Somebody received a robot butler today and discarded the packaging out on the sidewalk

Maybe it’s a public service: someone can live in it.

[via Motley Goods on Instagram]

Hot new look for Indian summer

[via Melissa]

No greater horror in life than splitting the check

Former local blogger Ramona tells us all about it:

There is no greater horror (in a life with few horrors) than getting the check after dining or drinking with a large group of people. The worst worst time is when everyone has cash except for you, so they’re like “How about you put it on your card and we’ll give you money?” That innocent sounding “How about…” always ends with you putting $200 on your debit card and them handing you 16 crumpled ones, and you being like, “What the fuck?” and everyone being like “I put in the correct amount PLUS a little extra for tax,” and then turning back to their conversations to leave you to be evicted from your apartment. The best worst time is when some extremely chill person who has never been out to dinner before is like “Just give me your cash and I’ll put it on my card,” and you’re like “Okay,” but are thinking: welcome to hell motherfucker.

Read on for Ramona’s latest check-splitting horror, at an outdoor bar in Brooklyn.

[Photo by Honey Jets]

I went swimming in the bay today; where did you go swimming?

And the water was waaaaaarm. Like Santa Monica in October warm. Serious.

See me?

Should you say ‘in Potrero Hill’ or ‘on Potrero Hill’?

As part of a digression in a great post about Thomassons (objects in cities that are useless but still remain, like these hitching posts from the days of horses in SF), TK from 40 going on 28 poses a question:

When you’re saying something is located in a neighborhood that ends in “Hill,” do you say “in” or “on”?  Like, I say “You know, Thee Parkside, over on Potrero Hill,” or “That is the douchiest place on Russian Hill, and that’s saying something.”  Sally obviously prefers the “in” usage, as in “My bro sold his startup to Google and bought a place in Rincon Hill.”  Is either one right or are they both cool?  I don’t know.  *shrugs*

Tough one! Maybe think geographically? Thee Parkside is technically in the Potrero Hill neighborhood, but it is not on the hill. So I’d say “in.” Whereas Blooms Saloon is definitely *on* Potrero Hill, so maybe I’d say, “Blooms, on Potrero Hill.” Or would I? Hard to say.

The time my cousin Jono prevented a fight by dancing his ass off, while the Strokes played ‘New York City Cops’ in the distance

We’re in a tightly packed crowd, pretty far back, for the closing set of FYF 2014 by headliners the Strokes. They’ve just finished, but we just know they’re coming back for an encore. People are starting to stream out though, and amidst the chaos, some guy shoves another guy, the other guy shoves back, the crowd parts around them. It’s gonna get real.

But then, the Strokes (off in the distance) launch into “New York City Cops” (which is poignant already for its 9/11-related history and what’s happening currently with the NYPD) and my cousin Jono (who incidentally just won an Emmy) launches into the middle of the two guys and starts *boogying down*. The tough guys that were about to fight each other look confused for a moment and then go their separate ways. The rest of the crowd swarms in around Jono and we all dance and sing and shout along to the chorus.

Anger diffused by dancing. Violence prevented by party.

Let’s rock:

[Photo by Stephano Higuera]

Does the bartender who seems to like you really actually like you?

Local veteran barfly David Enos thinks not:

Group of cool guys on the train tonight, each with khakis, thick frame glasses, desert boots, hoodies.  ”Cantina’s where its at because the bartender knows us, he knows us, we’re down.  We go in, our table’s the focal point, we can get loud and not be kicked out.  I, personally, have gotten into some awesome conversations with random people in there.  We start a fight, the bartender’s on our side, he’s fightin’ with us, know what I mean?” I guarantee that the bartender of this establishment hates these cretins to the core.

Ouch. Read on for some thoughts on whether or not these guys are good tippers.

[Photo by Honey Jets]

Do-it-yourself pothole fix

Think something like this would work on that really persistent nasty hole on 21st?

The beholder’s eye

“It’s a clue.” he said as he slammed it down on my desk. I couldn’t see what he had put down. Firstly, because my eyes were closed. Secondly, because I wasn’t sitting at my desk, I was curled up beneath it. Vic, Helen and I had closed down the Latin American the night before. Or was it this morning? In any case, we had also opened it up this afternoon. That kind of week. I had gone back to the office to get some blogging in, but I don’t think I actually did any. And now all I could see were three pint-sized margaritas floating in front of me. I swatted at them fruitlessly.

“Hey. Hey!” Allan’s low top sneaker kicked me in the arm. “I need you on this. And I need it now.”

I was lying on what felt like a burrito butt and a gum wrapper was stuck to my cheek. My maid was on vacation. “Did you bring me coffee?” I croaked from my little dusty bed. It was just about five, and I couldn’t get as far into the afternoon daylight as I used to be able to without some slow drip.

“I’ll put a pot on. Let’s get to work,” Allan’s kicky feet walked away from my desk. “Commenters want to know, is this art?” I slowly crept out and slithered into my chair. The sideways sunlight cut through the office fog of dust, slicing it to ribbons with help from broken and uneven venetians.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, finally getting a look at the photo. It was an oddly shaped paint dribble. It almost seemed accidental, but something about the curvature suggested intent. Allan was hot on the trail of a new tagger in town. Someone who approached every untouched spot in the city like a beautifully blank surface with the potential to be a new Mona Lisa. Or at least one of Reyes’ letters.

“Don’t worry about that, just suss out the meaning.” Allan plopped a full coffee mug on my desk. The sound of porcelain against oak was pleasing. As was the hot drop that splashed out and burned my hand, teasingly. I took a long sip, searing the roof of my mouth and probably also my throat. The Mission Mission office’s snack budget didn’t reach as far as the fancy neighborhood boutique cafes. This was brown bean water. But it would do.

Half an hour later, I had this.

I brought it to Allan. He was lost in thought. “Someone’s been passive aggressively hate-faving my tweets. Can I just disable all engagement?”

I didn’t know. “I don’t know,” I responded. “Here’s your image.”

“Ariel. You’re so literal. This is quirky and whimsical, but it’s not what I need. This goofy lil’ ankle biter, this isn’t what we’re after. It’s great, it’s fine. You did your best. But take a look at these. I went ahead and had Extra Pizza Toppings take her own crack, and I think she found it. I think she found both of it.”

And he was right. She found something. “Go with this,” I said, “Something about people looking like their pets.”

“Huh.” Allan frowned. “Could it really be that banal?”

“You can’t spell banal without anal.” I grabbed my whisky flask from the middle drawer of my desk.

“What they hell is that?”

“I dunno. A joke? A headline? An out of context status update?” I grabbed my hoodie off the rack and flung the door open. “I’m meeting a commenter who’s ready to go legit, I’ll find you at The Alley, I’ll be there by the time the sun burns into Sutro.” I closed the door behind me, this day had posed too many questions and I was all out of answers. I stepped out onto Mission Street and stumbled East into the Capp Street wind.

What should I be?

I looked it up:

Into it! Now can we get a shirt says “Capp Street is for Flaneurs” please?

[via DJ Primo]