Sunday, September 9, 2007

San Francisco

San Francisco's a cool city. The downtown area is a long stretch full of places to spend money. The streets have steep inclines in some areas. Too steep for motor scooters or segways perhaps. Too steep for elderly types who you find dead in a power outage heat wave for sure. Too steep for out of shapes, skateboarders, skinny women in high heels. There are very steep inclines in San Francisco. Even more than in Seattle, which also has steep inclines in their downtown area. Both have many Starbucks. Every other place is a Starbucks. Everyone's breath smells like Starbucks. Except the doorman at the hotel. His breath smells like a warm blanket because his eyes are nice.

I didn't bring a coat and it is cold here. The news paper predicts the temperature to run between 60-90. That's a thirty degree difference. And that's the HIGH. They say it stays that way because of the ocean's water temperature being consistent and the breezes coming off the top intercepting any sunshine or cold. That sometimes in the summer all of the sudden it's hot, then cold, and if you drive down the road to visit your granny, five minutes away, it's cold there even if it was hot where you were. This talk had nothing to do with small talk. I was cold when I got to San Francisco, before I bought warm clothes and a shawl. I wanted to know why.

If I were an asshole I'd say, "Thanks nobody, for telling me to pack warm clothes and a scarf or something," but I won't do that. I'll just let myself feel stupid for not knowing about the weather in San Francisco beforehand. For not doing my research. I don't mind recognizing my own stupidity. I like myself that much.

There are a lot of rainbows everywhere too. Not the kind that come from rain that are really pretty to look at in the distance in the sky with fabled pots of gold at the bottom either. I've seen women with very narrow hips and pretty faces with caked on make-up. They had uptight looks on their faces. Mean expressions. I deconstruct the women, wonder what they'd look like waking up next to me, if their voices would transmography into a tuba. I'd ask them if they wanted coffee and they'd say, "Yes, please, thank you." They'd tell me about their asshole father and their very nice mother in her very nice pink slippers, curlers, her warm breasts. We'd go for pie.

1 comment:

Robert said...

I heard Mark Twain said something about the summers in San Francisco being cold.
For real, I heard that. Years ago. Not recently. Not today.
I also hear it's pretty much great anywhere you go.
I read that in a book once. One of those serious books. Really.

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