Tag: observations

Two people I don’t particularly want to know better:

  • The woman on the freeway with the “This car protected by angels” license plate frame.
  • The guy who was chosen to be on MTV’s “Becoming Blink 182” and said, “In my whole life 19 years nothing has come close to matching this. I don’t know if anything ever will.”1:42 p.m.

    • Et tu, Webvan? Oh, how the Web hath deserted me. I feel so alone.

    11:08 a.m.

    Waiting for the fireworks at Fisherman’s Warf, I was watching the kids around me. The little boy next to me (not yet three years old) had a few of those white tissue-paper bits that explode when you throw them against the ground. He would get up on his tippy toes, reach one arm up as far as it would go, then slam the tissue paper against the pavement. As his total height�including the reach of his arm–was no more than about three feet, he wasn’t always successful. But when he was rewarded with a small pop, he’d scream:

    FIE-YYAAAAH! FIE-YAHHH!

    Then he’d tug on his parent’s pants, mimic the great force with which he’d heaved the tiny explosive and say, “Fieyah go BOOM!”

    10:59 a.m.

    Only in San Francisco does someone compliment a particularly spectacular fireworks show by saying, “Man, we should’ve taken ecstasy.”

    11:50 p.m.

    I thought he was only interested in friendship. Then he said, “I like your shoes. Are those new?”

    A few days later he said, “Those pants look good on you. Those are my second favorite , after the black ones.”

    My theory is that, unless I’m wearing red leather trousers with flames up the legs and/or buttless chaps, a straight man who has favorite pants is up to something fishy. A man who has a runner-up favorite pair of pants and comments on my shoes…maybe I’m wrong about the straight thing.

    2:06 p.m.

    Yesterday at lunch, a friend pointed out that I’d packed my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and fishy crackers in a Sephora bag. Perhaps he thought it was sort of like wearing pigtails and spike heels, or affixing a Big Bird sticker to the bumper of your Porsche. To be fair, red lipstick and Jiffy are a tough combo, but I like to think I can work the look. The look being peanut butter and red lipstick all over my chin.

    2:58 p.m.

    Everywhere I went this morning, they were in front of me. The girl who tried to run her obviously damaged FastPass through the electronic reader (eight times), the woman who decided to rummage through her handbag at the top of the escalator, the man obliviously reading his book in front of the bus door when there were plenty of empty seats. Wherever it is I’m going in life, stupid people are in the lead.

    10 a.m.

    I’m about to give a gratuitous plug, so if you don’t want to see me whore myself, cover your eyes. Still here? Blogger, the free and fabulous Web tool I use to post to my site, is up for a Webby award. Though the Webby people have inexplicably placed Blogger in the Personal Site category (beh?), I still think you should give them a vote. Good service, I like all the people who got it going, and its helped a lot of people take up online journals. Also, check out all the other sites up for awards. Good way to build a knowledge base about some of the cool stuff online without having to do the actual surfing. Go forth!

    9:50 a.m.

    Conversations with my nephew, Part II:

    Me: Baby, can you hand me your shoe?

    Trevor: I not a baby anymore! I a little tiny big boy!

    1:39 p.m.

    People in the Neighborhood:

    The guy three houses down from me has a big dog. Every time I pass, he nods toward the dog and says, “He’s friendly.” The first time, I didn’t think anything of it. Around the fifteenth time, I started to get uncomfortable. My theory is that my neighbor doth protest too much. At some point, that dog must have killed a small child or his owner wouldn’t be so insistent about how friendly he is. Friendly as in, “I just don’t understand why Cuddles ripped that woman’s arm off, he’s always been so friendly.”

    2:19 p.m.

    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.

    12:11 a.m.

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

    No

    Smoking

    Drinking

    Eating Graffiti

    10:51 a.m.