Sep
23
2012
0
Jul
01
2012
0
Sep
13
2009
3

If Your Dog Has a T-Shirt, You Don’t Need a Handout

Let me preface this by saying that you all know how I feel about dog clothes.

Yesterday, I exited the Metreon (saw Extract — meandering but appealing story, kind of a softer, nicer Coen Brothers movie.  Not worth $11 to see it on a big screen) and made it 3 feet before a woman asked me for change.  

Now, it doesn’t inherently bother me when people on the street asked me for money.  I don’t usually give it, but I don’t Meccanize panhandling.  And I would have just walked on by en route to the Container Store to salivate over organizational devices when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the “dog” she had with her.

It was a runty, sniffly, wimpy chihuahua…and it was wearing a t-shirt.  Not just any t-shirt, though — a fitted, designer t-shirt.  Yes, I stared long enough and closely enough to see.  No, that does not make me the weird one in this scenario.

For starters, this dog was not a homeless person’s dog.  HP dogs are mangy, scrappy little pieces of shit that just want to be loved.  This dog clearly wouldn’t dane to rest its un-shoed paws on old newspapers gingerly laid down over the cold, dirty sidewalks of SF.  

The questions began flying through my head:

– If this woman an afford to dress her dog, why does she need a handout from me?

– Are her priorities so out of whack that she spent hard-panhandled money on dog clothes instead of alcohol or drugs, in which case, do I really want to reward that behavior?  

– Even if she rooted through trash to find that t-shirt (which, she didn’t, because it was gleaming white as if brand new…ok, so I really looked closely…), she was willing to put the energy in to fashionably clothe her pet but not to pop into a homeless shelter for free food?  

Taking a step back, I was also annoyed that this woman doesn’t seem to get how to be a successful homeless person acheter viagra sur le net.  If you want people to have sympathy and give you money, you don’t do things that make them think you don’t need it.  It’s a tough game out there — on the world stage of homeless, this woman is up against singing blind children in Mumbai, teenagers in Buenos Aires selling homemade bracelets in the subway, and girls in Vietnam forced to turn tricks for food.  If I were going to give money, I’d look for utter helplessness and despair — missing limbs, leaky eyes — not a well-groomed dog cloaked in a $300 piece of fabric.   I don’t think this woman takes her job seriously. 

Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags: ,
Sep
06
2009
2

Deep Phat Fried

In college, I was privileged to be a part of a small group of innovative, enthusiastic students who purchased a deep fat fryer on eBay and went to town on any food we could find in the dorm. Twinkies, Oreos, cheddar Goldfish (surprisingly, delicious) — you name it, we probably fried it up and chowed it down.

I wouldn’t say I’m a pinnacle of healthy eating now — anyone who has ever been lucky enough to have a weekend breakfast in my apartment (wink, wink) knows my favorite Saturday morning meal is a ham/cheese/tomato omelette, cooked to excess, rolled in a tortilla and smothered with apple sauce — but I care a little more about maintaining a healthy lifestyle than I used to. That said, I love fat as much as the next person.  Probably more.

Which is why when I saw this, I was caught somewhere between revulsion and glee.

I can’t decide what makes me happier: the possibility of grape-flavored fried butter or this quote:

“An order of fried butter will get you three or four pieces of piping-hot dough in a little cardboard boat.  ‘Any more than that and I think it would be a little bit too much,’ Gonzales said. ‘A little bit too rich.'”

Oh, Gonzales, your sincerity and seeming lack of irony makes my tiny heart go ‘a pitter patter.  [Insert obvious joke about arteries here.]

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags:
Sep
05
2009
0

The Word of the Law vs. The Spirit of the Law

I’ve never been one of those “rules are made to be broken” types, and I understand that sometimes it is necessary to follow rules to a T. You bet your butt I’m the first person to turn off my electronics before takeoff and landing, and I return my library books on time. However, I think there is a time and a place for thinking for oneself even in the face of rules.  That time was this week, and that place was a Bank of America in Tampa.

As a former B of A patron myself (’twas a glorious year where I flirted with the cute bank teller each month when I went to deposit my rent checks into our apartment’s joint account), I am very familiar with their regulations and requirements.  That said, I’m pretty sure having no real thumbs (by way of having no arms) is just about the best possible excuse for not being able to provide a fingerprint.

This guy’s life is likely challenging enough without having some mid-level staffer hassle him about fingerprints after he was clearly able to prove his identity.  And I know, I know, it’s a dangerous precedent to set to say that “differently abeled” (urge…to…make…offensive comment…so…strong…) should get special treatment, but it’s not like he was asking for a unicorn. He proved his identity — all he asked was for someone to think for himself and realize that sometimes the word of the law fits a little too snuggly for comfort.

I bet my cute B of A teller would have let an armless man cash a check.

B of A, Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags: ,
Aug
16
2009
1

Some Pig

Once again, my blogging hiatus is coming to an end.  I plan to post consistently from now on, especially since there is a whole new crop of supremely irritating things I can cover.

First up: swine flu really grinds my gears.  Until recently, the only direct effects I have felt from the ailment is the glares I get on the bus whenever I sneeze or cough.  I have allergies.  I can’t help it.  That said, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the extra space I get as people edge away from me.

