Why, Walgreens?

"Hmm... I think I'll move 'Sleepless in Seattle' to the top of my queue... God, I love that movie... "

There is a Walgreens on every other corner in San Francisco – and I actually stopped at four different locations today on my way home from the doctor’s.  I needed a prescription filled – a common and readily-available antibiotic.  First stop: “Twenty minutes.” Second stop: “Twenty minutes.” Third stop: “Half an hour.” Final stop: “Twenty minutes.”

Really? It takes a minimum of twenty minutes to take some pills out of a big bottle, put them into a smaller bottle and slap on a label?  I can think of no reason why this process should take more than five minutes – or 60 seconds for that matter.  And yes, I understand that you have other prescriptions to fill.  But when I’m the only person in the pharmacy and I’ve got a prescription in my hand, couldn’t you maybe shake a leg or something?

And what exactly is the pharmacist doing back there?  While I’m standing at the counter being studiously ignored, the only thing I’m sure of (other than the fact that I have apparently turned invisible) is that no pills are being moved from the big bottle to the small bottle – for me or anyone else.  I mean, I realize that there’s probably more to being a pharmacist than getting a bottle off of a shelf…  Actually, that’s not true – I really don’t know why it requires specialized training to count pills…  But at any rate,  it’s not like I was trying to get some interferon or methadone.  Just toss me handful of antibiotics and I’ll be on my way…

They’d never get away with this at any other type of establishment that engages in retail sales.  “Hi, I’d like a pound of ground pork and a couple of New Yorks.” “OK, what time would you like to pick those up? We can have them ready in half an hour…”

Once I’d dropped off my prescription and returned after the prescribed (heh) twenty minutes, the line for pick-up is five people deep – and the woman at the counter is arguing about coverage for her controlled substance, while some pushy dame is interrupting, demanding to know if the Walgreens-branded “Wal-y Hot” is the same as Icy-Hot. When it was pointed out to her that the pharmacist was, in fact, assisting someone and that there was a line of four other people, she flounced off indignantly.

Customer number two needed some sort of diabetic supply for which he didn’t have a prescription – so that transaction went along just as smoothly and quickly as one would imagine…  Especially with the highly-detailed explanation of the $5.00 off coupon that register spit out after he’d paid.  It required the attention of the both the pharmacist and the cashier, who engaged in a spirited debate as to whether or not dairy products would be eligible for the discount… And, no, this was not because any dairy products were being purchased.  They just had to know, man…

Anyway, twenty minutes later (ironically enough), I finally emerged.  And the best part of all? I can’t drink any alcohol during my five-day course of treatment.  Hooray!

Why, annoying hipsters?

Seriously, if all 10 or 12 or however many of you there were want to have lunch together, far be it from me to stop you.  But you know what? Don’t do it at Farm:Table, which measures about 6′ x 6′ and holds maybe 8 people comfortably. Besides managing to take up all the seats, tables and air, three of you were milling around blocking access to the cashier where I was trying to place my order.  I know it’s a difficult concept to wrap your heads around, but there are in fact other people in this world who are trying to go about their lives, performing their quotidian chores and mundane tasks – even despite their lack of elaborately groomed facial hair, plaid shirts, ironic glasses and fixed-gear bikes. And you’re in our way…

Of course, as it turned out, the point was moot.  Despite charging $8.50 for a sandwich, it’s cash only – and I had only $7 on me.  Honestly, who the hell carries cash anymore?  It’s not like I’m some senior citizen headed out for an afternoon playing the slots at the local Indian casino.  “Cash only” – I really should have gone back over there and paid with a sock full of nickels… Of course, then I had to fight my way past the two dudes standing in the doorway having a conversation – perfect location for a chat! Wasn’t there an escalator around for you to stand at the top of..?

Good thing Pearl’s is right down the street. Not only did they take my debit card, they prepared me a delicious cheeseburger and fries.

Why, Girl on MUNI with Headphones?

You boarded the southbound 30-Stockton at Union Square, just as I did.  And for whatever reason, even when I saw you simply waiting for the bus, you got on my nerves.  Was it because you were waiting for the bus at the wrong end of the boarding island?  Or perhaps just a flash of ESP on my part as to what would ensue once on-board?

At Market St., hordes of people pushed their way on as new hordes pushed their way on.  One of the new passengers was apparently a colleague of yours, since you greeted him and initiated a conversation from two rows away.  You did not remove your headphones – and I’m guessing you didn’t lower the volume on your iPod, as you proceeded to talk at him in an inappropriate volume.

