CARPOCALPYSE!

He ballin’! But not movin’…

So, there’s a Giants game letting out (a game I was at, in a luxury suite behind home plate… but I digress) AND there’s a 90,000 attendee Salesforce convention at Moscone involving street closures AND it’s after-work rush hour. Traffic is at a complete standstill for blocks in every direction.

And I’m on my bike, leisurely and steadily pedaling along per usual, a smirk of self-satisfaction on my face as I go on my way unimpeded, marveling at my superiority to automobile drivers. It is glorious.

But, lo – it get’s even better. I pass some d’bag (in a BMW… I know, redundant) who is a block away from a red light, traffic not moving an inch because there’s nowhere to go. His solution? HOOOOOONNNNNKKKKKK! Dude is full-on leaning on his horn. So I chime in as I pass…

Me: Jesus, shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?
Him: You’re a liberal fag!
Me: YES, I AM! ALSO, FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!

And then I just kept on my merry way, arriving at the next intersection fully ten minutes ahead of him and now already ensconced at home with a glass of wine writing about his douchebaggery while he still sits about 75 feet from where he was last leaning on that horn. Oh, bicyles – you are the best!

I’M ALIVE! Well, as much as I ever am…

Wow! I sure was sick – five days with a temperature above 100° – it was not pleasant. Not one bit. But I am much improved, if not entirely cured – and well on the road to recovery, I hope.

In other excellent news, SFist reports that the long-abandoned New Mission theater is being eyed for restoration and reuse as a member of small-ish Austin theater chain, Alamo Drafthouse. This would be a dream come true, for many reasons, not the least there really excellent programming and the fact that they serve booze.

But the number one reason that I pine for an outpost of Alamo here in SF is this:

You stupid, stupid woman. And kudos to you Alamo Drafthouse.

Parking Laws Are for the Little People

Mercedes-Benz? Check.
SUV? Check.
Handicapped placard? Check.
Parked across five metered motorcycle spaces? Check.

It’s a douchebag grand slam! Also, I was shocked – shocked! – to discover that the Oompa-Loompa-hued owner of this vehicle was not, in fact, wheelchair-bound. She didn’t even have the courtesy to fake a limp as she strode out of the supermarket, carrying her groceries without visible impairment. I did throw her some malocchio, though…

Well, at least I’m hilarious

What a day! The weather was hideous – rainy and muggy and apparently the wettest June 28th in SF history. I had a giant burrito for lunch from my building’s cafeteria which, though delicious, both distended my belly and gave me heartburn. I realized, just as I was walking into the Y (for cardio to counteract the effects of the aforementioned burrito), that I had not received a bunch of data from a colleague that was due to me today – thus necessitating a return to the office to prod, since I actually have to process said-data before tomorrow.

Luckily, though, I can complete the work from home – and it was a good excuse to skip the Y (though of course due to the missed workout I have now crossed from “obese” to “morbidly obese”). So I headed home, with a quick pit stop at the Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant to pick up dinner something to accompany dinner. I have to say, I’ve never been a fan of this particular establishment – I think they are pricey and I find the staff’s attitude ranges from indifferent to surly (with the notable exception of the dude who two weeks ago sagely and enthusiastically recommended a Le Roc rosé priced at a reasonable $12).

Tonight, I grabbed a bottle and waited forlornly at the cash register while the HBIC stood out in front of the shop yakking on her phone. Ordinarily, I’d have said something along the lines of, “Hey Miss Thing! How ’bout you get off the horn and pretend you care about separating me from my hard-earned cash?” – but I wasn’t sure if she was actually a member of the staff (though I was pretty sure I recognized her “what the fuck do you want?” demeanor). Anyway, I did manage to get some dude at their bar to ring me up. And on the way out, I verified that Talk-a-rella was wearing the company fleece and had, in fact, been ignoring my custom. And I missed my bus, thanks to the wait…

Once I did get on the bus, after a 12-minute wait, I was only mildly crabby. I’d skipped the gym, I had some wine and my cat was waiting for me at home. Then I saw this:

Seriously, WTF?

OK! First, she sat down in the seats reserved for seniors/handicapped. I don’t actually know whether she qualified. But then! She stood up – which is fine! But proceeded to stand in such a way that she was both blocking anyone else from sitting AND was leaning on the pole, thus ensuring no one else could hold on! The only way this could’ve been worse is if she’d been a serial killer! Or had been wearing a backpack! OR BOTH! It was really all I could do not to jump up and yell, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” But of course I just seethed silently because I’m a wimp…

I did eventually wind up at home unscathed – and was immediately put into a delightful frame of mind when I recalled how I unintentionally brought the house down amongst my co-workers this afternoon.

As anyone who knows me is well-aware, I am something of a loud-talker. I admit it freely, though I often forget that anytime I open my mouth, everyone within a 50-foot radius can hear every word.

So, I’m at my desk and my cell phone rings. And I answer. And it’s some rep from Sprint, calling to “thank” me for being a customer and to ensure that I’m happy with my service and to sell me more crap. I’ve gotten these calls several times over the last few months – and each time I’ve requested that Sprint refrain from calling me. Just as I did this time…

“Actually, I’ve received several of these calls from Sprint and I’ve asked you not to call. I prefer that you communicate with me via email or postal service, not by telephone.”

The rep’s response was to start in part II of the spiel, “Did you know you’re eligible to add a line to your account, blah, blah, blah…”

To which I simply responded, “Did you not hear what I just said?” in what I considered to be a firm yet courteous (though somewhat booming) tone – and all of my colleagues within shouting distance howled with laughter. I wasn’t attempting to be hilarious – I JUST AM! At that point, it was difficult for me to keep a straight-face (especially considering the peals of laughter were clearly audible over the phone) before I politely said my good-bye and rang off. It’s always good to keep my co-workers entertained!

Going Up! My Blood Pressure, That Is

Not to go all Jerry Seinfeld, but what’s the deal with entering and exiting elevators these days? When the elevator arrives, one stands to either side of the door to allow passengers alighting from the car to exit quickly and without impediment. Isn’t this both a rule and the most basic common sense?

Why then do I constantly have to push my way past some jackass standing in the door and blocking my egress from the car? I mean, I’m the first to admit that I sometimes become overly-engrossed in reading something on my PDA or lost in some reverie related to lying on a tropical beach and/or smiting my enemies – and that this can result in my inadvertently blocking the doors of the elevator. But I immediately mutter “pardon me” and get the fuck out of the way. I don’t stand there slack-jawed and cow-eyed, still as a statue, thus forcing the disembarking passengers to squeeze past my inert and blobby self. And I certainly don’t just push my way onto the elevator before others have exited.

Yet I experience these behaviors from others multiple times every day at my office! Seriously. The doors open, and some blivet has planted him or herself squarely in the center of the exit, immobile and staring blankly into some indeterminate point on the horizon. I really don’t understand it. And the really sad part is that elevators are the only option for moving between floors – there are no accessible stairs between floors.

Also, I am eagerly awaiting the day when Otis decides to replace those cushy rubber bumpers on the doors with giant razor blades. Maybe then people would think twice before thrusting their hand into the nearly-closed doors of a crowded elevator, just so they can save themselves the 10 to 15 seconds they would’ve had to wait for another elevator to arrive.

Ugh. Fuckers.