I’m in love with Webvan. I know people throw the L-word around pretty lightly these days, so let me clarify: If Webvan had a penis, I would propose.
Webvan brings me flowers, wine, and quality ice cream in little round “this is quality ice cream” containers. Webvan never comes home with a can of smoked oysters and some salsa when I gave Webvan a list of the fresh produce I wanted. Webvan comforts me with ready-made meals after a hard day at work. As soon as Webvan can have sex with me, it’s a go.
Unfortunately, no matter what Dionysian wonders modern technology has in store, that day will never come. You see, Webvan is dying, and I think I know why:
A Brief Conversation With the Unenlightened Webvan Delivery Guy:
DG: Yeah, I work on the weekends, so Tuesday and Wednesday is my weekend.
Me: Hm. That’s kind of cool. You can do all of your errands without worrying about crowds or stuff closing early.
DG: Actually, you’d be surprised. The grocery store is always packed.
Gift cards that aim to change your life perspective:
“Listen to me for a moment. Quit being sad. Can’t you see the blessings dropping around you like cherry blossoms?”
We spent hours planning our meals and arranging gear in the packs: camp stove, wool socks, well-stocked first aid kit, water purifier, kitchen sink, and so on. We stopped for lunch near the trailhead after a five-hour drive, and my camping buddy (the Eagle Scout) had a sudden outburst: “OhmyholymotherofjesusCRAP!”
I jerked around to see what had happened; he just pointed to his shoes. Or rather, to his moccasin slippers.
“I left my hiking boots at home.”
Why I like Molly: Molly and I rode the Fulton 5 home from Bay to Breakers. We sat next to two young men, one was missing a front tooth, the other had moved past intoxicated into catatonic stupor. Our toothless friend (let’s call him Uncle Jebb) introduced himself, and tried to draw us into conversation while we ignored him.
(Uncle Jebb begins touching Molly’s back for no apparent reason.)
Molly: …What are you doing?
Jebb: You had some fuzzy things on you. I was getting them off.
Molly: Hmmm. (Continuing conversation with me) blahblahblah.
Comatose Carl: Mmfmmffph.
Jebb: No dude, we’re almost there. If you’ve gotta hurl, hurl out the window.
Jebb: Dude, you’re not getting off.
Me: Jesus, if he has to hurl, let him out.
(Uncle Jebb and I have a brief verbal exchange, edited for length.)
Me: Molly, do you want to move, so he doesn’t boot on you?
Molly: I work with kids all week, I’ve had much nastier things on me than a little puke. I can shower.
(Jebb begins touching Molly’s back again.)
Molly: OK. You need to stop touching me now.
Molly: Thank you.
Greg? Uh…. Greg?
“A year is a long time, and I can’t help but think that I should be doing something new. I don’t know what it is yet, but it should be something new.”
And thus, my favorite blogger grows out of blogging. Thanks, mister. I had so much fun.
Two great words I won’t remember in a week:
chivy–to tease or annoy with persistent attacks
desiccate–to drain of emotional or intellectual vitality
Years ago, I worked at my campus newspaper and used to get letters from inmates. (I think there’s a law that allows them free postage to write the press.) The letters were all written in pencil, and many of THEM had RANDOMLY capitalized WORDS, which the author further emphasized by going over them again and again until there were word-shaped holes in the page. Every inmate wanted a female pen pal, so they provided vital stats:
“I like romantic evenings with a beautiful woman where we could go on a picnic and listen to some Tini (sic) Marie. I also like to visit museums, like the La Brea Tard (sic) Pits.”
Wistful now? You wish you had an inmate penpal of your very own, don’t you? Well, I’m here for you. Jail Babes, “A Pen-Pal and Singles Introduction Service.” Enjoy.