You: HI THERE! HOW ARE YOU?  NOT BIKING TO WORK TODAY?

Him: No, not today.

You: DO YOU ALWAYS TAKE THIS BUS? I DON’T THINK I’VE SEEN YOU ON HERE BEFORE!

Him: Yes, if I don’t ride, I take this bus.

You: WELL, I USUALLY TAKE AN EARLIER BUS! I GUESS THAT’S WHY I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU! IS THIS THE BUS YOU USUALLY TAKE? FUNNY WE HAVEN’T SEEN EACH OTHER!

Him: <inaudible>

He then opens a book and begins to read.  Which, after a brief pause, you apparently and quite mistakenly took as your cue to continue your “conversation.”

You: WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Him: <inaudible><shows you cover of book>

You: HAHAHA! WE SHOULD GET EVERYONE A COPY OF THAT AT WORK! HAHAHA! BLAH, BLAH, BLAH… YADDA, YADDA, YADDA…

It was at this point that I leapt from my seat and started screaming in your face, “SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP! You’re talking too loud because you’re wearing those G.D. headphones while you’re talking!  And can’t you leave that poor sap of a co-worker alone?  He just wants to read his book in peace! He doesn’t want to talk to you – on MUNI or anywhere else for that matter!  He probably hasn’t even had his coffee yet! What kind of monster are you?”

OK – I made that last part up…  But I’m sure I’d’ve received a standing ovation had I done it.  I did give her the side-eye while alighting from the coach, though…  That’ll teach her…

What goes around does not apparently come around…

I never do good deeds with the intent of trying to tip the karmic scales in my favor…  But after last weekend, I thought I was due for a little of the good stuff.  To wit:

On Saturday, I helped two ladies in from the ‘burbs, searching for the Orpheum Theater (for a matinee of “Wicked”).  They were on the corner of Post and Mason, so they were not quite on the right track.  They wanted to walk – and they had plenty of time to do so – though I was sure to advise that while the walk to the theater was by no means dangerous, it was one of the less pleasant routes through the city.  So, I also described the two MUNI options that would get them there – and agreed that a taxi would be easy and not expensive.

This isn’t much of “good deed” on my part, though – I guess it’s one of the ways that I show my pride in San Francisco.  The City is not perfect (not even close) but I do love it – and I’m always happy to give directions or (better yet) tell some out-of-towners where to go for dinner (or where not to go…).  Yes, I realize it’s out-of-character for a hardcore misanthrope such as myself – I suppose I’m influenced by the fact that I’ve been the grateful recipient of the kindness of strangers when I’m in a new city, so why not keep the karmic circle intact?

On Sunday, after a late breakfast and a trip to the Renegade Craft Fair, Chris and I were walking toward the Castro when we encountered Jack the dog.  He was out for a walk and appeared to be alone – despite his collar and tags.  He seemed to know where he was going, but we couldn’t really just leave him.  We tried calling the numbers on the tag, but got an answering machine.  Luckily, though, Jack’s address was also on the tag and it was just around the block.

So, off the three of us went, Jack waddling along beside us contentedly, until we got back to the flat listed as the address.  The front door was open and Jack headed up the stairs.  Chris ran up to make sure the dog belonged there and his visibly-stoned-but-very-grateful owner confirmed that he did.

Oh, and after we continued our walk to the Castro, Chris also picked up an errant sock, tossed by a toddler from his stroller,  and returned it the parents.  And yes I’m taking credit for this too, just because I happened to be there…

So why then has this week turned out to be so very irritating?  By 10:30 Tuesday morning, I had declared the week both interminable and insufferable.  It wasn’t just any one thing – lots of tiny things, piling up on one another: the more annoying of my colleagues ramped up their annoying-ness to new levels; the woman in front of me at the soup place who held up the whole line at every step of her transaction; the slack-jawed numb-skulls milling about in the lobby of 1 Market, yukking it up and completely oblivious to the fact that they were blocking everybody trying to go in or out; the freak who lives in the apartment below us who is stinking up the whole third floor with his over-abundance of Glade Plug-ins; the California budget-crisis-and-nude-beach-crackdown; the cold and the damp; the fact that I spent most of Friday setting up a new e-mail template for work, then stupidly over-wrote the data with another e-mail and had to start again from scratch; that our apartment remains in semi-shambles due to the ongoing saga of the new electric heaters being installed.

Meh – I guess I’m just extra-crabby…  It’s really the same trials and tribulations I suffer through week in and week out.  But they seemed to weigh more heavily this week.

