Trevor paces in full view of my perch, middle finger and thumb woefully massaging his furrowed brow, tension palpable. Where is Cleo with my cold filtered organic soy non-stick allergen free compostable coffee? Laments Trevor with his eyes.

Trevor follows his passion (a thriving industry, perpetuated by existential urgency), a Silicon Valley mover-and-shaker with a prominent existence on insta-tinder-book and penchant for Whole Foods gluten free food. Trevor does not have a gluten allergy.

Enter Cleo and fabulous Thursday cameo, Brisbane. According to my acumen for deciphering verbal cues, Trevor sighs. Relieved at the prospect of caffeinating.

The Committee of Trevor has brunch. Cleo wears a sweater. She is chilly. When it’s sunny, Trevor goes topless. Brisbane is unaffected by the weather. Either is his hair, coiffed to perfection.

I’m tucked into a tidy sunlit enclave in a quiet nook of the Haight with a window in full view of a once abandoned patio. The day I spontaneously inaugurated my dining table fail (read: new desk) into a writing haven, Trevor set up shop. My once prized staring into space space, is now accessorized by Trevor’s cell phone, and hipster posse.

Trevor is stifling my pants-free writing sanctuary.

There is an inverse correlation between Trevor’s appearances and the presence of pants in my home (less pants = more Trevor). Given our respective housing designs, I believe this is coincidence. I also believe, as a carefree man-about-patio, Trevor (et al) would fully support the environment in which I maintain comfort.

My inhibition is not the fault of Trevor.

This “working” environment is tainted by the presence of an unapproved outsider. Trevor is a reminder that others can see inside my fish bowl, lost in my own weirdness. Coffee to my left, cat GIF listicle to my right. BOOM. Trevor at my 12:00 o’clock. We both exist. It’s unsettling.

A thought diffuses: parading in my undies will scandalize the neighborhood, or, even less distastefully, galvanize supporters.

Wait. You were talking about writing; do you do everything without pants?

Goodness no. Writing is a specific process that requires the exertion of creative genius and energies, which manifests in a variety of activities such as walking into other rooms to see if there is any other less important but more exciting work. And, obviously, throwing parades.

A day of writing may also segue into a robust evening performance. This usually starts with a gleeful mime of 80s pop tunes, followed by an encore of melancholy a cappella Top 40 hits (see: Wrecking Ball – apropos sans pants, shamefully devoid of construction site) as I chase the end of a generic cabernet pondering the absence of productivity. In these moments, shame and bottom coverings be damned.


As a result of an outside presence (and a lack of booze), I am shy to fully embrace a pants-free existence; to live up to my pants-free potential, if you will. The self-awareness distracts – a sense of dismay relived by all manner of zoo animal in the midst of, say, bathing or copulating, in the instant of a camera click. Trevor is my flash of WTF.

One may reasonably inquire as to why I do not simply remain fully dressed or close the blinds, if I am so inhibited.

Where, I implore, is the fun in that? How else would I capitalize on my own neuroses and voyeuristically profile my neighbors in an attempt to write a first blog post?

That idea is pants.


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