A letter to our future son.

Today as I drove through an abandoned city to get your mom to the last ultrasound before your arrival, all I could do was smile. Even as the world continues to hide out, waiting for the COVID-19 pandemic to subside. Even as the idiot president continues to rant on live television. Even as many predict life as you will soon know it will never be the same again. I smiled.

I thought about the person you already are. Your kicks and bumps inside your mom’s stomach. Your tiny smile in black and white photos. Your reaction to Creedence playing on the stereo.

I thought about the person you’re about to be. The newborn being delivered just in time for your mom’s birthday. The little boy who’s about to be surrounded by love and toys. The human being who’s about to discover the universe and all of its wonderful, confusing complexities.

Of course, I couldn’t help but think about the person you might be someday. The music you’ll listen to, the movies you’ll watch, and the things you’ll do for fun. Will it be bikes, books, and barbecue or will you blaze your own trail and take an interest in things we’ve never even heard of in 2020? Will you take after your mom or your dad? Will you love dogs as much as we do? Will you stay in California or move across the ocean?

And I thought about the person I want to be for you. I hope I have the energy to keep up with your every move. I hope I have the patience and temperament to be your friend and your hero. I hope that you’ll love me as much as I love you. You’re already here in my heart and in my mind. Now it’s only a matter of time until you’re here in person, ready to take it all in as you cry and poop your pants.

See you soon.

Sold out.

Halloween snuck up on me this year. Like a creepy dude lingering in the shadows of dimly lit alley while you anxiously wait to cross street, it was off safely in the distance and suddenly it’s right on top of me begging for attention.

Granted, there aren’t many kids in our San Francisco neighborhood of bars, restaurants and extremely overpriced apartments. There’s a trick-or-treater here and there, but the notion of going door-to-door to gather anything besides whiskey shots is out of the question.

Some have decorated, but the weather’s been warm and the wildfires have made the air so bad that many are still avoiding going outside more than they need to. There are quite a few people wearing masks over their faces, but definitely not the fun ones.

I figured the least we could do in the midst of this lack of Halloween spirit is carve a couple of pumpkins. With one small guy waiting on the porch, I’d planned to carve  multiple goofy gourds. Three seemed like a good number and five wasn’t out of the question. So we started looking around. When we didn’t see any, we started calling around. Turns out, San Francisco is completely out of pumpkins. In a city where I could walk around the corner and buy a pair of two-thousand dollar shoes or live across the street from a guy with two-hundred-thousand-dollar car,  I can’t find the only mandatory requirement for a good, honest family of jack-o-lanterns.

Of course, I’ll make the most of the one pumpkin I have—and continue cursing myself for being so naive. After spending the better part of my adult life in cities, I’ve learned that most things require planning. And come next September, I’m loading the car with as many plump orange beauties as it’ll fit.

 

Perfect timing (for an imperfect world).

Our city life is a series of pleasant grownup cycles and routines. It’s the reason there’s food in the fridge, a roll of quarters for laundry and the dog has never had to take a shit on the floor. It’s keeping up and keeping track. The city itself is a disaster. Too much traffic. Too much greed combined with too many people trying to get by. San Francisco is a small city full of massive egos.

All good and evil factors aside, I occasionally get home on time—which gives me an opportunity to greet my lady at the bus stop when she’s getting home late. At least this was the plan last Wednesday when I headed out into the neighborhood with Woody the dog.

But we were intercepted by a short chat with one of the people in our building. Woody didn’t mind.

Then we walked by one of the Catholic churches and ran into one of the priests. Woody particularly likes this guy and the feeling seems to be mutual.

Around the bend we saw one of our waiter friends watching traffic go by. I knew Woody would expect love and attention, so I hunkered down for another stop and chat.

When we finally made it to the bus stop, I’d abandoned the notion of seeing the familiar face we’d left the house in search of. We were running late on a schedule that never really existed. And yet there she was. Each chance encounter led to a perfectly paced love connection. Loosely planned, last-minute mission accomplished. We climbed the hill back toward the house, hand in hand in leash.

Friday night whites.

Some say there are two things you can count on in life—death and taxes. I’d say laundry is the third that no one wants to talk about.

And that’s why some weekends inevitably begin with a roll of quarters and a jug of blue soap.

While the bars around the corner bustle and joyful intoxication spills out onto the street, you’re keeping a careful eye on the spin cycle, poised to fulfill your domestic duty.

And while all the friendly people who run the great restaurants just down the street are standing by with a table for two, you indulge in a couple of apple slices anxiously awaiting the soothing sound of the dryer’s buzzer.

Horns honk. Sirens flash. Twenty somethings wail and howl at the moon. Big plans and epic events could be about to unfold, but you’ve got a load of towels to fold instead.

SmartRide.

Rainy day creativity.

Make annual batch of Christmas biscuits:

Dismantle a Matchbox car:

Paint it and put it back together to look (somewhat) like your own car:

Find a picture of a cool house spotted on a sunny day bike ride:

Draw it:

And top it all off with a gingerbread house:

Nice Shot: Full circle edition

If I weren’t some idiot trying to make the best of life in the middle of the city, I’d be happy to own any one of these Craigslist cars.

After a brake job, of course. And a new set of tires. And possibly a new gas tank. And maybe a rebuilt carburetor or two. Also some new wiring.

Then I’d be ready to go!

But where?

The roads are full of assholes. And the way people drive these days, I really prefer walking. Which is how I wound up living in the middle of the city in the first place.

I guess that settles it?

San Francisco Jr.

If a city is similar to a living thing, what do you do when they start to turn on you? When strange new outfits made of steel and glass are quietly unveiled? When their attitude shifts from come on in to get the fuck out of my way? When a warm embrace becomes a careful negotiation and a $25 credit check? SF, my love, you’ve always had problems, but when did you become so interested in entertaining all your rich friends?

I’ve got my eye on you, but you probably didn’t notice because you were scrolling through selfies on your phone and your ears were plugged with white buds. You’re so beautiful—just don’t forget those who were there for you during the awkward stages and still supported you after your .com phase.

It’ll be OK. When the others follow the empty promises of better lives in another city or suburb, I hope you know I’ll still be here engulfed in the smell of your eucalyptus perfume, exploring the neighborhoods of your soul and enjoying your panoramic points of view.

Life is but a dream.

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.

Internal communications.

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:

COVER:
My the weed you smoke all day is skunky.
INSIDE:
Please open a window every so often.

COVER:
It’s called house music, not tiny apartment music.
INSIDE:
Please mind the volume after midnight.

COVER:
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.
INSIDE:
Please consider others nearby when arguing with your significant other.

COVER:
Sitting on the stoop with your dogs is cute—until they start using it as a bathroom.
INSIDE:
Please take your pets away from the building when they need to poop and pee.