I suppose things can only get better.  I am taking Monday off, so I have a nice long three-day weekend to look forward to…  And I have physical therapy this afternoon, meaning I get to leave work early and should be home by 6:00 with a glass of wine in my hand and an 18-pound cat in my lap…  And that’s certainly nothing to complain about.

Oh, and there was a highlight of the week…  Getting to tell the classic “Mrs. Prussy” joke…  That one never gets old.

Why, Long-Haired Woman on MUNI?

I boarded the 1-California yesterday afternoon, headed to see my physical therapist, and seated myself in one of the “backwards” facing rows toward the back of the bus – you know, the seats where you face another row of seats?

Oh, the humanity... And note my aggrieved forearm in close proximity to those layer-less tendrils...

At any rate, after a couple of stops, a young woman sat down next to me.  Apparently, she doesn’t care to ride facing backwards (or maybe she was just a freak) – but whatever the reason, rather than sitting in the seat like a normal person and facing backwards, she sat facing to the side.  I’m sure this was quite annoying to all of the passengers in the aisle, either standing or attempting to squeeze past her knees and legs in the aisle.

But what was even more annoying for me personally (and anything related to me personally is of greater import), was that her lank, far-too-long, scraggly, baby-fine hair was set aflutter at the merest hint of a breeze, thus coming into direct and repeated contact with my bare forearm, sending shudders of dread and disgust up and down my spine.  Her hair didn’t seem especially filthy or lice-ridden – but I’m super-grossed out when a stranger’s hairs touch me.  It’s awful…

I was tempted to move into the seat across from me – but then I’d have been sitting next to the typical a-hole male rider of public transit, who has to sit with his legs spread as wide as possible.  Why do they do this?  Is it to prove their virility? “Gee, my junk is so HUGE, I can’t put my legs together!”…  I mean, my junk actually is huge and I manage to sit normally.  Oh, and he was also reading a broadsheet-style newspaper wide open – apparently unfamiliar with the proper folding technique for reading the paper on the bus.

So, given a choice between being tormented by hair-touching or leg- and newspaper-touching, I chose the lesser of the two evils…  But now I know how Odysseus must’ve felt when choosing between Scylla and Charibdis…

Why, People Who Work in My Office?

I’m taking antibiotics in an attempt to quell the flesh-eating bacteria that has invaded the soft tissue surrounding the incision on my elbow.  And, in an attempt to ward off any unpleasantness said antibiotics may wreak upon my bowels (sorry for the over-share), I’m trying to eat yogurt once or twice a day.

So after lunch today, I head to the office kitchen to retrieve my yogurt – and I find this:

Someone has spilled milk all over the fridge, including an ivory shower for my sad little yogurt.  And then this person just went on his or her merry way, leaving it for someone else to discover.  Of course, it’s just a little spilled milk- it’s not like it will rot and stink up the whole fridge or soak other people’s lunches…

I always wonder about what these people are like at home – do they actually live in squalor, wallowing in their own filth, the floors knee-deep in empty fast food containers, dirty underwear and half-eaten bags of Funyuns?  Or are they sort of normal when at home and inconsiderate slobs when at the office?  It’s a puzzlement.

Why, Annoying Man Who Works in My Building?

So, I am schlepping up to my office after an uneventful-but-still-annoying MUNI ride; my arm remains in a sling, so my jacket is zipped over it, making it feel as though I’m in a demi-straightjacket; and it’s starting to rain.  In other words, it’s a really great morning and I don’t feel at all crabby…

I make my usual bacon purchase at the cafeteria in our building – and as I’m headed to the elevator, the jackass behind me (the same one who’d held up the line for the cashier with his incessant chit-chatting about nothing with anyone having the misfortune to be in his vicinity) was whistling.  That’s right – whistling.

Now, whistling, as we all know, is unacceptable in and of itself.  But not only was he whistling – he was whistling “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It’s Off To Work We Go.”

Unfortunately, the music from “There Will Be Blood” is not especially whistle-able – so I was unable to respond appropriately…

Why, Annoying Lady at Walgreens?

All I needed was to pick up my prescriptions for my inhaler and some ointment (don’t ask)…  And this dame was at the pharmacy counter.  It was pretty clear she’d already been there for awhile, grilling the pharmacy tech as to the most appropriate OTC medication for her runny nose – which, as she repeatedly and loudly announced was not due to a cold or allergies but to NON-ALLERGIC RHINITIS.  And yes she said it in all caps.

