Where'd the poo go?

So a dog keeps shitting on the sidewalk in front of my building in the mornings. It's either the same dog or a different dog that is the same size and has a very similar diet/digestive system.

The owner of the dog did not pick it up (I know it's not a stray cause if it was, surely one of the craftier hobos in the neighborhood would have caught him and either tamed him or feasted upon him) and there are no dogs in sight as I walk to my car to head to work.

Then after work... it's gone. Did one of the crafty hobos make something out of it? There are no smears on the ground, and it wasn't in a place that would easily get stepped on (kind of by a tree).

Where's the poo going?

--

"Stick your arm for some real fun"

We all know about the homeless man I found sleeping in my car a few weeks ago. It needed a jumpstart and smelled of hobo for days in there but just I realized it could have been a lot worse.

I'm pretty street-smart. At least, I think I am. I try to emulate my dad in negotiating the mean streets, but he's slightly more respectable and intimidating than I am (the dimples work against me in that regard... hence the beard). But when I found a syringe Wednesday on the street, I didn't know what to do. There's a high school up the street from me. I didn't want one of the kids to fall on it or something. Also, Narges almost exclusively wears sandals and I for sure don't want her to kick it with her bare toes (ahhh, bear toes!) so I had to get rid of it somehow.

But I sure ain't picking it up.

I thought about kicking it in the gutter, but the nightly streetsweeping would, with my recent luck, kick it out to the middle of the street where it would wait patiently to embed itself in my tire. I seriously considered picking it up, but looking at it puts me in a surreal mindset - it's a very odd-looking and nefarious device.

This is the kind of thing they should teach in drug education. Sure warn kids about drugs, but when you take health in college, talk about what do to if you find a syringe, or a vile some crackhead dropped on his way to or from the cluster.

I settled on kicking it into a planter box, being sure that the needle side is securely in the dirt.

Every day I walk by and look. It's still there.

Andy! The Roof! The Fireworks!

In the kitchen by the window, cleaning the George Foreman, minding my own business, thinking the Giant's game ended long ago while we watched "Lost," I hear a noise.

I look to the window and push it open, letting in the chill and the same noise, a little louder this time. I yell to Andy, put on shoes and grab my camera on my way up the stairs to the roof.

Tonight was the Giant's home opener (they lost) and I knew there would be fireworks and I knew I'd be able to see them. If New Year's hadn't been super foggy (and if I hadn't been in Santa Clara) we could have seen fireworks from the Ferry Building I'm sure, but this was the first real shot at seeing them.

I love fireworks and jet airplanes. I don't know why, but Zac like big boom.

Short-sighted pessimists

The past week, driving around San Francisco, I've seen the same thing a few times and it always makes me smile.

There's no way of knowing for sure that I've seen what I think I've seen, but I'm fairly certain I saw what I think I saw.

We've all seen the bumper sticker declaring the owner's political views by simply saying "1.20.09." Of course, there has also been, in the past 8 years, the more direct version of essentially the same message that said, "Not My President."

Well these stickers are now one week obviously past their prime, especially in this city. While 1.20.09 is still a fine day to remember, the people with the other sticker on their cars are now, pretty much screwed.

In my years of driving, I've seen a lot of super-faded bumper stickers on cars that range from super-faded to pristinely new. I can't think of ever having seen a bumper sticker that looks intentionally scraped off, and certainly can't remember seeing one that was partially scraped off.

Three times this week I've seen the sticky stuff left behind when you pull the top off of a sticker. The only thing I can think is that these people, eager to show their hatred of George Bush, either didn't think they'd ever see a president elected that was "theirs," or they didn't think their car would last long enough to see the day.

Or maybe they just never thought about how hard it is to get a bumper sticker off a bumper. Well, it's hard.

November reigns

This morning looked like November for the first time all month. After weeks of gorgeous skies, bright mornings (still no blinds on the window of my new place) and warm weather, the clouds were back in San Francisco.

