Two days in SF

We just got back from San Francisco yesterday. Not my favorite city in California. Yes, it’s beautiful, yes the cool weather, flowers, amazing architecture, the hills, the adventure of it all is appealing. But every time I go to San Francisco something horrible happens. Like getting screamed at by street lunatics, having a Marin County Encounter (Northern Californians who have a philosophical problem with the existence of Los Angeles), having a street junky OD on top of or underneath my car, and having to involve the authorities. Haunted hotel rooms. The six-month pre-planning required if you want to go to a restaurant. Visiting friends who live further and further away from the things they moved to San Francisco for. Trying to drive and or park a car in San Francisco. Trying to walk and not be chased by a street lunatic for six blocks. Lastly, for a tech hub, the cell service is really shitty there, probably because NIMBYS won’t allow cellphone towers anywhere near their precious miracle babies. Needs MOAR earthquake if you ask me.

All I do is complain and express ingratitude for the amazing opportunities and experiences I am provided.

It was DOGs first trip anywhere. Dean has always had this fear that Dog would not do well on a long car ride. I’m not sure why. Plus it was an easily disproven fear but one that never was challenged — for six years of his life, Dog has been on house arrest. Yes, he would go to the park and I’d take him in the car to places around the city, but he’d never been on an overnight away trip. Dean’s uncle’s husband invited us to SF and said, “Bring the dog.” Since it’s eight million dollars to hire a dog sitter, plus you have to book six months in advance, Dean finally allowed Dog to come with. He was great. After an hour he settled down in the back seat, head propped on the center console, happy to be along for the ride. Now his nails, trimmed and buffed for the visit, did scratch the living fuck out of Dean’s Uncle’s Husband’s floors. His victorian hardwood floors. Fortunately I got on the internet and figured out how to buff that shit out before we were out on the street. I must remember to write a thank you letter to Dean’s Uncle’s Husband for inviting us in the first place. Dean’s Uncle has Alzheimers and is at the stage where he can’t speak, is starting to not be able to feed himself and has most recently wandered out of the house and collapsed in the garden in the middle of the night. They live in a beautiful house and are RICH. Like seriously rich because you can’t live in San Francisco if you’re not. No single-digit millionaires are allowed. (See above about not liking San Francisco). Anyhow, Dean’s Uncle has the kind of round-the-clock care and preservation of dignity that in the U.S. can only be obtained at great financial expense. I fully expect that once one of my trap doors of mortality opens up, I’ll be put out on the curb for Thursday morning trash pick up. If you’re a single-digit millionaire or lower on the financial ladder you can expect aging and end of life to be synonymous with poverty. Thanks Republicans. Hope voting against your own interests for reasons of racism and fear was worth it.