She already had a box of Claritin and wanted to know which was stronger, that “or…  or…  oh, I can’t remember…  Let me just run and get it.”  And comes back with a card for Actifed (a card, since in CA, OTC meds that are used to make methamphetamine have to be kept behind the counter).

“Now, which is stronger?  This one or that one?  I have a runny nose caused by NON-ALLERGIC RHINITIS.”

The pharmacist indicates Claritin is better for a runny nose, as it’s an antihistamine.

“I don’t have a problem with HISTAMINES.  I have NON-ALLERGIC RHINITIS.  I’ve used Actifed before and that works.” (Um, then why are you holding up the line of six people behind you by re-enacting the Spanish inquisition,  only with decongestants instead of heretics?)

“Is the Claritin stronger?  Well, I’ll try that to see if I that helps my NON-ALLERGIC RHINITIS.”

Of course, she is also purchasing a bunch of other weird stuff (trail mix, Q-Tips, cooter depilatory), but finally the ordeal is about over – or so I thought.  I’d forgotten about the fact that one must also show ID and provide a signature when purchasing meth-lab supplies – even if they are being used to treat NON-ALLERGIC RHINITIS.

“What?  I have to sign.  I’ve never had to do that before – ever!  Ha – only in San Francisco!”

Surprisingly, I was able to quell the nearly irresistible urge to give that bun at the back of her head a good hard yank.  Though I suppose I ought to give her some credit for not referring to it as “Frisco”…

“I’ve never had to do this in Las Vegas!”

She’s from Las Vegas – why am I not surprised?  She must be the toast of the town…  Plus I’m sure the dry desert climate really helps with her NON-ALLERGIC RHINITIS.

Why, Not-Carrie-Bradshaws?

Judging from the lack of cameras, film crews, craft services table and, most notably, Manolo Blahniks, I had not inadvertently stumbled into the filming of the opening sequence of “Sex and the City: San Francisco.” Why, then, were these dames walking four abreast on the sidewalk? At lunchtime? Near my office? While I am trying to get my lunch? Which requires me to walk on the sidewalk, something made well-nigh impossible by this wall of humanity spanning the width of my path forward?

And they were definitely a foursome, despite the two on the left appearing to be slightly in the lead. I know this because I stalked and photographed observed them for the entire block, fulfilling  my role as citizen-journalist and righter-of-wrongs.

I’m still not sure what that one in the green hooded jacket was up to – but she was definitely up to  something…

Why, Mr. Cable Car Conductor?

The San Francisco treat!

After a long and annoying day, capped off by a trip to the gym (ugh), followed by a return trip to the office to retrieve my phone that I’d left sitting on my desk, I walked to the bus stop at a leisurely pace.  NextBus.com had advised the 2-Clement wouldn’t arrive for ten minutes.  So imagine my chagrin when I saw it pulling away from the stop just as I got to the intersection.  Sigh…  Oh well – I’ll just hop on the California St. cable car.

Of course, as I get to within about 20 feet of it, I hear the bell ring and off it goes.  Now mind you, I’m getting on at the terminus right across from my office.  The cable car was just starting to roll from a dead stop, so I sprinted and jumped on just as it got underway – about 10 feet from where it had been sitting at a complete standstill.  “Oh good,” I thought to myself, “I just made it.  I’ll be home soon to get in some Rock Band rehearsal time.”

As I sit down, the conductor came flying through the car to berate me for jumping onto a moving cable car.  Now, I won’t quibble – he’s probably right.  I’m no spring chicken and my hip is just waiting to be broken.  But be that as it may, he didn’t have to be such a major league asshole about it.  He was both shouting and talking to me like a kid who he’d just caught shoplifting.  “Now you know you’re not supposed to jump on like that!  You can get me and the gripman in a lot of trouble! You know you’re not supposed to do that, right?!”  Blah, blah, blah – a regular tirade.  OK, I get it and I apologized (but insincerely…  Ha!  I showed him).  “If you ever do that again on my cable car, I’ll put you off!”  And then he’s staring at me like a maniac, apparently committing my face to his mental mugshot gallery. “And I’ll remember you if you ever try that again on my car!”  Jesus, enough already – point taken.

Of course I wisely refrained from using either my initial response (screaming “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!” as I jumped from the moving cable car, middle finger raised defiantly) or my second (“You know, I’ve been riding cable cars a lot longer than you’ve been skimming the fares on them…”) and just buried my nose in my PDA.

