Two friends on the way to a club, dishing out workplace gossip with an urgency of apocalypse looming: “You believe Brook? She almost seems sane but did you notice how stuck she is on her husband? Cute yet sad. She thinks sun never sets on his ass. And he is such a dork. Maybe he has hidden talents. Haha. By the way, Ali’s hair: what is that product he uses, it’s like “Coming To America” hair, seriously, we should do a collection to have it relaxed. And do you think Alex is such an ice-queen of a boss? You love her? That’s insane. She is constantly on me with some leadership BS. ‘Lateral thinking Shereeen’ which by the way is how she says my name. Who sent her to that seminar? She thinks she is channeling Jeff Bezos. And Nicole? OMG, I cannot even, light of the party in reverse. Not someone to take to karaoke... she would break the fun machine. SO white girl square.” She notices me. “No offense honey, some of my best friends are white” To which they laugh hysterically. “So where do you guys work?” I ask “As if, we would have to kill you” I tell them if they keep it up I will drive extra slow and we will never make it to the club, since I need material for my blog, and they are *material*. “Shit, you have a blog? Can you make me 2 sizes smaller?” So there. She was size 4. I swear. |
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"Are you guys in tech?" I ask 3 clearly-in-tech youngsters headed to the Train of Dreams (CalTrain to Palo Alto) station.
"No", one answers "we are in nuclear fusion." I think of all the places where I wouldn't take this at face value.
"Silicon Valley is stealing our best talent." Says the Wall Street suit.
"I cannot even tell you how much that worries me" I say, poker-faced.
Teslas are the most overrated cars on the road, says the GM engineer.
It’s the hottest day in San Francisco in 150 years and my guy is wearing a suit in the middle of the afternoon, while waiting all alone in front of a church.
“Wedding or a funeral?” I ask as soon as he gets in, turning the AC vent, already pumping at 11, straight onto his reddened midwestern face. “I play the organ for whatever they got” he says, unbuttoning the too-chic-for-the-job jacket on his portly torso. “Sounds like a fun gig?” “Actually a full time thing” he says “I am not complaining, I make money playing music” “And are you one with the message?” I ask, meaning the church. “No” and then he makes a growling sound followed by some mild wheezing as the if the question brought on an asthma attack. “I suppose I subscribe to somewhat biblical version of afterlife. Being brought up catholic and all.” “Oh yeah?” I say “And what would this even look like?” “I basically imagine tastefully done interior with brilliant hues and rainbows and clouds where you wander around in the best version of your body and you still get to eat wonderful food.. “Yeah but do you poop?” I ask “And also have sex with really hot guys.” he says, ignoring my question. “So your version of heaven is pretty much an all hours club in the Castro” “Now that you put it that way..” “What part of the bible…” “I don’t think it exactly says that. This is just my ballpark interpretation” He pauses. “But I feel strongly it is correct”
Another waxing salon technician (I seem to get disproportionate amount of them) talking about her job and her work environment: yes, vulvas differ greatly. But the two basic models she thinks of as tacos and super tacos. They both require equal amount of wax.
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also san franciscoA ridesharing driver, artist and a commentator operating out of San Francisco. A r c h i v e s
September 2016
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