Wandering Around San Francisco in steel toed boots.
I didn't take advantage of it enough while I was there, but I did walk everywhere once V found me. She dragged me out onto the town and took me to nooks and crannies of the city that I had never been to.
Tonight, Chris arrived at the 2600 meeting so late that he didn't arrive a the 2600 meeting at all. He arrived at Powell street station, and the two of us walked to Tommy's Joint where Dan jumped down upon us from a great hight. His agile, but small, form sprang from the impact crater and fired immediately skyward once more. Chris left a message. Two, actually.
Chris bought me dinner, a good thing since I had been wandering through the bowels of the Hyatt at embarcadero searching for table leavings. I got a glass of water while lawyers in the next room watched a man on a television set and took notes. I sipped my water, then poured the rest back into the pitcher. I then went to poop just before the lawyers had a bathroom break. I sat and shat whilst all around me not a single person knew who I was. But for that moment, I was one of them. I was drinking their water, and pooping in their bathroom.
Only one of them saw me, and we intersected at the sinks. My sink had no soap. I was forced to move closer to him, breaking the Men's room code of ethics. I rinsed the soap off my hands for a good long time, giving himj plenty of space to use the only towel dispenser. My hands still feel clean as I write this.
I've written something very naughty, but I shant link to it. Those who know can look at my Slashdot Journal. It is, indeed, rather naugfhty.
Anyway, back at Tommy's Joint, I inhaled corned beef, but they had no cabbage. I was insensed. Aside from that, it was wodnerful. Barrel of free pickles, horseradish and hot mustard on the table. Giants beating the piss out of the Rockies on the TV.
I miss my Orioles. Even when they're down, I love them dearly, but that fucker John Miller is out broadcasting the games here now. It's nice to hear that firmiliar voice. If you squint real hard at the Giants, their stadium looks like Camden Yards. And the Giants wear that orange and black. Good old orange and black.
Chris ate an entire turkey leg -- though haunch was more acurate -- a french dip steak sandwich, and a bowl of tomato salad. And then we went to the Mission.
I made a point of walking Chris past the Power Exchange to prove to him that he really had no clue where it was. We then walked past the condemned armory building in which the 6 foot rats and homeless people live. Those that are not six feet are required to live on the streets near 15th and Mission. There is even a little sign that says "you must be this tall to enter this crackhouse."
Leif and Jesse were off at Planet Work setting up the wireless network for them. They came and got us. It's ncie to have young friends who are willing to drive for you. When we arrived back at the Presidio and swapped cars (After curry), two racoons accosted Chris and Leif. Chris' reared up and snapped at him like a thing posessed. Leif's rolled over and asked for a belly rub, which Leif gave it happily. Then Chris' attacked a wooden beaver that was protruding from the lawn in front of the conference, and across the street from Internet Archive. After a few moments, the biting began to turn into what looked much more like a leasurable experience for both the beaver and the racoon.
Finally, it dropped to the ground, chittered and gave Chris the finger. Then it ran into the bushes. Chris looked after it, raising, his own hand and flipping the thing off into the dark Presidio sky. "Keep Voting!" He shouted at it.
Indeed, Chris, indeed. Keep Voting. Keep on Voting.