A couple of minutes later, he’s back next to me. “You know, every day we see people do that and they wind up in the hospital! People get seriously injured, we have to call an ambulance!” Blah, blah, blah…  Jesus H. Christ! My response was snippy at this point – “Alright, I get it,” I hissed through clenched teeth.  Lucky for me,  someone else boarded while the car was not moving but in a manner the conductor didn’t find to be up to his clearly exacting standards for safe passage, so his wrath was now redirected toward her…

I figure this annoying cable car trip is just about over.  But then the guy standing on the running board in front of where I’m sitting asks the conductor in a too-loud, overly-solicitous nasally whine, “How long is this good for?” referring to his ticket.

“It’s a one-way ticket.”

“So I can’t use it get back?”

“No it’s a one-way ticket.  You’ll need another ticket to return.”

“So if I want to come back, I can’t use this again?”

“No, you’ll need to buy another ticket.”

“And how much is that?”

OH MY GOD! SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP…  He’s yelling all of this almost directly into my face, my ears slowly dripping blood from my now-shattered eardrums.  And it continues – a lengthy discussion of day passes, Fast Passes, one-way tickets – ad infinitum.

As you can imagine, it’s all extremely irritating.  But to cap it all off?  It wasn’t some hayseed tourist who thought he was on an amusement park ride.  It was some guy who lives here on his way from the office!  “It’s just been so long since I’ve taken the cable, I wasn’t sure how it worked!”  Is it really that complicated?

And what’s with people who ride public transit during commute hours and talk?  Commuting is to be done in silence, eyes shut or glued to reading material or staring at an indeterminate point in space out the window.  There is to be no interaction of any kind amongst passengers or between passengers and operators.  The only exceptions are screaming frantically “Back door! BACK DOOR!” if the back door doesn’t open at your stop; and rolling your eyes in unison with all the other passengers while you all start shouting “Step down! STEP DOWN!” or “Push the bar! PUSH THE BAR!” at the rube screaming “Back door!”

Why, people I don’t know?

There are so many reasons to live in a city – be it a steaming cauldron of humanity like New York or a provincial-yet-still-metropolitan burg like SF.  There’re the many and varied restaurants; the live theater and music aplenty; the profusion of bars, taverns and boites; the adrenalin-laced excitement that accompanies the frequent loud “BANG!” outside one’s window (“Was that a gunshot or a backfiring car?”  Odds are about even as to which it turns out to be…)

Then of course there’s the the living cheek-by-jowl with tens of thousands of strangers – most of whom have many, many annoying idiosyncrasies (I know I do!) and objectionable personal hygiene habits (wearing gallons of cologne…  Not bathing…  Wearing gallons of cologne and not bathing…  And don’t get me started on failure to properly  care for one’s teeth.)

This is why they are and shall likely remain strangers – they are not my kind of people and I am not theirs.  And that’s fine – I’ve already found a few people who can stand to be around me for more than a few minutes, so I’m all set.  I’m sure they have their circle of friends, too.

Thus,  it is both disconcerting and upsetting to me when strangers engage me in some type of personal interaction that is unrelated to the completion of some type of transaction (e.g. purchasing groceries, ordering food in a restaurant, buying crack).

Just the other day, as I waited in line to use the Automated Postal Center at the Post Office (chosen largely due to the fact that I would not be required to interact with a human), the guy in front of me turned around – completely overlooking the fact that I had my nose buried in my PDA while wearing dark glasses and a scowl (the urban equivalent of the brightly colored skins of the various poisonous frogs of the Amazon) – as we waited in line to quip, “I guess technology can’t solve everything!” – apparently in reference to the fact that, despite the presence of the postal robot, we still had to wait in line…  I nearly responded with something along the lines of, “Yes, but I sure wish I had some type of futuristic death-beam-emitting laser pistol right now…”

Of course, he turned around just as the previous patron finished his transaction – and since he was now facing me, instead of the stamp-issuing automaton, I was forced to respond to him by grunting and waving my envelope in the direction of the machine to alert him to the fact that it was now his turn – which he would’ve known if he hadn’t tried to talk to me.  Must I do everything?

