Rae: Have you seen that photo of the guy with the tattoo of the cat’s butt hole where his belly button is?
Me: What? No! is that a real thing?
Rae: Oh yes. Yes it is.
Me: He didn’t give a fuck about tomorrow, man.
Rae: Yeah. He wasn’t really thinking about later that afternoon.

Dear people conveying their dogs in strollers,

Stop it.

At first we thought you had a baby in there, as is often the case when people are pushing strollers through parks. But then, we noticed your baby was an extraordinarily active little thing. In fact, your baby seemed to be kicking and punching at the weird stroller enclosure, perhaps even throwing its tiny body against the mesh. My god! Do you need help?! What is wrong with your baby?

Oh. We see now. Your baby is, in fact, a Labrador Retriever. That’s rather disquieting. Perhaps it’s one of those dogs with some sort of unfortunate injury? The kind of sweet little dog that needs wheels on its hindquarters to walk? Well, that’s understandable then, I mean…

But wait. Your dog just jumped out of the stroller and began bounding around the park. He’s rather fat, but otherwise perfectly able bodied. So what the hell, nutter?

Are you unable to control your dog on the city streets with a mere leash, though you’re now allowing that same dog to gad about amongst small children? You’re aware that the phrase “he’s my baby,” when applied to animals, is meant as a joke? Or do you also plan to breast-feed?

In conclusion, let your dog run. That’s what dogs do. If you want to put something in a stroller, get an iguana.

Sincerely,
Margaret Mason

I am in my car with friends in the Castro, waving to the tiny girl on the corner. Her fathers are holding her hands as they wait to cross the street. By the time they notice me, my waving has grown more desperate, and they exchange an uneasy glance. They look away, across the avenue, and finally see what my friends and I have already seen — a man, stark naked at noon on a Sunday, waiting to cross in the opposite direction.

The fathers squeeze the little girl’s hands and point at me, smiling. “HI!” I say. “Hi, ka-toots!” She waves back at me, puzzled, and looks up at her dads. All of us together are grinning urgently. The family crosses, and the naked man passes them while we continue to exchange imperative waves. “Hello! Hello! Hello! ”

When they’ve passed our car, the debate begins.

-What the hell is up, Naked Guy?
-Is this a thing? Convention? Street Fair?
-I don’t think so.
-I think that’s crazy right there.
-A dare maybe?
-If it were a dare, wouldn’t he at least be wearing shoes?
-Yep, that’s stark-naked crazy.

Then, Naked Guy crosses again, and we see him approach Naked Guy #2.

-Ah! There’s two of them.
-OK, then.
-That’s a thing.
-We officially live in a city where one naked guy makes us more nervous than two.

So, a while ago, I posted my dream Tea Pantry, and mentioned that Bryan had brought back some lovely tea from China with (obviously) no English on the packaging. Lots of people made guesses at what it might be in comments, and a few people requested photos, so here they are. Name that tea, friends!

Update: I know it’s not gunpowder, so it looks like rough consensus says green oolong. Thanks, Internet friends!

At the coffee shop, the baristas are doing cups. They brew the coffee, use a spoon to sample from each bowl, swish the coffee around in their mouths, and presumably recalibrate the machines as necessary.

I watch for a moment, then space out for five minutes pondering who would have the strongest aura here if I could see auras.

California knows how to party.