September 24, 2005
Movie Stars Dine For Free
Floozy and I were walking up Montgomery, unhindered, when we realized we were in a movie. The ads on the kiosks, the clothes on the pedestrians strolling past us, and the cars in the street were all from the 70s. Instead of an icon of a pedestrian, the crossing signals displayed the word "WALK". The men wore mustaches and permanent-press pants. No one was talking on a cell phone or carrying a laptop. Approaching us was a large black truck rigged with lights, reflectors and diffusers, a camera, and another 70s car mounted on the flatbed.
Nobody had told us not to walk that way. A lady in brown culottes and a corduroy vest said to us, "Oh well. Just keep walking!" I suppose our attire was sufficiently era-neutral; the scene played out around us regardless. We couldn't tell much about it, except that it was a "driving down a city street in the 70s" scene. Floozy thinks it may have been a Will Smith movie.
We were in fact on our way to Scott Howard, a new restaurant where we'd been invited to dine for free. That's how it is when you're a couple of movie stars*! Glasses of wine and plates of strange and delicate foods kept arriving at our table, until we were stuffed and sleepy. Instead of a check, we were given a hand-written thank-you note from the chef. Our lives are tough, eh?
Floozy and I parted ways, and eventually I hailed a cab, lolling in the back seat while the driver sang along with a Frank Sinatra album. At intervals he exclaimed, "Listen to this song! Isn't it great?" Yeah, it was pretty great.
*Well okay, actually we were invited to participate in a pre-opening practice run, involving sampling the food and service in exchange for our feedback. Thank you, Bruce! It was exquisite.
September 23, 2005
My Ass Is Really Big, and Other News
Last night I was biking up Market Street and one of the crazies yelled at me, "I don't mean no disrespect, but I think you might need a bigger bicycle seat. Your ass is really big!"
That's right, buddy, my ass is really, really big. Sometimes pets and small children disappear inside of it. If you're not more courteous, you'll be next. Someday, my ass will block out the sun, causing all life to wither and die. And when, on its steady diet of Ben & Jerry's and cheeseburgers, my ass finally reaches critical mass, it will cause the universe to implode. Who'll be laughing then, eh?
Later, Floozy and I saw The Overcoat, a play that is more dance than drama, with music and body language taking the place of dialog. The choreography and physical expression were fascinating, and although it is based on a Russian story and thus depressing, it has its funny moments, too. I had in fact forgotten that we'd bought season tickets to the ACT. It's a fun surprise to realize I have all these plays to go to, and they're already paid for!
And in other news, I'm going to effing Paris! There, I'll be hosted by the lovely Herf and Aimee and visit other nice pals. Other things I intend to do there include
September 7, 2005
My Cat Is Old
My cat is getting more expensive with age! I just spent several hundred dollars on routine maintenance. The most expensive bit was the dental cleaning, to curb his gum disease and help him keep his teeth. Cats don't just volunteer to let the vet poke around their mouths with tools. You have to knock them out with pricey general anesthesia.
The next most expensive procedure was a panel of blood tests designed to determine whether my 11-year-old cat is developing old-kitty diseases. If anything, I expected signs of diabetes; Sasha has always been a tubby cat and currently weighs over 14 pounds. But, surprise, his blood sugar is actually on the low side. Instead, he's developing hyperthyroidism. You'd never know it to look at him!
For now, the plan is to shove a pill down his throat every day for the rest of his life. But, interestingly, hyperthyroidism can be cured, usually permanently, with radioactive iodine. But then you have a radioactive cat. He'd have to stay in isolation in a special facility for a while, after which I'd have to observe special guidelines for the disposal of his radioactive turds. I'll leave that idea on the back burner for now.
September 4, 2005
SF Grand Prix
The SF Grand Prix was pretty fun. I spent a couple of hours staffing a table for the SFBC at the top of Taylor Street, notoriously the second-steepest climb in the race. Other than the finish line, Taylor and Union was probably more crowded with spectators than any other spot on the course.
Ten-minute periods of leisure were separated by two-minute periods of intensity. The announcer on his loudspeaker heralded the approach of the riders at the bottom of the hill, and everyone pressed eagerly against the barricades. The police escort crested the hill first, followed by the lead riders. A good 20 seconds behind them came the main pack, like a school of tropical fish in their bright gear. Then came the bulk of the chase cars laden with spare wheels and water bottles, and the press motorbikes with cameramen clinging precariously behind their drivers, all squealing around the corners just to keep up. Behind them were a few sweaty stragglers, who received more applause and shouts of encouragement than the leaders did. Last came another police escort, and a careening ambulance ready to scoop up any wipeouts, perhaps with a special spatula designed to loosen spandex from asphalt. It was all very exciting!
In between, I got lots of folks to sign the latest petition, become SFBC members, and buy t-shirts. Though Lance Armstrong had announced his retirement and was not competing, there was a rumor that he was spectating that day. I did not see him, but I did spot various acquaintances from the local bike scene. After another volunteer arrived to relieve me, I ambled down the hill to Washington Square, where one could watch the cyclists both coming and going. I wandered into Chinatown for some bargain shopping and didn't see the end of the race; apparently some German guy won.