Then this morning, after a lovely ride to work on the 2-Clement (the interior of which was maintained at a pleasant 102° and included some chick planted at the very front of the bus, blocking the aisle for all boarding passengers while yakking on her phone.  She did graciously say “Sorry” every now and again as people were forced to shove past her – though of course she didn’t actually make any effort to move either out of the way or toward the back.  And what’s with people shunning the back of the 2-Clement during rush hour?  It’s not like it’s the back of the 14-Mission on a Friday night.  But I digress…), I was in the cafeteria, buying my usual two slices of bacon.  And the lady behind me exclaimed, “Oh that bacon looks so good!  Mmmm, I wish I had some bacon.  It looks really good.”  Sigh…  And ugh.  I responded with a wan half-smile – a contemptuous and withering gaze was really the  more appropriate choice but since I’ll likely see this person on the elevator at some point, I ramped it down a bit…  But then I’m a giver…

So, anyway, if you see me on the street, on the bus, at the post office, in line at the supermarket or anywhere else that is not Mayberry, USA and you don’t know me, let’s keep it that way.

Why, MUNI rider?

Hmm... Maybe I should move up a bit. Then I can block the door AND the aisle. That's hot!

Sorry for posting a tirade so similar to one from earlier this week.  But I couldn’t let this one go…  It is the grand slam of douchebaggery.  To wit:

1. Brobdingnagian bag resting on his hip, thus ensuring complete blockage of the aisle.
2. Leaning against pole, rather than holding, thus ensuring no other passengers can avail themselves of the pole.
3. As a result of leaning on pole, rather than holding on, while also reading the free real estate rag picked up at the busstop, constantly stumbling and reeling, thus ensuring a continuous though unpredictable jostling and elbowing of surrounding passengers.
4. Phone with very loud and annoying ringtone (I guess that’s redundant…) which he answered after letting it ring eight times and then proceeded to have a long, loud and pointless conversation about nothing, thus ensuring that all other passengers prayed for the driver to abruptly slam on the brakes  and send Mr. I’m-the-Center-of-the-Universe into a hard face-plant – preferably in a pool of mystery liquid so often present on the floors of MUNI coaches.

Complete aisle blockage - and note the poor seated woman, doing her best to lean inward to avoid repeated blows to the head from the death bag.

But no such luck – though I suppose I should at least be thankful that he disembarked before I did…  Oh, and I totally shoved past him to get a seat when it opened.  Had he been a normal human being, I’d’ve let him sit…  I think I also sighed audibly and muttered some obscenities in his direction – though I tend to curse to myself for the duration of all MUNI rides, so he may not have realized which parts were directed toward him specifically.

Why, queen?

Ugh…  As if this morning didn’t start off annoyingly enough what with having to leave my bike at home (rain in the forecast), being out of bread (thus necessitating a trip to Noah’s for a bagel) and then missing the bus (though I suppose not having to ride MUNI is always a blessing, even it it did mean hoofing it to the office…), there had to be some annoying queen in front of me at the bagel shop.

And the only reason he was in front of me is because he went out of his way to be sure to rush in front of me when I entered the establishment.  He’d been mulling over the wide variety of juices from the fridge next to the entrance, at what appeared to be a quite leisurely pace.

But as soon as I had one foot in the place, he grabbed the closest container of juice and sprinted (okay, rapidly sashayed is more like it) in front of me at the ordering counter.  This was annoying, of course. What was far more annoying is that he placed an order for some type of elaborate sandwich, which had many topping and side options that had to be decided amongst and about the ingredients of which he had many questions.

The fact that I already had my currency in my hand and that my mouth was open, the first words of my standard order “Everything toasted with plain, to go” literally on the tip of my tongue, should have given him a clue that my going ahead of him was not going to be a significant impediment to his ordering his fancy bagel sandwich.

So, next time, just keep contemplating those juices rather than frenziedly prancing pell-mell in a mad rush to get in front of some crabby and embittered old queen who just wants to get his goddamn bagel without having to stand behind you, listening to you asking about whether the establishment in question serves light cream cheese or what kind of bagels are available or while you knit your brows in concentration faced with deciding between coleslaw and potato salad at 8:00 in the morning.

Because next time, I swear I’m taking a picture and posting it…

2009 Off to a Great Start!

After a largely sleepless night – interrupted only by a series of nightmares involving people breaking into my house, my friends being killed by ax-wielding maniacs and/or discussing insurance with my dentist (seriously, I had different dreams on all three of those subjects last night, each more horrifying than the last) – I turned on the TV to discover more rain in the forecast.  Which means no bike ride to work.  Which means taking MUNI…  Which was filled with the usual motley crew of freaks and malcontents (i.e. me).  Like the gal sitting next to me who kept grazing her meaty upper arm against mine, despite my valiant efforts to shrink into myself as much as possible with the hope of avoiding any further contact.  Ugh.

