It will cost next to nothing, but then will take two months to get to you. But that’s just the problem–it doesn’t come to you. It goes where the Greyhound goes, and if you’re in San Francisco, that’s the Transbay Terminal.
So you walk around that museum of urine, trying desperately to get your freight, and eventually you do, glad you had the interaction with the station agents, the somnambulant security guard, and the freight manager who tells you that your package got there three days ago, good thing they didn’t send it back.
Godspeed, Transbay Terminal!
Hey dude(s),
Your tumblr is this dope
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and I just started following you. but must you update so much? I fear I will be inundated with your posts and will unfollow you in a couple days.
Not that you should change yourself for me, we just started this relationship, and it’s a two way street, at least that’s what the counselor said. But seriously, you should post less. It would be awesome-er.
Dear sir or madam: You are probably correct and we sincerely appreciate your missive. We have posted what, three things today? Either we have Tourette’s or the multitudes of city overwhelms and we cannot but reflect such profusions.
Also, if less photography perhaps more drawing? Is this a pleasing syllogism?
Hi Tenderloin Geographic Society –
Do you only post things about the Tenderloin? If yes, sorry to bother.
If not, I wanted to give you a heads up about a video we posted on our website. It’s by citizen journo Mike Melero and it’s Oakland youths talking about the police in their neighborhood. It’s good stuff.
http://www.baycitizen.org/videos/how-can-we-all-just-get-along/
Thanks for considering it!
-Queena
Thanks, Queena, for mistaking us for a relevant news agency. Too many friends have been face-down on police cruisers, so we’re happy to be of service. Police do not always protect and serve (disclaimer: I grew up in Los Angeles–so far, SF police have been representative of nothing less than tea parties and well-armed cucumber sandwiches).
nonetheless I am hoping for ghost bees.
Angry, justice-seeking ghost bees.
The new bus stops do not make me feel like I’m in Slanted Door. Except for the part where I’m overpaying for service
I’m dead serious–try working in Civic Center for seven years, you jump on anything that’s new just so as to wash the delicious boredom from you palate. I know, we’re all up in our first-world concerns here.
As much fun as it seems to ride down to the Design Center, it’s far easier to stalk some falafel a few steps from work. Liba’s may be marginally healthier than my new crush, the month-old Little Saigon. Service is slow, but only because they make their potstickers to order. Are you going to rush genius when it’s freshly pan-fried? I think not.
In case you hadn’t noticed, I just neatly summed up the food cart thing. We’re freakin’ bored with how good everything is, as San Franciscans we must up the ante by making it a sport: standing, chewing, trying to not dribble tahini or kimchi juice down the fronts of our coats. This is why I only buy Belgian waffles when I’m wearing white: wind and powdered sugar makes it look like breakfast came straight off the mirror.