Fear and Loathing in the Farmers' Market

It's funny, in that unfunny way: thinking about going to Farmers' Market tomorrow sort of stresses me out. I mean, shouldn't it be a sort of soothing experience to browse through tables of produce, tasting stuff and feeling all earthy? Maybe that's just some sort of deluded pipe dream, but it's my Farmers' Market ideal.

Ferry Plaza is another story, though. I'm seriously considering dragging my sorry self out of bed at 8 tomorrow just so I can get there early and avoid having to do battle with all the Mercedes SUV drivers who are determined to find close parking at any cost and who, once parked, use the market as a see-and-be-seen venue. Sure, yeah, everyone has the right to partake of fresh produce on a Saturday morning, but can't you at least be nice about it?

I digress.

If I do manage to screw my courage to the sticking place and make the trek down there, I'll surely make a stop at Mariquita Farm's stall, because it's awesome, and they have great stuff. I'm mildly impatient for strawberry season to be upon us, because their berries kick ass.



Is it normal to deal with disappointment and/or frustration by wanting to flee? I mean, do other people, when faced with a weekend that's a holiday (read: long) for others but not for themselves, and in which their plans as of Thursday involve little more than a doctor's appointment and a bridesmaid's dress fitting, want to hightail it to Vegas?

Maybe it's just me. But doesn't it seem, sort of, that if you're lounging poolside in Vegas (I guess it would have to be an indoor pool, since it's still chilly) and are contemplating your nickel slots strategy while hotel employees ply you with free alcohol--doesn't it seem like your other cares would melt away? That you wouldn't rail against your company for coughing up so few holidays (despite your admission that you really are spoiled as far as employment goes)? That you couldn't possibly complain about all the middling annoyances that pile up and threaten to make you a whiny pain in the ass?

Alas, probably because it is a holiday weekend for others, the cheap-ass Vegas (or LA, or Portland, or Palm Springs) weekend getaway packages that seem so abundant at other times are not to be found. I think having to shell out a thousand bucks for an escapist weekend would make me more cranky, not less. If I'm at all wise, I'll use my time this weekend to do all the stuff I've been putting off, like finally giving my garden some attention beyond the occasional watering, or catching up on New Yorkers, or drinking myself into a caffeinated frenzy via Proper Cappucinos in North Beach. (If I'm not wise, I'll sit around and mope, but here's hoping I come to my senses before that happens.)

I have to admit that Eric's joke about calling vegetarian pork products "soysage" is pretty funny. Really, has no one thought of this before? Off to investigate....



It's true that James Lileks' site is one of the best procrastination tools ever. I'm especially fond of the new-ish restaurant and motel postcard sections.


The office smells like smoked meats today, for reasons I don't care to investigate. Combined with the nails-on-blackboard voice of the woman having the LOUD phone conversation with her office door open (why? why? why? you have a door for this very purpose) and the looming dread of my impending 90-minute conference call (pretend to listen, occasionally release the Mute button in order to make some sort of half-intelligent/intelligible comment to the collective, try to finish today's crossword), said meaty odor is making me want to escape into what really is an amazingly sunny morning.

But dommage for me.

I've come to the (admittedly obvious) conclusion that the man a few doors down from me who busies himself with the task of adhering small slabs of colored marble to the facade of his house will never, ever be done. He just won't. He's been doing this for five years, since the day I moved into my current domicile, and there's just no way something like this could take half a decade, especially since he works on it every single day. Really, he's got to be just killing time now, and whether that killing takes the form of removing and replacing some slabs each day or applying marble to the roof or just moving the piles of crap on the sidewalk in front of the house from one spot to another, I can't quite tell. I mean, sure, to each his own and all that jazz, but there comes a time when one just gets tired of stepping around bags of concrete and piles of stone every time one exits the house and walks half a block north. That time has come.