Which reminds me – do only ugly people ride MUNI?  Or does riding MUNI make you ugly?  I suppose it’s like the chicken and the egg…  We’ll never know.

Speaking of chickens-and-eggs, one of Gawker’s top 10 comments for the year came from a post discussing gun violence:

Oh god, there is nothing worse than a gun violence debate. It’s like watching chickens argue with eggs in the middle of a KFC.

At any rate, I arrived at work, tired and grouchy (yes, more so than is usual) and went to make my usual breakfast of peanut-butter-and-bacon on toast – only to find that my peanut butter was offensively solid.  Damn you to hell, Laura Scudder…

But I do plan to try getting back onto my daily posting schedule for the blog.  If nothing else, that’ll provide me with an outlet for my rage and despair hopes and dreams.  Happy new year!

Why, hydrophobes?

I’m not particularly fond of being out in the rain.  But the weather in SF is, for the most part, lovely, so who am I to complain about a few rainy days?

People, on the other hand, are the worst, and I shall continue to complain about them ad infinitum – and rain brings particular challenges.  As Cajunboy so eloquently wrote in his blog, “The rain is to assholes the way that the night is to freaks.”  Were truer words every spoken?  I think not.

At any rate, what the fuck is with people sashaying about the City with their six-foot-diameter golf umbrellas?  Especially downtown, where the streets are both narrow and teeming with people?  The only thing accomplished through the use of umbrellas of such Brobdingnagian proportions is menacing the eyes, cheeks, ears, torsos and piercings of one’s fellow citizens as the offending umbrella wielder careers willy-nilly down the sidewalk.

And they always career willy-nilly – god for-fucking-bid they should walk in the always-elegant straight line…  No, they stumble along, starting and stopping at random, veering from left to right, endangering all and sundry within poking distance… I’ve seen drunks reeling through the Tenderloin conduct themselves with more decorum.

Then, as I attempt to board MUNI (which, since it is raining, I can pretty much guarantee will be jam-packed, steaming and reeking of mothballs and ass), the golf-umbrella-toting-fucktards invariably grasp the umbrella in the middle, so that it is parallel to the ground, wildly swinging the thing to-and-fro, once again putting my face and/or nads at high risk of being punctured with the razor-tipped point of their elephantine brolly.

So I say to you, aficianados of les parapluies dangereuses, “See you in hell…”  But in the meantime, would you please cut it out?

Why, annoying lady with stroller?

Excellent location for a stroller... And seriously, look at the size of that kid... Is she in junior high?

OK, you were already annoying pretty much everyone at Papalote, as you interrogated the staff about the menu and your special requests…  And you took a really long time to place a really simple order…  And you were using that particular tone of voice, that is both condescending and tinged with panic, as if a failure to include the prescribed amount of guacamole on your burrito will have severe and lasting repercussions on your ability to lead a happy and productive life…

But would it really have been so difficult to put your stroller on one side of you, rather than behind you, thereby blocking the entire aisle?  Not to mention that the kid in the stroller appeared to be a ten-year-old…

Demanding that someone open the door for you and your stroller on the way out didn’t help much either…  How come you weren’t in that much of hurry when you were placing your order?

At any rate, Chris and I both had chilaquiles – and they were good…  not in the pantheon of chilaquiles, perhaps, but quite tasty and satisfying…  And the salsa they serve here is pretty darn good…

What is so difficult about standing in line?

So, I ran out to grab a sandwich for lunch.  While placing my order, the idiot gentleman next in line behind me did something very alarming – he stood directly to my right, causing me great consternation and anxiety.  Was he trying to jump the line?  Was he confused?  Was he a Grade A douchebag? Was he some type of crazed psychopath who would soon pull out a machete and hack my face off?  There was no way to know…

Yes, I’ve brought it up before – but I honestly don’t understand why people think it is either normal or acceptable when waiting in line to stand on either my right or my left rather than behind me.  It completely flies in the face of the whole concept of a line – namely, that it is a line…  Not a rhombus, not a trapezoid, not a parallelogram.

And what exactly is a line? According to Webster’s, it is “a straight or curved geometric element that is generated by a moving point and that has extension only along the path of the point” (emphasis added). Thus, if someone is standing behind me, while someone else is standing to my right, as occurred this afternoon, there is no longer a line…  There is only anarchy…

Let’s review…

Example A: Yes!  This is a line.

Example B: No! This is not a line – it is a triangle, a shape made up of three separate and distinct lines.

Example C: NO! Absolutely not!  Just stop it, OK?

