, despite the fact that he tried to murder me in my sleep when I actually lived in his apartment a couple years ago. So you can attempt to hop the fence in the Castro so you can watch me changing my underwear through my bedroom window (an activity that takes place about nine times per day, so your chances are good).
On the days I'm in Berkeley working on Jukebox Stories: The Case of the Creamy Foam (opening night is this Friday, bitches!), I'm likely to be found either at Long Life Vegi-House (which has the most amazing vegetarian/fake meat Chinese food anywhere) on University or the People's Cafe on Shattuck (where I get on the Internet, like I am doing right now).
See you aroundbut shut the fuck up.