How I read the sign at the bottom of the Muni stairs:

No

Smoking

Drinking

Eating Graffiti

10:51 a.m.

From Messy Chestnut:

“One month after my second son was born he was notified that he was pre-approved for a Mastercard.”

Also, a poem he posted:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas

On the fruit stand.

We eat the smile

And spit out the teeth

-Charles Simic

10:51 a.m.

At the Cinco de Mayo party, Amit carries over a container of green Margarita salt and calmly points to the slogan. All of us lean forward and exclaim, “WON’T STAIN SKIN!?” We are tipsy, and this is a major selling point. Also, the salt is very green. So green, in fact, that it definitely seems as though it would stain. Briefly, I imagine turning the party into an impromptu episode of “Fight Back!”. Calling everyone out into the yard, sprinkling them with a garden hose, and instructing them to roll around in the salt. I glance at all the men wearing Corona shirts and backward visors. These men have unusually square jaws. I decide that they are hardly the types who would cover themselves in salt if given the opportunity. I lick the back of my hand and offer myself up as a guinea pig. An hour later, it washes right off. I’ll be damned.

11:09 a.m.

Seven cheesy things I love anyway:

  • Finger guns in photos
  • Black umbrellas with “sunny sky” detail inside
  • Gilligan hats
  • Fashionistas!
  • Talking to cashiers
  • What-will-I-wear-for-this-important-event? clothing-change montages
  • Old men who wink

9:48 a.m.

Me: Wait! That’s Prince!

R: That’s a good reason to put in my Wallflowers CD.

M: Are you kidding me?

R: Prince sucks big dick.

M: Whaaaat? What are you talking about? You have to love Prince. Did you not grow up in the ’80s? It’s your duty to love Prince.

R: Prince is a has-been, leftover pop-star wannabe, a-sexual, talentless chump. He’s no Jakob Dylan.

M: NO JAKOB DYLAN? Are you listening to yourself!? I don’t even know you anymore. “Purple Rain?” “Raspberry Beret?” Where were you, brother?

R: Come on, listen to these lyrics, “It takes two to tango/but only one to let go.” That’s poetry.

M: All I have to say is, “She wore her raspberry beret/the kind you find in a second-hand store/Raspberry beret/ And if it was warm, she wouldn’t wear much more.”

(extended pause)

R: Touche.

9:43 a.m.

From a “Survivor” party e-vite:

“Hey folks. With less than a week away, Survivor tension is building, especially in our legs and lower backs.”

11:04 a.m.

Overheard

Scenario: My trusty companion and I hike four hours to a remote campsite to find that it’s been overtaken by a Boy Scout expedition.

Characters: Group of 14-to-17-year-old boys whose food has just been stolen by enterprising raccoons.

Boy 1: They got everything, the marshmallows, the beef jerky, everything.

Boy 2: How did they get into my pack? Raccoons know how to work zippers now?

Boy 3: They took the last bag of Rasinettes!

Boy 4: Forget the Rasinettes, dude. (mock serious voice) They took the last of the plutonium.

All: Crap!!

10:43 a.m.

During my commute this morning, a young man collapsed on Muni. He was standing, and then he wasn’t. As you may know, San Franciscans are nice people who mind their own business, but also try to help you not die when we see you collapse on the subway. In such a situation, we can be broken into five general catagories:

Oh-my-God-he’s-gonna-die-right-here-on-the-subway San Franciscans

Typical commentary: “IS HE BREATHING?” “Turn him on his side! Don’t let him swallow his tongue!” “IS HE BREATHING?”

Typical actions: Removing their coats to prepare for inevitable “Rescue-911” action, pushing up the aisle to administer CPR.

Nothing-a-candy-bar-can’t-fix San Franciscans

Typical commentary: “He’s fine.” “Give him some room.”

Typical actions: Passing lunch bags, peeled oranges, and Snickers bars up the aisle.

He’s-obviously-a-druggie San Franciscans

Typical commentary: “Does he have any bottles on him?” “Is there a needle anywhere?”

Typical actions: Once they’ve ascertained that the young man is indeed breathing, these commuters glance nervously around the car, praying that a Muni official will materialize before he begins attacking fellow passengers in drug-crazed frenzy.

Leave-him-alone-you’re-embarrassing-him San Franciscans

Typical commentary: Instructional silence.

Typical actions: Feigning disinterest by reading their respective copies of the New Yorker and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Wondering why no one is considering the feelings of this poor young man who has passed out on the subway but is now quite obviously fine, and why is everyone still making such a big deal of it?

The this-shit-always-happens-on-my-train San Franciscan

Typical commentary: Impatient sighs. Exasperated clicking.

Typical actions: Shifting from foot to foot disgustedly. Checking his watch. Being amazed at the guy’s nerve.

I couldn’t figure that last guy out until he said, “Come ON! He’s fine! Can we get going already?” with a thick Jersey accent.

11:32 a.m.

From Misterpants:

“Hey, you know how people sometimes hoot. Like at a rock concert or whatever, someone might go, “whoooo!”

Well, I’d really like it if everyone who reads this can make an effort to hoot just a little bit more. Not only at rock concerts, but also at poetry readings and just while waiting for the bus or waiting in line at the grocery.

I think it’d be cool if we all just started hearing that “whooo!” a little more often and in a wider range of situations.”

10:04 a.m.