10.31.09

dear halloween: here in sf, people really dig you.

10.30.09

dear toy store: what kind of toy is this? a disaster simulation tsunami wave maker, complete with tiny huts and trees to get washed into the sea? do you have a hurricane katrina waver maker as well?

10.29.09

dear wedding dress store near my house: this photo in your window is truly outrageous.

10.28.09

dear post office: so many specific things are prohibited– bicycles, roller skates, skate boards, shopping carts… it makes me brainstorm other things on wheels that i could roll in on just to taunt you.

10.27.09

dear coffee: have i told you, lately, that i love you?

10.26.09

dear new bus commute: you are so crammed and lurchy.

10.25.09

dear new neighborhood: the only clanging bells i have heard so far come from this church on sunday morning, and that’s fantastic.

10.24.09

dear stuff: six years and a few months ago, i moved to san francisco from the east coast with one suitcase. one bag filled with all my necessary possessions. how has that expanded this much?!

10.23.09

dear shoes: in the big box you go! minus the four pairs i kept handy, not knowing what outfits i would want to wear both friday night, and saturday during the actual move.

10.22.09

dear cable car: my last ride home from work on you. it went well, even if i did not get my favorite spot (front, right pole.) no doubt i will miss hanging onto you for dear life as you cut through the fresh air, when i am suffocating in some homeless person’s armpit on the bus, but without your clamor outside my window, i will be able to sleep again.

10.21.09

dear rocky: look at this awesome yellow fireplace!

10.20.09

dear “no sloppy seconds” guy: you got someone to write your scripture in chinese, and then you waited by the bus stop that takes people home to chinatown. a new low.

10.19.09

dear cardboard collecting men: i see you all over the city, stuffing flattened cardboard boxes into every inch of your pickup trucks. do you get money for these boxes? or are you just really into recycling?

10.18.09

dear foreign travelers: despite what you may have seen in the movies about the summer of love, here in sf, i am pretty sure it is illegal for you to be sleeping in a van front of my apartment. especially as you have been parked overnight on a one-way cable car street. i am also pretty sketched out by the fact that the pop-up roof of your “house” is just about level with my bedroom window.

10.17.09

dear bud vase set: i like the idea of you, but in reality, i don't think i could keep up with a constant collection of fresh, tiny, button-like flowers.

10.16.09

dear mechanic beacon lights: you are highly appealing to me but i do not think you would work in my home– unless i build a basement morgue.

10.15.09

dear spooky dolls: you fill a shop window in my new neighborhood. in typical san francisco fashion, the purpose of the store is undecipherable—on the right side of the storefront, i stare at the congestion that is your army of creepiness. on the left, a large statue of a purple sphinx stares out at me.

10.14.09

dear three potato four: i have been in the market for artwork and posters for my new apartment, and was jazzed to find this print from the fryeburg fair! i am pretty sure i was at that fair in 1984, watching my cousins show off their cows in the junior 4-h competition.

10.13.09

dear fellow san franciscans: why do we even bother with the umbrellas? the rain comes at us slanted, sideways and upside down. the gale-force winds invert them at every intersection. building ledges wait until we are beneath them to release a random deluge of excess water, and muni buses hurl tsunamis at us when we cross the street. after today, the sidewalks will be strewn with dead umbrellas, like broken birds.

10.12.09

dear california academy of sciences: the last time i visited, the rainforest was closed so i didn’t get to appreciate how awesome it is! i especially love all the butterflies flittering around the dome. and the fact that you have a designated employee to “brush off the butterflies” when museumgoers exit.