Tag: observations

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.

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.

I went to my first baseball game last night, Dodgers v. Giants in the newish SF stadium. I stood and sang the national anthem, I had some cotton candy and a hot dog with grilled onions. It was a very American evening, except for one thing. No half-naked bouncing women. Not a single one anywhere. Was I not here in America–land of amply endowed, blonde women who bounce professionally? Is baseball not our national sport? Everyone seemed entertained by the game, but I pondered the sad truth. An entire generation of young baseball fans will grow to maturity without knowing the nuances of reflective spandex, the alluring twinkle of cleavage sequins under stadium lights. Wistfully, I surveyed the vast stretch of field before me. “Jenni? Tifanni? Jodi?” Two rows down, three sorority girls turned from their gaggle and looked up at me questioningly. “Nevermind,” I said, and flagged the peanut vendor.

11:07 a.m.

I bought leather pants this weekend, and they’re fabulous. They make me want to pose instead of standing still. They make me want to take up chain smoking. They make me want to pout out angry lyrics and crawl catlike toward a video camera while underage models writhe seductively in the soft-focus background. Man, nothing screams rock star like wrapping your legs in dead cow.

2:28 p.m.

The first Sunday of every month, San Francisco pug owners gather at a local park for Pug Sunday. Imagine dozens of wheezing, perplexed pugs romping, sneezing, and peeing on anything immobile. They aimed blankly at purses, picnic blankets, each other, their owners’ legs. The best part is that someone brought along a border collie, who proceeded to herd the gasping pugs into a neat little writhing circle as their owners called out, “Prudence! Prue! Come away from there!” “Winston, don’t pee on that nice lady!” “Remington? REEHHHMINGTON? There you are! Oh, no. Wrong pug.” Aaaaaag!

2:44 p.m.











EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: A fellow editor finds reason to celebrate.

Excerpt:

“after this deadline is over we should have a ‘we have jobs’ party.”

4:25 p.m.

So we had an earthquake drill at work today. I was across the street (coincidence) getting tea (sheer coincidence) when a piercing siren indicated that my coworkers should crawl under their desks and shield their necks and heads with their arms.

Now I’m concerned. Having missed the corporate drill, I fear that I will have no idea how to get under my desk and cover my head when the inevitable earthquake occurs. I will surely stand in the middle of my cube shrieking, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” as the ground opens to swallow me.

1:36 p.m.