Our San Francisco apartment is so small a quick shower fogs up all the windows—including the one with a slight view of the Golden Gate Bridge at sunrise. The “cotton candy sky” (as we’ve started calling it) through the accidental steam filter caught my eye this morning and I thought I’d share.
Looking out over the city, I see that Sylvia’s Bakery didn’t make it. It was just open for business the other day. No surprise, I suppose. There’s only so long you can cover the rent in San Francisco with $5 scones. I hope Sylvia had a plan B.
My buddy’s dad also passed. He was just playing golf a few months ago. I never had a chance to meet him, but from what I hear he was old and wise so I suspect we would’ve gotten along. I hope the friends and family have a chance to celebrate his legacy.
This world twists and turns—so many things come and go each day—but ultimately one has to remember to appreciate the fact that we’re even here at all.
I know. A bit cheesy. But I’ll give it a try if you do. While you’re at it, maybe send a Christmas card or two? You’ll like the way it feels to sign, seal and deliver a thank you message to the people who put up with you all year. Take my word for it.
Speaking of doing the right thing, it’s Friday again. You’d better make it a good one.
The prime real estate formerly known as Sylvia’s.
As Gen X, Gen Y and whatever they call the people who came after that continue to live and work in cities, it seems many of us own less and less. Clothes can easily be rented. You don’t need to buy a car to have a vehicle at your disposal. And most of us, especially in the Bay Area, have no realistic hope of home ownership. While all this offers a certain degree of freedom, it has also led to a world where few seem to take any pride in anything because it’s all temporarily on loan.
This don’t-give-a-shit attitude is alive and well in the charming, but incredibly overpriced and crowded neighborhood where we dwell. And while communicating directly with people is one way to solve problems, I’ve come up with a more passive aggressive, potentially less awkward way to work things out—Bad Neighbor Greetings. Like Hallmark, but dedicated to acknowledging irritation, anger and inconvenience, these cards could be slipped under doors, left on welcome mats or attached to bulletin boards in public areas.
Here are a few messages to get things started:
My the weed you smoke all day is skunky.
Please open a window every so often.
It’s called house music, not tiny apartment music.
Please mind the volume after midnight.
Heated debates are good for stimulating the brain…but fighting with your boyfriend every night doesn’t seem to be making either one of you any smarter.
Please consider others nearby when arguing with your significant other.
Sitting on the stoop with your dogs is cute—until they start using it as a bathroom.
Please take your pets away from the building when they need to poop and pee.
Friends, I’m at the crossroads of adulthood and San Francisco. The apartment is far too small, but the neighborhood is conveniently located near all my bad habits and the office. I blend in nicely with all the other half-bearded twerps that came to this city for tech—telling myself all the while that somehow I’m different. I constantly reassure myself that I’m a nice guy while having reoccurring, mildly mean thoughts. I don’t deserve half of what I have, but you can be damn sure I’ll keep shopping for more.
This personal lament isn’t meant to come across as some jerk feeling sorry for himself. Instead, it’s just a short dissertation on feeling a million different things at once as I watch frenzied “Black Friday” shoppers momentarily glance at a homeless guy sleeping in the doorway across the street.
It’s not meant to be sad. It’s simply a reality check.
From the brake lights reflecting on the street to the high rise late nights unfolding above, evening will come no matter what. Happy Friday, friends. Enjoy your weekends.
My well-read, overachiever lady friend spends a good portion of our evenings and weekends psychoanalyzing our belly-driven, rescue dog.
My answer to most of her theories? I don’t know.
At work, I encounter all sorts of debates—can a twitter post sell a twenty-thousand-dollar business management solution?
My answer to most of these questions? I don’t know.
And then there’s the unavoidable political discussion that’s found its way into practically every facet of our American existence these days.
How can a wealthy New York turd like Trump be our president? I have a few thoughts, but ultimately I just don’t know.
Living and working in a world of sales pitches and explanation marks, signs of uncertainty are certain death among the judgmental masses.
Why does indecision feel like a liability these days? To be honest, I just don’t know.