To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time (San Francisco Version)

Wear thee ye summer clothes while ye may,
Warm weather is always fickle-y:
And these same temps that soar today
Tomorrow will be sickly.

(Sorry about that, Robert Herrick.)

Annual Summer Weather Complaint, 2008 Version

Last Saturday, having hit MoMA with Sean, I went to 42nd Street to catch a train to Brooklyn, where I was scheduled to meet up with Rachel, David, and Joseph. I can't possibly be the first person to compare the 42nd Street Subway station in mid-summer with the center ring of hell, but regardless, it's a comparison worth repeating. It was so hot and so unbelievably humid down there that my skin instantly glossed over with a layer of sweat and condensed humanity, all of which evaporated into a layer of grossness when I got on the air-conditioned train.

But hear me now, people: I would be back there in a second, back to that damp and steamy subterranean hole (and might even put up for long stretches with the fellow who was "playing"--with what I can charitably describe as a modicum of talent--some upturned plastic buckets), if I could be, because here in San Francisco it's 56 degrees and gray.

For two weeks I got to wear sartorial items many of you might take for granted, but which are anathema here in the City by the Bay: shorts, tank tops, flip flops, light, breezy, summery skirts. I got my toenails painted and actually got to see them all day long. I developed a dorky but deep arm tan. I went running in the morning and came back pouring sweat, which somehow managed to seem more satisfying than straight-up disgusting (though it was that, too). I went outside in the evening without a sweater, long pants, and a jacket.

To all of that: so long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, adieu. I'm back in San Francisco, and it's August.

Dog Poop Police

Dear San Francisco City Government,
Please take a cue from New York and hire people to ticket the legions of lazy, irresponsible, uncaring dog owners who refuse to pick up after their pets.

Because, really, for such a beautiful city, we have streets smeared in way too much dog waste, and that sucks.

Yours,
Emily

I Had Planned to Buy Riunite

On Sunday, in celebration of her birthday, Dana had a BBQ fiesta, the unofficial theme of which was "foodstuffs from 1975" (the year of her birth). The festivities got underway in the early afternoon, but Josh and I had to teach a class until 5, so I planned to head over as soon as we were done.

Driving to Joshy's seemed like a good idea that morning. I'd brought my coffee maker to his house the previous day and didn't feel like schlepping it to Dana's on foot or by Muni on Sunday evening, nor did I feel like going out of the way to bring the thing home before heading into the Mission. I also figured that driving would get me to D's more speedily than taking the bus, and had the grand idea to stop at Safeway en route to pick up a bottle of Riunite (on ice, natch) so that I might be thematically proper.

I parked the car on 8th Street at Natoma around 9, putting my toolkit in the trunk and triple-checking all of the locks before I walked away from it for the next eight hours. It was Sunday. The daylight was broad. There was nothing visible in my luxurious 1993 Toyota Corolla save for a bag of plastic bags (destined for the recycling bin at Safeway), an empty printer cartridge (on its way to Office Depot), a packing tape dispenser, my garage door opener, my mileage log, and the piece of plastic that fits into my cassette deck (yes) and allows me to play my iPod through my stereo.

Evidently, this bounty was temptation enough for the denizens of 8th Street. Around 5, as Josh and I left his house and walked toward my car, we saw one of our students heading toward us. "Did you get our messages?" she asked. We said we hadn't, and she replied that she and another student had called both of us from around the corner as they came upon my car (bearing magnetic signs on the doors with my business name, which is how they knew it was mine) and noted the glittering pile of glass on the sidewalk next to it.

Adios, driver's side window. Hello, giant mess. Loot scored by whatever crackhead or tweaker or just plain asshole broke into and ransacked my car: garage door opener, mileage log, tape dispenser, bag of bags, empty ink cartridge. No doubt you're having a field day with those highly valuable things.

In the end--after driving to the carwash to vacuum up as much glass as possible, after calling Glass Pro to arrange an appointment the following day, after sitting in front of my garage for a while and waiting in vain for one of the other car owners who parks there to come or go--I did make it to Dana's. In fact, she and Brad were good enough to let me park my window-less car in their garage that night. I was late in arriving--even later than anticipated--but things were still swinging when I got there, and there was still plenty of Champagne Jell-o mold to enjoy.

But I'm sorry I showed up empty-handed. D, your next bottle of "wine product with natural flavors" is on me.

Walking San Francisco

Because I evidently feel there's not quite enough happening in my life (you know, what with running a business, teaching classes, writing a book, planning the year's travel, and generally attempting to function as a responsible adult), I've decided to undertake a new project: by the end of 2008, I intend to walk every street in San Francisco.

This project is partly an attempt to get to know my city in more detail, partly an attempt to exercise on a very regular basis without necessarily feeling like I am, and partly an attempt to indulge my completist tendencies. I'm excited about it on all of those fronts.

I'll be blogging about the experience over on Walking San Francisco, complete with photos, notes on interesting experiences along the way, and perhaps a random fact or two from time to time. Come visit, won't you? (And if you're in or near SF, come along for the walk--or part of it, at least.)