Moving to the new neighborhood has changed my experience of the city immeasurably. Generally speaking, I always lived just outside of the happening neighborhoods, exchanging activity for lower rent. It was fine as long as I had two-wheeled transportation and, more importantly, motivation to make the trek to whatever activity was going on. But my homebody tendencies are strong, and more often than not, I'd wind up lollygagging at home instead of socializing. (Exceptions were made for shows at the Empty Bottle, a three-block walk from my house.)
Now I live a block off the main drag, on what is probably the prettiest street in the Mission. I'm surprised by how much happier I am in general now that there are things to do where I live. If I want hot cocoa, there are three decent places within a two-minute walk. Late-night Coke? A block away. (Probably late-night coke, too, but obviously I have no interest in that.) Poori, pupusas, pizza, croissants, ice cream, everything so close.
These are some of my favorite neighborhood characters:
Beardy bookstore boy was sympathetic when Minou went missing, and he allowed me to post my handmade sign in the bookstore's window. Whenever I buy a book, he is friendly in the way that makes me think he'll be labeled "jolly" when he's someday a roly-poly septuagenarian.
The Commuter has freckles and bright eyes. I noticed her shortly after moving to the neighborhood, observing that riding MUNI with cute lesbians on the J rather than angry teenage thugs on the 31 was an upgrade. We wound up randomly meeting each other at a bar on St. Patrick's Day — I knew she looked familiar but couldn't place it — and now we catch up with each other whenever our commutes collide. Sometimes I feel embarrassed because she works to help homeless people find jobs and assistance, whereas my job is not nearly as socially important.
Speaking of lesbians, gruff video store guy and I argue about whether Bound deserves to be called a neo-noir. (I say yes; he says no.) I love my local video store because the workers leave little notes on the cases, and they clearly love cinema. It costs more to rent from them than it does to load up Netflix, but I think I am going to let my red-envelope habit fade away.
Mr. Pretentious lives up to his nickname, always dropping philosophers' names to see if I'm stumped or impressed. He is tedious and yet I enjoy disliking him, which is why he's on the list.
I don't drink too often, but sometimes Barbara is a bad influence, and we will have a post-work glass of wine or two. The last time we did this, I later teetered into the coffee shop for hot cocoa, where HFT Barista flirted with me. It was all very confusing, because somehow she knows my name, and she said I was, quote, striking. Of course I was tipsy and flustered by this, because somehow it is more flattering to have a lady flatter you than a dude. It is more likely that she is not HFT at all, that in my blotto state I started making things up in my mind, but it's nicer to imagine that someone has a crush on you than not.
Sad married guy sometimes gets on the train at the same time I do. He looks like the kind of guy who is stuck in a loveless marriage. I don't know why I think this, but the guy just has this look of quiet defeat, and I manufacture domestic dramas for him in my mind. Other times, Fake Paul Krugman gets on the train.
Now I live a block off the main drag, on what is probably the prettiest street in the Mission. I'm surprised by how much happier I am in general now that there are things to do where I live. If I want hot cocoa, there are three decent places within a two-minute walk. Late-night Coke? A block away. (Probably late-night coke, too, but obviously I have no interest in that.) Poori, pupusas, pizza, croissants, ice cream, everything so close.
These are some of my favorite neighborhood characters:
Beardy bookstore boy was sympathetic when Minou went missing, and he allowed me to post my handmade sign in the bookstore's window. Whenever I buy a book, he is friendly in the way that makes me think he'll be labeled "jolly" when he's someday a roly-poly septuagenarian.
The Commuter has freckles and bright eyes. I noticed her shortly after moving to the neighborhood, observing that riding MUNI with cute lesbians on the J rather than angry teenage thugs on the 31 was an upgrade. We wound up randomly meeting each other at a bar on St. Patrick's Day — I knew she looked familiar but couldn't place it — and now we catch up with each other whenever our commutes collide. Sometimes I feel embarrassed because she works to help homeless people find jobs and assistance, whereas my job is not nearly as socially important.
Speaking of lesbians, gruff video store guy and I argue about whether Bound deserves to be called a neo-noir. (I say yes; he says no.) I love my local video store because the workers leave little notes on the cases, and they clearly love cinema. It costs more to rent from them than it does to load up Netflix, but I think I am going to let my red-envelope habit fade away.
Mr. Pretentious lives up to his nickname, always dropping philosophers' names to see if I'm stumped or impressed. He is tedious and yet I enjoy disliking him, which is why he's on the list.
I don't drink too often, but sometimes Barbara is a bad influence, and we will have a post-work glass of wine or two. The last time we did this, I later teetered into the coffee shop for hot cocoa, where HFT Barista flirted with me. It was all very confusing, because somehow she knows my name, and she said I was, quote, striking. Of course I was tipsy and flustered by this, because somehow it is more flattering to have a lady flatter you than a dude. It is more likely that she is not HFT at all, that in my blotto state I started making things up in my mind, but it's nicer to imagine that someone has a crush on you than not.
Sad married guy sometimes gets on the train at the same time I do. He looks like the kind of guy who is stuck in a loveless marriage. I don't know why I think this, but the guy just has this look of quiet defeat, and I manufacture domestic dramas for him in my mind. Other times, Fake Paul Krugman gets on the train.
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