Consolation prize

A mother is leaving BiRite with her small son. He turns toward the left and she turns toward the right.

"Oh, no, honey. We're going to walk down Valencia. So, you won't see any streetcars, but you will see Google buses!"



*****



It occurs to me belatedly that this is only funny if you live in San Francisco and since I have a vast international readership (what? someone I know lives in Switzerland. Also, the blog "stats" [which I am compelled to put in quotes because I understand them not at all] suggest that I have readership in Russia? This seems very implausible, but the stats, they say so.) I will undertake to explain why this is funny, which, as you know, is the very best way to tell a joke.

Though "Google Bus" evokes images of something magical or, at the very least, whimsical (Is it like the psychedelic tour bus in The Muppet Movie? Is it like the night bus in Harry Potter? Is is some kind of amazing think tank on wheels?), there is really nothing all that fascinating about Google buses. They are very large (I believe they have two stories of seating). They are white. They are ALL OVER my neighborhood. And, their sole purpose is to transport Google employees to and from work. A corollary is to illustrate to the rest of San Francisco that half of the city's population is seemingly employed by Google. Those of us who do not work for Google can be um... a wee bit tetchy about the ubiquity of the exclusive cool-kid transport, (like here and here and here) but, now we know at least one toddler is super excited about them.

See?
Funny.

Photo album

I was going to have to resort to more stories about how I've been falling asleep on the sofa every night, then [usually] relocating to bed where I am subsequently unable to fall asleep. Is it really frustrating and kind of pathetic? Oh, yes. Is it an interesting story? Not at all.

Imagine my delight then when a friend posted this link on Facebook. You are spared! I don't usually cheat in this particular way, but these pictures are pretty amazing. I'm a little ashamed, but my favorite is young Joseph Stalin. I mean, c'mon. Just look at him. Why is no one ever inviting me to parties with young Joseph Stalin?

Remember that time?

There are many conversations one might have with one's mother that are fairly universal. If I told you I had a conversation with my mother about my posture or about my marriage prospects or getting enough sleep, you might say, "Oh, lordy. My mother said just the same thing!"

The conversation we had yesterday wasn't one of those. All right, look. I was going to be too polite to say it, but here it is: the conversation we had yesterday makes my mom cooler than yours. Sorry about that.

Me: I saw this cool movie at the Roxie yesterday. It was an Othello adaptation, but set in the jazz world. Dave Brubeck and Charles Mingus are in it as themselves. They're just playing at a party.

My mother: I told you about that time I went with Aunt Dot to hear Charles Mingus in the Village, right?
She listened really intently the whole time and said, "That's so interesting."

When she said jazz was interesting, she meant it. She knew a thing or two about music.

Ladies and gentlemen, Aunt Dot.

Is it summer yet?

I think it must be summer. For one thing, the tourists are out in full force. Even at the late-lunch hour of 2pm*, the Haight Street Market was overflowing with people ordering sandwiches in interesting accents; some lady mistakenly went in to browse in the shoe repair shop; and everyone is wearing brightly-colored sneakers and meandering slowly down the [filthy] sidewalk four abreast.

Also, I can't stop thinking about my vacation as though I needed to pack tonight when, in fact, it's a month away. A whole month! A month during which I will worry constantly about what shoes to pack. This has become my latest preoccupation though, sadly, it is largely irrelevant which shoes I pack because my feet seem to have deteriorated to the point where there is no such thing as a comfortable shoe. Every morning I wake up with aching ankles, which seems like a rather esoteric malady, but no less concerning for its exoticism. Yesterday I walked about four blocks and there is still residual throbbing nearly 24 hours later. Not good. Usually, I do a great deal more walking in New York than I do at home, but maybe not this time. Taxi drivers, things are looking good for you.

