Tag: san francisco

Overheard: Theological discussion at Firefly.

Scenario: Two characters from a Woody Allen movie swap neurosis at the next table.

Him: I’m just worried that I’ll never taste the joyous nectar of true Dharma. Because I’m fucked up. And I know I’m fucked up! And there’s nothing I can do about that.

Her: Yeah.

11:16 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.

Why I like Molly: Molly and I rode the Fulton 5 home from Bay to Breakers. We sat next to two young men, one was missing a front tooth, the other had moved past intoxicated into catatonic stupor. Our toothless friend (let’s call him Uncle Jebb) introduced himself, and tried to draw us into conversation while we ignored him.

(Uncle Jebb begins touching Molly’s back for no apparent reason.)

Molly: …What are you doing?

Jebb: You had some fuzzy things on you. I was getting them off.

Molly: Hmmm. (Continuing conversation with me) blahblahblah.

Comatose Carl: Mmfmmffph.

Jebb: No dude, we’re almost there. If you’ve gotta hurl, hurl out the window.

CC: MMfffmfmMMPH!

Jebb: Dude, you’re not getting off.

Me: Jesus, if he has to hurl, let him out.

(Uncle Jebb and I have a brief verbal exchange, edited for length.)

Me: Molly, do you want to move, so he doesn’t boot on you?

Molly: I work with kids all week, I’ve had much nastier things on me than a little puke. I can shower.

Me: OK

(Jebb begins touching Molly’s back again.)

Molly: OK. You need to stop touching me now.

Jebb: OK.

Molly: Thank you.

3:27 p.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.

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.

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.