Today, swine flu has been elevated to more than mere muni bother. Why?  A dear, darling friend of mine was recently diagnosed with it.  I was informed only minutes ago, and I (rarely speechless) didn’t know what to say.  Torn between laying down a hugely inappropriate and tasteless joke and being sympathetic and mature… well, you can probably guess which route I took.  I’ll give you a hint: the former, followed by a guilt-driven latter.

Now, maybe everyone else already knows people who have been afflicted.  Maybe I have just been fortunate enough to have been blessed with a friend group with exceptionally strong immune systems.  But the news of said ailment caught me off guard.  And it wasn’t just me.  When he prompted his girlfriend with “I’m sick.  Guess what I have?” the responses were (in order of descending absurdity): The Plague, Polio, Swine Flu.

He’ll be fine, but I want to dedicate this post to him.  Be brave, dear boy.  In the mean time, I am going to finish masticating  this giant ham sandwich as a silent, delicious protest of the disease.

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags:
Jun
10
2009
2

Are You Not Entertained?

When I first moved to SF, I was a victim of a bird attack.  

A vicious little Magpie flew into me, dug its little Magpie claws into my head and pecked me with its little Magpie beak, drawing blood.  Painful and embarrassing .  

When I called the urgent care center to ask if I needed to get any shots in the wake of the avian assault, a doctor informed me that during the Spring, Magpies often get territorial and attack “dogs and other small animals” that get too close to their nests.  I waited for the doctor to add “and humans” to his list of Magpie targets, but, sadly, he did not.  Painful and embarrassing, part 2.

For the past two days, a Magpie has been attacking unsuspecting pedestrians outside of my office building.  CNN even aired video footage this morning.

Here is where Meccanization comes in.  Instead of offering warning, people in the know simply stand around taking pictures on their cell phone cameras, pointing and laughing.  Knowing the emotional scars that accompany being dive-bombed by a bird in public, I feel the need to Meccanize the dozens of people who are standing outside right now, waiting to be entertained by these violent encounters.  

Then again, maybe it is just human nature, and can I really Meccanize that?  Thousands of years ago, it was the Romans being entertained by gladiators fighting to the death.  (I learned a lot from Russell Crowe.)  Today, it is a bunch of suit-clad corporate types giggling like children  as their peers are harassed by a bird.  Is this just a modern manifestation of an ever-present cultural affinity for violence and humiliation?  My pretentious meter just spiked big time, but it’s an interesting question.

Meccanizable or not, yesterday I had a ‘Nam-quality flashback of that horrifying day two years ago when I was pecked outside of Safeway.  And I will continue to walk 2 blocks out of my way every day to get to my office until these senseless attacks stop.

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags:
May
25
2009
0

New Career Direction: Street Musician?

As I was practicing guitar at the edge of Lafayette Park on this beautiful if chilly day, a man walked by and tossed a dollar into my open guitar case.

You.  Are.  Kidding me.

I was stunned speechless for a few minutes, but then I actually started considering the possibilities.   Get better at guitar and earn a little extra money?  Abso-freaking-loutely!

I played for about another hour without any more tips, but I’m not giving up hope yet.

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags: ,
May
14
2009
2

How Not To Get the Girl: Volume 1

Gentlemen, take note.

Lesson #1: If you are going to propose to a girl on a street corner with a Cheerio (I know my hands are small, but that is a little overboard), you can not throw the box at her when she walks past and ignores you.

Fortunately, Cheerios don’t stain. Awkward, however, leaves a lasting mark. And there are few things more awkward than getting hit with a cardboard box in the middle of the Mission and then having to crunch over pieces of cereal as you walk away…head held high.

This city’s endless supply of crazy, you are Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags:
Mar
31
2009
2

New Nickname

Yoo-Hoo.  Shorty.  Schmecca.  Meccalizer.  Tiny dancer.  I’ve had a wide variety of nicknames in my 25 years.  I can now add another one to the list:

PPH girl.

You know what that stands for?  Pesto-Parmesan Ham Girl.  You know who gave me that nickname?  The deli employees of Mollie Stone’s.

Full disclosure: I like pesto-parmesan ham.  I order a quarter pound of it pretty much every week.  I use it to make sandwiches and omelets and ham and cheese quesadillas.   And, sure, maybe it has been a few…months…since I have gotten any other deli meat.  But there are always different servers, so it didn’t even occur to me that anyone would notice.

Well, apparently, deli people talk.  And, also apparently, I am the only person who consistently orders pesto-parmesan ham.   Hence the nickname, “Pesto-Parmesan Ham Girl” (or PPH, for the cool kids).  In fact, the man who served me tonight told me that there was a bet going as to if PPH would finish the entire slab of meat all on her own (and how long it would take her to do so) — he could have been kidding, but I’m not so sure.

Of course, he told me this as he was slicing me a quarter pound of…what else…pesto-parmesan ham.  I felt compelled to buy something else at the deli counter just to prove that I couldn’t be pigeonholed that easily.  So, right now, I am staring at a container of salmon covered with mango salsa.  You know what that mango salsa has in it?  Cilantro.  Foiled again.

It alarms me that my life has become so routine that the local deli has a nickname for me.  It alarms me more that my inner-competitiveness is driving me to continue to order pesto-parmesan ham until I finish the whole slab (just to prove that I can).

Written by lindsay in: The Ridiculous | Tags: ,

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