Tone it down, Ms. Cranky Park

How do I know I'm getting old and cranky? Well, pretty easily: I used to be somewhat more mellow and Kumbaya-lovin', but now, whenever I go to the über-hip coffee shop around the corner and down the street from my building, I literally want to grab the painfully disaffected barista by his greasy Sex Pistol-esque locks and shake him until his stripey, espresso-stained sweater is unravelling, the next time he rolls his eyes at me for ordering decaf. I also fantasize about yelling, "I AM old, you Devendra Banhart-worshipping pipe-cleaner of a man! And yes, that's right, I sometimes order decaf--and sometimes I listen to Journey AND enjoy long walks on the beach! So suck it!"

Oy.

But the coffee is delicious, so I suppose that I should cut it out, try to be nice, and save the yelling until I'm over 80 and can't as easily be jailed.

Clearly, I do not need the caffeine.

When comics mirror reality...

I haven't really posted about my current job in the "exciting" world of scholarly publishing (because it typically hums along in the background of a more colorful state-of-being, commenting on such interesting things as crazy people wandering around public places, booze at the holidays, and MUNI), but holy ravioli, Dilbert is me! And I am Dilbert!



Help?!

Put some pants on, for godsake!

On my way to the gym this evening, I spied with my little eye, a crazy homeless dude walking down 3rd Street, near Mission Bay, with his pants down--and he was cruising around as if they were on (and not as if he had "business" to attend to).

I absolutely LOVE my neighborhood.