On the corner of Eddy and Polk there is a slow, shuffling man without pants. More accurately, this man has decided to pull down his pants and underwear until they are just below his bare bum. This makes it difficult to walk, but he inches along, drawing barely a glance from those around him. Who would begrudge him a little air?

San Francisco tolerance combined with the temperate clime is apparently a recipe for men without pants. I’ve seen scores in the past few years, and it continues to crack me up. Somehow, I’ve never been moved to take off my own pants and walk around. Maybe I need to loosen up.

The man in front of the beer display has his arms folded in front of him, genie style, forearms parallel with the floor. He mumbles something, and then gives a hard blink and a quick nod at the beer. It’s an eerily familiar “I Dream of Jeannie” imitation. At first I think he must be joking around with a friend, but when I look behind me I realize we’re the only two in the aisle. That guy really wants some beer.

In other news, did you know they make fat-free half-and-half now? How does it still count as half-and-half if there’s no fat in it? I mean, the whole point of half-and-half is to reduce your yummy heavy-cream intake (by half) without losing the yummy heavy cream entirely. If you take away the cream, what the hell is the other half? I have been thinking about this since yesterday.

The back of this girl’s car is elaborate. She has a few bobble-head dolls in the back window: a puma, a devil, a girl on a surfboard, a Barbie doll. The bumper is covered with stickers: “I live with FEAR every day., Princess, Bitch, Kill ’em all!, Girls gone wild!, I don’t live with insanity, I embrace it!” Above, the dolls nod-nod-nod, as if they couldn’t agree more, as though they were about to say so themselves.

A well-dressed man proceeds down Market Street with one hand in his pocket and the other bent at the elbow, wrist and palm up. Tottering on his forearm is an obedient Chihuahua with the perpetually frightened look of his breed. The dog is baffled, not at all comfortable with the arrangement, and glances nervously at the ground as his front paws dance around on his perch. The man does not look at his pet or passersby, but removes his other hand from his pocket that he may check the time.

Every month, Martha Stewart publishes her daily schedule in the front of her magazine. Last month, she noted that she’d be “dusting all taxidermy.” (All taxidermy?) Curiously, her court date was missing.

Hey, I missed it! Mighty Girl turned three last week. I feel accomplished.

Driving through Union Square, we see a sign:

Ice cream

Espresso

Sausage

Wash and dry

In a museum the other day:

Are those real skulls?

Huh. I don’t know.

I’ll check the materials tag.

What does it say?

“Oil and human skulls on canvas.”

Yep.

Do you remember the first time you said something stupid and had a reflex to hit the undo command? That’s happening to me with TiVo technology now. In the last few weeks, I’ve had the urge to rewind NPR more than once. In conversation, if I want someone to get to the point, I think, “bloop-bloop, bloop-bloop.”

Eliza’s has toothbrush vending machines in the bathroom. For some reason, I find this unsavory. Perhaps it’s because I normally associate bathroom vending machine products with people’s crotches. Word to the wise: If you’re looking for something to put in your mouth, don’t begin your search in a public restroom.