Tomorrow, in an act of reckless hope, I'm going to a foot clinic at a local pilates studio. In addition to the class fee, I have to buy a "foot kit" for $25 though I believe it is comprised of quite ordinary balls of various sizes (I'm thinking tennis ball, super ball, etc.) that I could get elsewhere for much less, but since I haven't actually seen them, can't. Sigh. The pilates people are very clear that "there will no foot kits for loan!" Slightly disappointing, but since we're supposed to be rubbing our bare, flawed feet all over them, it's probably just as well. What if I got someone else's foot cooties? Maybe someone else has leprosy or something. The last thing I need at this point is more to be wrong with my feet/ankles/knees/hips. It's already a festival of ow.

If the Rub Your Foot on a Ball cure doesn't work (an outcome that seems very likely), I think I'm going to hire four strapping men to carry me around on a litter. If I'm going to be infirm, I might as well be glamorous about it. Surely someone in this town has already constructed a litter for Burning Man or their burlesque show or something. I'll bet I can rent it cheap for the off season.


*I really shouldn't wait till 2pm to eat lunch, particularly since I seldom eat breakfast. When I get that hungry, I can't resist the sultry come-hither of the chocolate milkshake. I know this. As I greedily hoovered it in while waiting in the deli line for a more sensible lunch option, three tourists asked me where I got it. I do appreciate knowing that I'm not the only one afflicted with milkshake weakness. However, by the time I'd gotten my sandwich, the milkshake was gone and, unsurprisingly, I was (and am) no longer hungry. My sandwich, fully wrapped, is hurumphing beside me even as we speak.

I'll be honest, this week hasn't been so hot. It's been all falling asleep fully clothed on the sofa, unauthorized hotdogs and milkshakes, general slovenliness, and crazy leg-aching. I have high hopes for next week, though. See you there.

Slow learner

Why do I go and say things like "tomorrow I'll tell you a great story about pee" when I know I might not? And now I'm a big liar? I'm not a completely pathological liar or anything. There really is a pee story in your future; I'm just busy of late and weirdly exhausted. (There's this thing happening where I stay up too late, then have trouble falling asleep, despite my enthusiasm for the project. In the morning, the Upstairs Baby wakes me an hour or more before my alarm [not cool, UB] so I put in earplugs and continue sleeping, but have vivid dreams about the Upstairs Baby. This has been happening every day for weeks. It's not restful, is what I'm saying.) Still, I didn't want to flake out completely. So here I am. Hi.

Last night I went to see All Through the Night at the Roxie. Have you ever seen a Humphrey Bogart movie that you never even knew existed? It's very exciting. It's a helluva picture. The one-liners don't quit. Plus, a bunch of hoods take down a bunch of Nazis in New York. One of them, of course, is Peter Lorre. It was my idea of a large evening.


On my way smilingly back to my car, some guy slightly ahead of me on the sidewalk, riding a scooter (the kind you stand on and push with your foot, not the kind the belle regazze putter through Rome on) said to me, "They were really letting that guy get into it." "Who?" I asked. "That drummer back there?" "No. The guy at that table. They were all leaning in and he was going, 'I mean, the universe is relative.'" He went on imitating the guy for a bit. "Usually I notice stuff like that," I told him. "But, I missed it." "I find the scooter is really good for that. I listen really intently--and then I'm gone." "Yeah. That sounds like a good eavesdropping strategy," I agreed. "Plus," he said, "I'm a stand up." He swung his scooter around. "I'm going to go back there and hear some more." And off he scooted into the night. If you frequent the comedy clubs, stay tuned for that bit. It'll knock 'em dead.

Tonight in an effort to Be a Grown Up, I addressed myself to the slowly expiring vegetables in the refrigerator. I sauteed a pound of mushrooms with some garlic and red pepper flakes. I steamed some asparagus and topped it with meyer lemon juice. I put on the water to boil for the pasta that would bring the whole thing together and...had no pasta in the pantry.

And so, as circumstances dictated, I had two hot dogs and a glass of cabernet.

Speaking of knockin' 'em dead, I am killing it over here--seven days a week, y'all.