1. Head east on 22nd St. toward Guerrero St. 33 ft.
2. Turn left at Guerrero St. 1.0 mi.
3. Turn right at Duboce Ave. 387 ft.
4. Turn left at Elgin Park 0.1 mi.
5. Head northwest on Elgin Park toward Market St. 23 ft.
6. Turn right at Market St. 207 ft.
It’s Tops – 12:30 p.m.
7. Slight right to stay on Market St. 246 ft.
8. Turn right at Valencia St. 0.2 mi.
9. Turn left at Duboce Ave. 0.1 mi.
10. Continue on 13th St. 0.2 mi.
11. Turn left at Folsom St. 0.4 mi.
Folsom Street Fair – 2 p.m.
12. Head northwest on 9th St. toward Clementina St. 0.4 mi.
13. Slight left at Hayes St. 0.4 mi.
14. Turn left at Gough St. 344 ft.
15. Turn right at Fell St. 0.4 mi.
16. Turn left at Webster St. 0.1 mi.
Dina’s Barbecue – 3:15 p.m.
17. Head south on Webster St. toward Rose St. 351 ft.
18. Turn left at Haight St. 0.3 mi
Helena & Jordan’s Tea Party – 4:30 p.m.
19. Head west on Haight St. toward Octavia St. 0.2 mi.
20. Turn left at Laguna St. 0.2 mi.
21. Continue on Guerrero St. 1.1 mi.
Home – 7 p.m.
September 28, 2008
September 22, 2008
Newly minted
I'm home from Boston and Portland, having witnessed a citizenship, a marriage, a big green house, the final episode of Firefly, a waterfall, and the insides of five planes.
My only plans this week are to make it through each workday vertically, get Gibson's tail lights fixed, and sleep a lot, so I'll save the travel stories for now.
In the meantime, here are some photos of my adventures in Fenway with my American mom and about 3,000 other brand-new citizens of this fine and very large land.
While I'm recovering, may I offer you an Obamint?
My only plans this week are to make it through each workday vertically, get Gibson's tail lights fixed, and sleep a lot, so I'll save the travel stories for now.
In the meantime, here are some photos of my adventures in Fenway with my American mom and about 3,000 other brand-new citizens of this fine and very large land.
While I'm recovering, may I offer you an Obamint?
September 14, 2008
"I can see Russia from my house!"
It's never been a big mystery, but now I really understand why every guy I know is in love with Tina Fey. This is one of the funniest sketches ever made—even if Fey and Palin hadn't been separated at birth, it would still be comic genius. Just watched it about 17 times in a row, and it keeps getting better and better.
It couldn't matter less to me that Palin is a woman, any more than it does that she's a brunette. I wouldn't vote for her if she were a member of my family. She's toxic.
"In conclusion, I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."
It couldn't matter less to me that Palin is a woman, any more than it does that she's a brunette. I wouldn't vote for her if she were a member of my family. She's toxic.
"In conclusion, I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."
September 08, 2008
Colorful imagination
On my way to the market yesterday, I stopped by Papalote to pick up lunch. It takes just about a generation for them to fill orders, so I was waiting outside in the sunshine, reading a magazine, my ears peeled for number 38.
A slightly strange guy was also waiting. That's normal enough—people have to be exceptionally weird around here for anyone to care—so I didn't pay attention until I noticed him staring at my feet and shuffling back and forth.
After a few minutes, he sidled over to me, visibly worked up his courage, and said: "Um, excuse me. Are you a stripper?"
Um, what? Was it my T-shirt and grubby jeans, the New Yorker in my hand, my choice of soyrizo tacos? I don't even know if all strippers have the same favorite taco. I was mystified.
"No," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Well . . . your toenails. They're red."
It's true. I got a pedicure in honor of tomorrow's Canteen party, and my toenails are red and sparkly. But it's safe to say that half the women in San Francisco have painted toenails at any given time, most of them some shade of red, so I had no idea what to make of this. The angels of Papalote called my number, and I left.
Red toenails: the new scarlet letter, at least in the seedy underbelly of the taqueria world at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. You can ask Pitbull Palin or you can ask me, but it's clear that America is going to hell in a handbasket. At least my feet will look cute for the ride.
the toes (and pajama bottoms) of a fallen woman
A slightly strange guy was also waiting. That's normal enough—people have to be exceptionally weird around here for anyone to care—so I didn't pay attention until I noticed him staring at my feet and shuffling back and forth.
After a few minutes, he sidled over to me, visibly worked up his courage, and said: "Um, excuse me. Are you a stripper?"
Um, what? Was it my T-shirt and grubby jeans, the New Yorker in my hand, my choice of soyrizo tacos? I don't even know if all strippers have the same favorite taco. I was mystified.
"No," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Well . . . your toenails. They're red."
It's true. I got a pedicure in honor of tomorrow's Canteen party, and my toenails are red and sparkly. But it's safe to say that half the women in San Francisco have painted toenails at any given time, most of them some shade of red, so I had no idea what to make of this. The angels of Papalote called my number, and I left.
Red toenails: the new scarlet letter, at least in the seedy underbelly of the taqueria world at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. You can ask Pitbull Palin or you can ask me, but it's clear that America is going to hell in a handbasket. At least my feet will look cute for the ride.
the toes (and pajama bottoms) of a fallen womanSeptember 02, 2008
The precious gift of knowledge
Somebody out there must have said once that each day of your life is another opportunity for a small but valuable lesson. Assuming that's true, here is today's:
No matter how great it feels to run because it's so crazy beautiful outside, don't be tempted to keep going for even another 10 minutes, especially if you're already late for work.
Because then you'll rush, a clumsy and unhelpful sort of rush, and when you leap out of the shower to turn on the fan (which you forgot to do because you were rushing), you might accidentally catch the corner of the bathroom cabinet with your shoulder and open up the door, and when you reach out to balance yourself, you might accidentally knock into a half-full bottle of perfume so it shatters all over the floor.
Because if you run that little extra and the rushing happens and then the breakage, it's 100% guaranteed that—even though you cleaned it up right away, including mopping with industrial-strength chemicals and taking out the trash with the bottle shards and all the perfumey paper towels—your apartment will still reek of perfume when you get home 12 hours later.
Not a faint, pleasant whiff of perfume. More like an anvil made of perfume whacking you in the head.
Please tuck today's lesson in your back pocket on an unscented page of an organic notebook, and never ever misplace it.
No matter how great it feels to run because it's so crazy beautiful outside, don't be tempted to keep going for even another 10 minutes, especially if you're already late for work.
Because then you'll rush, a clumsy and unhelpful sort of rush, and when you leap out of the shower to turn on the fan (which you forgot to do because you were rushing), you might accidentally catch the corner of the bathroom cabinet with your shoulder and open up the door, and when you reach out to balance yourself, you might accidentally knock into a half-full bottle of perfume so it shatters all over the floor.
Because if you run that little extra and the rushing happens and then the breakage, it's 100% guaranteed that—even though you cleaned it up right away, including mopping with industrial-strength chemicals and taking out the trash with the bottle shards and all the perfumey paper towels—your apartment will still reek of perfume when you get home 12 hours later.
Not a faint, pleasant whiff of perfume. More like an anvil made of perfume whacking you in the head.
Please tuck today's lesson in your back pocket on an unscented page of an organic notebook, and never ever misplace it.
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