Home again, home again

At home, I use one of my dining room* chairs at my desk, purely because it is more aesthetically pleasing than some kind of appropriate desk chair. However, it also sucks for sitting and typing for any length of time. I wanted you to know I am suffering for my art/for your amusement, the two things being more or less intertwined. (The art [which is a term I employ in this context only while snorting with laughter] and your amusement, not suffering and your amusement. I like to think you're nicer than that.) Anyway, I just went to fetch a more comfortable chair from the kitchen and said to myself "A'ight. Let's do some blogging up in here." I find it very entertaining to talk to myself** (and select others) in the manner of a hip-hop star. I think this is partially because I am the least likely hip-hop star in the world and partially because I still can't quite believe that hip hop became a mainstream thing. Back in 1988 when Amy stayed with us for the summer and we came across my brother's copy of Word Up magazine, headlines such as "Flava Flav Dissed Melle Mel" did not seem to be comprised of real words. Did we laugh? Yes. Indeed, did we laugh all summer long and hide notes saying "Flava Flav Dissed Melle Mel" in the kitchen cabinets for each other to find? Um....yes. I guess you could say we dissed both Mr. Flav and Mr. Mel. But I think it's safe to say that they had the last laugh.

*I do not want to mislead you into thinking I have a dining room. I do not have a dining room, nor do I imagine being able to afford a place with a dining room any time in the foreseeable future. I do, however, have a table that would like to be in a dining room and that table has chairs. All of these reside in the living room, in close proximity to the [small] desk. You know who does have a dining room? Flava Flav. I know. Who's a joke now, sucka?

**I also talk to myself in a normal way all but constantly. If talking to oneself "in a normal way" is a thing that is possible. Beware of living alone for 15 years. Particularly if you are chatty.

Today was a typical San Francisco sort of day.
1. The sun never came out. I wore a wool coat.

2. I was going to take the J Church to an appointment that was about a block from the Van Ness station, but for some reason the J Church wasn't running today. In general, the J Church and I have a fairly antagonistic relationship. I took BART. BART does not go to the Van Ness station. I was late.

3. Despite the grey, grey, greyness, people were out summering. I had tea at Two Sisters Bar and Books which meets all my aesthetic needs (cozy, books, charming, atmosphere-appropriate soundtrack played at background volume. Nicely done.) and many other people went to the beer garden nearby, just as though it were sunny.

4. I walked home (ten million blocks. Take that, Olympians.) down Valencia and passed FOUR restaurants I have never seen before in my life. I was only gone a few weeks. Sheesh. Culinary San Francisco is a slippery character. One of the places is a fancy pizzaria with exciting tile and doors that I find pleasing. (They're newly painted with glossy black paint and they have enormous wooden doorknobs right in the middle. If I were a proper blogger, I would have an Instagram photo of them, obviously, but you know this is a pretty rinky dink operation. Here's a link. You can go there yourself and Instagram the HELL out of it.) I look forward to going there, stuffing myself with pizza, and pretending I'm still in Italy, which should be easy since it, much like Italy, will be full of Americans. Next to it is a concrete place (San Francisco, please stop making all your restaurants out of concrete. Thank you.) that apparently serves all sorts of treats. Nothing about concrete says "come get treats here" to me, but I'm not very cool. Their menu belies their industrial posturing.

5. I think my neighbors may be borrowing some additional child for the evening? A child that cries relentlessly in a manner not unlike a siren? By which I mean an ambulance siren or similar, not a sultry seductress of sailors. Sigh. Surely their own, slightly quieter, baby would suffice. For the record, in Switzerland, you can't hear the neighbors. Also, they have the Alps. Not that I require the Alps at all, but they are impressive.