Resisted the urge to buy this and leave it around work. I would have slipped in a chapter about not accepting paycuts; more consumption of Scotch; increased swearing in meetings.
St. Elmo’s Fire on the tracks at the Duboce stop. The firefighters blew on it to put it out. Miller time!
Never thought I’d say this,
but I just witnessed an act of such utter sweetness at Market and 8th. After giving the gruff homeless man (one of many who stand outside of Burger King) some change, one of the Downs’ Syndrome locals gave him a hug. Gruffy was taken aback, but then gave into it.
Hugs are like special people’s secret weapons.
Okay, back to misanthropy.
I kind of miss the old neighborhood. KIT, Polk Street.
Vincent Price takes you on a tour of the old DeYoung
"A museum is not only a place where one can enjoy beauty and art, but it helps man to relate himself to his past. A man who dwells only in the past is a fool and a man who only dwells in the present is but half a man."
Around 9:40, Rauschenberg!
I spend considerable time explaining that the Asian Art Museum is not the DeYoung: the former’s owned by the city, while the latter is the part of the Fine Arts Museums. This will confuse people further.
My favorite part of the DeYoung, outside of the James Turrell? The tawdry history.
Barry Zito is there to remind me of the crush I had on Orel Hershiser when I was a very small Dodgers fan, when I obviously had a thing for toothy, goofy-looking white boys.
Um. I’m not crazy, am I?
If I weren't so damned lazy, I'd draw you, too
SexPigeon has a good puritan work ethic.
I imagined that the bums would somehow shorten your lifespan, but you’re living proof that you can love a San Francisco team and prosper.
Elder ladies who love the Giants, I salute you!
SO I narrowly missed this. At least it wasn’t another shooting random killing.
As much as I want to see the Giants while the season is still full of hope and unmarred by conflict or substance, it wouldn’t be so bad to get a rainout tonight—in which case, I’m seeing a game in June.
I’m out here wandering stormy alleys and shooting while you’re inside watching Tivo’d Tiger Woods on your massive flatscreen.
I win.
Which is to say, there was a cat stripped of its pride, wandering the cold, wet hinterlands of this city.
Thank you, Mr. Maytag.
The city’s lousy with plein air painters these days. I love this.