San Francisco is a city of contrasts. It’s also a city of bloggers who start posts in the most cliché way possible then try to gloss over it with a run-on sentence that acknowledges their lack of skill.*
I am not that type of blogger, but I do know some of them. And trust me, they are sad, conflicted people you don’t want to know. But there is a seed of truth behind every cliché, and it’s waiting to germinate into words.
Despite the sky-high real estate prices in the city, there’s a lot of blight. Trash is everywhere, buildings and paint are chipped and weathered. Dogs and humans leave poops on the sidewalk. Behold vomit splats, trash in the gutter, abandoned things. There are smelly people, crazy people, and ugly people. People that look at each other with suspicion and a stiff lip.
Much of the city fails the eating test too. This test works as follows:
- Procure a delicious food item.
- Eat it while standing on a sidewalk.
- Look around.
If you can finish the food item without seeing something gross nearby, you pass.
With few spots in town that consistently pass, instead of eating I stroll.
Two weekends ago, we drove to the east bay. While J relived her soccer days, I patted a golden retriever.
Afterward, we checked out some new buildings around Stanford’s sandstone campus.
J on the sidelines.
Higher education grove of palms.
A car not worthy of a cover, though I suspect its owner with the leather patches on his tweed coat believes otherwise.
Theft prevention: golf cart edition.
J’s super punch.
Haha, it says “Leland.”
Light and shadow.
Hiding in the shrubs.
On the way back from the university, we stopped at Fort Funston to watch people hang gliding. The wind was ideal, and dozens of people were birds.
Last weekend was mellow. J and I took two walks on Saturday for both breakfast and lunch.
Nobody can break into this vacant lot filled with trash.
Freshly showered and ready to stroll.
The world’s shortest hand rail.
Stupid Mario Bros.
The remains of a wash and fold fire on California.
A bundle of charred clothes.
Shredded moped seat.
Bike racks ready for concert goers make excellent hurdles.
Pink lady flowers in black and white.
On Sunday, I walked in search of the Full House house and Cottage Row.
A spooky driveway.
Nobody is going to break into this vacant plant nursery lot.
Did you check out the melons? It’s like a Total Recall prostitute festival over there.
Harnessing the mystic power of hood ornamental.
Not as full as it used to be.
A neighborly compromise.
Cottage Row was a letdown not even worthy of posting a photo.
I did not see Bob Saget or even one of the Olsen twins.