Not so much with the fog, but the high clouds that act as sunglasses for the entire city, dimming the lights a bit. This is November as you might expect it. At least, as you might expect it in the parts of California where it never snows.

The forecast has rain for the days before Thanksgiving, which is the same days that our Australian couch-surfer will be coming "home" before going back to his native land for the first time in over a year. I'm actually kind of bummed that he won't be around through Thursday, cause I'd like to send him back to his family after having a semi-traditional Thanksgiving meal with my semi-untraditional family.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday by far (former fat kids know what I'm talking about) because it never lets you down. It's going to be a great meal. And even if the potatoes get ruined (1998) or you're not with your family (2007) or you spent the day before sitting in hours of traffic just to get to where the turkey would be (2004, 2005, 2006), there will still be turkey and good times.

Last year, while I was in Spain (I'm such a douche for that one), my mom made so many references to being "so thankful and blessed" via email that I assumed someone was pregnant or getting married and I just hadn't been told yet (check the comments she left on this blog from about a year ago-they're strangely upbeat, even for a woman who's pretty upbeat).

My family never did the "what am I thankful for" thing and we never say Grace, so the suddenness of being thankful for what he had struck me as odd. She started in on it again recently and I called her on it Sunday when we went to Pier 1 together.

I don't want to break a family member's news on my blog, but today I've been grinning all day and it really does seem that we do have "so much" to be thankful for. In the past year, I've been called overly optimistic and unbearably pessimistic by different people. I've also recently been called an English Dandy, but that couldn't be less the point. Despite the gray skies outside, and the fact that I just interviewed a girl to be my assistant who is more qualified for my job than I am, we do have so much to be thankful for. Life is good, times are exciting.

But, on second thought, I just saw that People magazine snubbed me again. Stupid Hugh Jackman.

The downside of public transit

Upside: Read a book, take a nap, see the city from the water (I love being on or in the water), avoid traffic, spare the air, don't have to change tires or oil as often, feel more urban and less suburban... etc.

Downside: When the Internet I work on breaks at 5:33 and it takes 20 minutes to fix I miss the 5:49 bus back to the ferry station and city leaving only the last bus of the night for me to catch in my attempts to get to my desired destination of pants shopping and home. The last bus leaves an hour after the bus I wanted, which makes for an extra long day.

I'm still not quite giving up though.

Golden arches

When I was in Paris (I don't want to be one of those guys who does this a lot, but come on, how cool is it that I can start a sentence like that?) someone, probably from BF Australia or Canada, said if they lived in Paris they could see themselves not looking at the Eiffel Tower every day because they'd get used to it.

I say they were from the middle of nowhere because I grew up in the Bay Area, about 25 minutes from bridges, buildings and cable cars that are easily as recognizable, if not less romantic than the Eiffel Tower, and I must disagree.

Yesterday I had a job interview (for a job I think I may want) in San Rafael, which is about 7 miles north of the point where the Golden Gate Bridge hits land in Marin County. To get there from my current side of the Bay I take a different bridge but I do see the Golden Gate, just as I do whenever I drive through Berkeley on my way to Vallejo, Sacramento, Tahoe, Chico, Oregon or Canada.

Across the water from highway 80, behind Alcatraz, there is always the orange Japanese animation eyes of the Golden Gate. I look at it every time I pass by. I don't strain my neck to see it, but as I sit in the Maze traffic 100 feet from the water line I glance out my passenger window (when going south, generally home) just to acknowledge it.


It's a beautiful bridge that actually empties into a nice area for both directions, unlike so many other bridges that start or end in poverty, industry, salt flats or oil refineries.

So no, person I met from either Australia or Canada, I don't think I'd stop looking at the Eiffel Tower or any other widely known landmark I lived near. I don't get tired of my favorite shirt, food, or songs. Maybe it's just me, but I don't think familiarity necessarily makes something less remarkable.