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Brain Dump
Aug. 7th, 2010 01:18 amThe Governator and Attorney-General-Governor-Candidate(-D) Jerry Brown went on record in favor of allowing gay marriage while this week's Prop 8 decision is appealed. (For those just joining us, Proposition 8 was challenged as soon as the LGBT community could pull its collective jaw off the floor. Likewise, the district court decision that struck down Prop 8 was appealed about 30 seconds after the ruling.) I'm no jurist, but I think this is a hopeful bellwether for the eventual case settlement.
I am terrifically tempted to use money I don't have and an employee discount in pursuit of a car and Perseid meteors. It's been the sort of week that encourages recklessness.
Work on Friday was surprisingly fun: an evening event where I got to skip out at the end of my shift, circulate through the other booths (and grab some of the freebies), skip back in time to cadge a ride home, and drive the luxe car. Sweet!
(Incidentally, driving a BMW 328 in San Francisco is the definition of frustration. The stop-to-green-light handling was sluggish, and the car just felt kind of stiff. The handling reminded me of the Mazda Millenia, which isn't happy until you achieve third or fourth gear: an ephemeral feat in stop-and-go city traffic.)
In summer, San Francisco by night is a splendid vision: fog cuts the financial district somewhere between 15 and 50 stories, reinventing lofty buildings as true sky-scrapers, windows glowing in the orange-backed haze. SoMa's drunks - the Adams-Morgan of San Francisco? The parking is better, probably - fling themselves across five lanes of almost-absent traffic. As close as Marin and Brisbane, the stars might peep through the damp and cool, but the City proper swarms with water vapor. New Yorkers might consider their city-state the end-all thanks to land consumption and population; San Franciscans might achieve the same self-absorption by grace of weather.
I am terrifically tempted to use money I don't have and an employee discount in pursuit of a car and Perseid meteors. It's been the sort of week that encourages recklessness.
Work on Friday was surprisingly fun: an evening event where I got to skip out at the end of my shift, circulate through the other booths (and grab some of the freebies), skip back in time to cadge a ride home, and drive the luxe car. Sweet!
(Incidentally, driving a BMW 328 in San Francisco is the definition of frustration. The stop-to-green-light handling was sluggish, and the car just felt kind of stiff. The handling reminded me of the Mazda Millenia, which isn't happy until you achieve third or fourth gear: an ephemeral feat in stop-and-go city traffic.)
In summer, San Francisco by night is a splendid vision: fog cuts the financial district somewhere between 15 and 50 stories, reinventing lofty buildings as true sky-scrapers, windows glowing in the orange-backed haze. SoMa's drunks - the Adams-Morgan of San Francisco? The parking is better, probably - fling themselves across five lanes of almost-absent traffic. As close as Marin and Brisbane, the stars might peep through the damp and cool, but the City proper swarms with water vapor. New Yorkers might consider their city-state the end-all thanks to land consumption and population; San Franciscans might achieve the same self-absorption by grace of weather.