Example D: Yeah, this is pretty much how most people wait in line:

So, next time you’re waiting in line, just stand behind the person who is preceding you…  If you don’t, then the terrorists have already won…

Why, man in front of me in line at Whole Foods?

Whole Foods was pretty quiet Monday night – but of course when I chose my checkout line, I got behind a fool.  First off, despite appearing to be able-bodied and with fully-functioning motor coordination, the guy in front of me is using a full-sized grocery cart.  His selections?  A loaf of bread, a pint of pasta salad and a mango…

He’s also completely engrossed in whatever magazine he picked up at the checkout stand (“Vegetarian Times”? “Modern Yoga”? “Fitness for Douchebags”?) – so much so, that the conveyor belt in front of him is empty and his three items just sit forlornly in his cart, eager to be scanned and purchased.  The cashier prods him from his reading (it took a couple of tries) and he finally gets with the program and unloads his sad assortment.

While he’s being rung up, he sets down a book on the checkout counter – “The Power of Full Engagement”, some claptrap about managing one’s “energy” rather than one’s time.  I think it’s the one that tells you to only read emails once a day.  I managed my energy directly into cursing under my breath and rolling my eyes as he chit-chatted with the bagger about the book and how useful it’s been for him.

As he toddled off, the bagger yelled after him, “Excuse me!  You forgot your book!” – which was indeed still sitting on the checkout counter.  Diplomat that I am, I immediately blurted out “How ironic!”.

However, I did graciously refrained from adding, “I guess the book you really needs is ‘The Power of Full Engagement While Waiting in Line at Whole Foods – Especially If You’re in Front of Someone Who Is Not Slow-witted.'”

Or maybe he should just read the “The Power of Any Amount of Engagement Whatsoever”?

Or, my personal favorite, “The Power of Engagement in the Fact That Once You Get to the Front of This Line, You Will Have to Pay for Your Groceries, So Perhaps You Should Contemplate How You Will Accomplish That Rather Than Reading a Magazine About Tricking Your Children Into Eating Tofu”.

Go Obama! Oh, and fuck you, faggots…

In California, nearly 1 million citizens cast their votes for Barack Obama, the nation’s first African-American president, while simultaneously voting to change the state’s constitution to specifically discriminate against gay men and lesbians.  20,000 voters in San Francisco did the same thing.

In other words, “separate but equal” is now the law of the land in California…

It’s hard not to feel bitter – and, to be honest, oppressed – something I’ve not experienced before…  Knowing that my fellow citizens are passing laws aimed directly at me and my family – laws written solely to take away the rights we have had under the state’s constitution.

By the way, here’s Article 1, Section 1 of the Constitution of California:

All people are by nature free and independent and have inalienable rights.  Among these are enjoying and defending life and liberty, acquiring, possessing, and protecting property, and pursuing and obtaining safety, happiness, and privacy.

I guess the first word should be changed to “Some”…

Why, Y?

My first week back at the gym and Gum-Chewarella is still going strong…  She waited for the elevator with me – to ride up one floor, of course.  What the hell is with that?  It’s annoying under any circumstances, but it’s really beyond me why someone on her way to exercise won’t walk up a flight of stairs.

Of course, it’s also beyond me why one would chew gum with one’s mouth open while also making smacking and chewing noises the whole time…  Oh, and she’s still wearing those coochie cutters…

Then, while I was changing, I noticed some guy in the locker room was using the hand dryer excessively.  I noticed this because they are powered by jet-engines and thus quite noisy; and every time the dryer shut off automatically, he would start it up again.

This seemed strange…  Until I looked closer and saw that he was using the hand dryer to dry his filthy gym socks – holding them right under the nozzle, so they were waving and flapping and spewing athlete’s foot and toe jam particles far and wide…

He was still at it when I’d finished changing, ten minutes later – yes, ten minutes, I shit you not.  I actually decided to say something (e.g. “Could you please refrain from blowing the foul stench from your rancid sweat socks all over the locker room?”).  But as I approached, two things stopped me: one, he was also drying his gym shoes – by inserting one of the communal hairdryers into his shoe, thus causing me to dry heave which prevented me from speaking; and he is a member of the YMCA staff!

WTF?  The staff?  Shouldn’t they be somewhat less disgusting than the members?  Apparently not…

Also, he was stark naked throughout this episode, natch…

At any rate, I did make a note to myself: do not ever use hair dryers at the Y.  In fact, do not even look at or get within five feet of the hairdryers at the the Y.