Who are these women who come to clubs wearing fishnets, come-hither skirts, appropriately obvious tank tops, and… laptop bags? I know they didn’t come from work, so I have to wonder what the hell is in that bag that they must have with them at all times. I watch as they order Cosmos and sway on the dance floor, trying their damndest to look carefree and nonchalant. This effect is difficult to achieve, no matter how much body glitter you’ve applied, when you’re hunched under the weight of a 30 lb. bag.
It perplexes me, but I have theories. Perhaps this woman must carry a full arsenal of concealer, base, blush creme, liner, lipstick, and shadow every time she goes out. Maybe she has an alternate outfit stashed in there (say, some snow pants and ski boots in case the weather turns). Maybe she thought it would be too risky to leave the severed human head in her car. A little advice, ladies: lipstick, and $50 bucks fits in your pocket. The head goes in your freezer.
9:39 a.m.
Tag: observations
What’s more crass than a billboard for liposuction services? A billboard for liposuction with a horrible catchy phone number: 1-800-GO-4-LIPO! Like you’re just gonna drop by after you’ve run some errands. “I’ll be back in a bit, honey. I’ve got to grab the dry cleaning, maybe go for lipo.” Are these billboards a California thing? I take that back, they must be a California thing. I’ve seen them for breast implants too, but the phone number was so chilling that I’ve blocked it. I think it was something like 1-800-SO-PERKY, or 1-800-GET-FIRM. Ugh. UGH!
9:59 a.m.
“Georgia O’Keefe was not a flower painter.” (From the introduction to a book of her paintings titled One Hundred Flowers.)
3:06 p.m.
When the sky is blue and clear in San Francisco, it’s cause for comment. “Such a beautiful day,” I said. Then I felt something flutter over my feet. I looked down at the swirling newspaper and napkins littering the sidewalk. I stepped delicately over a discarded condom. “Yeah,” he said. “It sure is.”
10:45 a.m.
Those of you who don’t live in a big city should know that bike messengers are cooler than you. They don’t care about getting hurt, they don’t care about getting dead, and they don’t make eye contact with anyone but the brethren. Their style is a sort of studied rejection of trends: Frayed jeans hacked off at the knee, old T-shirts, gravel-conditioned helmets, and the standard tattoos and piercings.
Imagine my surprise then, when I saw vanilla-collegiate guy sporting a Timbuktu bag with several messenger tubes protruding, and the identifying walkie-talkie attached to its strap. He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, a pair of short-leg Gap khakis with cargo pockets, and some Van-like biking shoes. Beh? I had to resist approaching him. “Excuse me sir, do you have a tattoo on the inside of your lower lip? No? Perhaps a tongue stud? Some faint facial scars? No… Sweet mother of God. Is that gel in your hair?”
12:13 p.m.
EMAIL MOMENT!
From: A guy who reads my blog
Subject: Bloggers say the darndest things
qt_freak:
Damn, I like your site, it’s pretty funny. If only you had more substance to it. A better lay out would be cool too, but yeah, just saying you have a fan.
Me:
Hi, thanks for the note. I clicked around your site a
little bit. Just like you, I’m a big Slurpee fan.
Jesus, we’re like the same person. Well, except that
I’m not big into “dressing up like a ninja and tagging
your mother’s bearded biscuit from the back.” But I’m
funny that way.[Now he’s plugged me, and I’ve plugged him. I’m sitting back and saying a little prayer to the absurdity gods that I get audience overlap with a site that has a “Bitch of the Week” feature. Rad.]
2:14 p.m.
My knee is knee shaped again. When I stand, I no longer feel extraneous fluid rush down my leg. These are good things. For those of you who don’t care, here’s some Etch-a-sketch art. Callous bastards.
9:18 a.m.
Nyotaimori — The practice of eating sushi off of the body of a naked woman.
3:14 p.m.
PEOPLE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD
Dan Bistline is self-appointed mayor of Church St. I know this because there’s a sign in his window:
Church Street
Pop. ?
Dan Bistline, Mayor
Dan Bistline has also printed up a quotation for each pane of his three-sided window:
“You are a good and kind person.”
“Jump and a net will appear.”
“There are no truths, only stories.”
Dan Bistline annoys me.
10:39 a.m.
Nothing screams invalid like an hour spent watching “Growing Pains, Behind the Scenes.” Yeah. Should I perchance ask for Jell-O or a good book of crossword puzzles, please just pretend like you didn’t hear me.
10:25 p.m.
I just returned from knee surgery. I am currently doped up enough that if we were in a bar, all of you would look very attractive to me. Wheee.
1:42 p.m.
So I got an electric toothbrush, which is charmingly efficient. You push a button, it brushes your teeth for exactly two minutes and beeps at intervals that indicate when it’s time to change sectors. My teeth are shiny and new–they do the little lens flare thing when I smile. The only problem is, my new toothbrush sounds very much like a vibrator. My roommate has begun to avoid eye contact with me when I leave the bathroom.
2:37 p.m.
One of the tastier things I’ve seen on BART: a fake nail someone peeled off and dropped to the floor. It was a pale, opalescent pink and there were bits of real nail clinging to it. There’s a poem in that somewhere.
12:49 p.m.
Supreme Court allows KKK to adopt a highway “The Klan requested a half-mile stretch of Interstate 55, one of the routes used to bus black students to county schools as part of court-ordered desegregation efforts in the St. Louis area.”
What is this? Like people are going to drive by and say, “How nice, honey. The KKK is helping keep the highway clean! Look how upstanding they are in those crisp, white sheets.” If they’re launching a PR campaign, it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a highway sign to change my ideas about the Klan. I can just see the brochure, “Forget about the lynchings, now we do bake sales! Burning crosses? That’s so 1952! Now we’re into BBQs by the lake and squash tourneys for charity!”
10:31 a.m.
Dear San Francisco Sidewalk Users:
I have tried to be patient owing to your obvious dearth of intellect and corresponding
need to be coddled like a small child. However, I am only one woman. If one more of you nearly blinds
me with a hideously oversized beach umbrella that you insist on using in the rain,
I shall beat you mercilessly about the ears with my laptop bag. When you are sufficiently subdued, I will appropriate your monstrous “umbrella,” snap it shut, and make a kebab of your brethren who will by then have gathered, slack jawed and mewling, to watch your fate unfold.Thank you.
12:02 a.m.
Mighty Girl 