wanna have a good cry at your office cubicle?

then go to the Presidio Pet Cemetary. in lots of ways, San Francisco is just a larger Isla Vista in that it has more curious, crazy, wonderful, lovely things, all squeezed into a ridiculously small area. And the Presidio, now opened to the public, thanks to military budget cuts, thanks to the fall of the Soviet empire, thanks to Bill Clinton, a hem, is turning out to be the best kept secret in Frisco, despite the movie that no one saw called, “The Presidio.”

Don and Jen got hitched there, Chris worked there, I even got paid to update a web site for a non-profit there. It’s home to the coolest Burger King in America, and who knew it has one of the most charming pet cemetary in town. It may have the only pet cemetary in town since Frisco put a moratoreium on cemetaries way back when it became obvious that they were running out of space for people who were still alive (the locals are usually laid to rest in the neighboring Daly City, which boasts more dead people than living ones.).

One of the markers grieves the long-departed Coco, who passed on in 1925(!), which is the oldest stone you’ll see on the web site.

Sorta makes me want to have a pet so i can bury him in a nice place one day.

when anna calls it always disturbs me, somehow.

I think it’s her accent. I love accents, but I’ve never gotten used to hers. It sounds like she’s always mad at me. What does she have to be mad at me for?

“We won the doubles championship in Melbourne today,” she informed me last night at, oh, three a.m. pacific time.

“Doubles are for girls,” I said.

“Why can’t you ever support the things that I do?” she whined.

“I do, I talk about you all the time. I think you really can win a singles tourney, that’s why I tease you.”

“Yeah, well it hurts. You could at least congratulate me.”

“Congratulations, Anna, princess of St. Petersburg.”

“I’m from Moscow. I mean, I don’t write you and complain that you have a ‘BusBlog’ and you never write about riding the bus anymore!” she said.

Two mexican kids were on the subway this morning. One of the kids was about five years old, the other was maybe one years old.

Anna doesn’t like it when I grammar bad. She says it confuses her since she’s trying to iron out her English. But I can’t help it. I have this weird thing where I mimic whoever I’m listening to. I try to be a good listener, but in fact I’m a terrible listener.

The older Mexican kid was licking the metal pole on the subway car, the one that everyone holds on to as the train is jerking and making it’s way through the city.

The younger kid was idolizing his older brother. The younger kid was sitting on his mama’s lap. He had a cute little pacifier in his mouth. Some of my hippy friends who have kids don’t believe in the pacifier. They call it a plug.

“I’m not putting a plug in my child’s mouth,” they say.

The mexican kid with the plug was watching intently as his brother licked the pole and then the little kid playfully punched the pole. His older brother kept licking.

When I least expected it, the baby thrust his head at the pole in order to lick it too. His plug hit the pole squarely, as did his cute little mexican kid babyhead. His brother backed away. The baby didnt cry.

A woman sitting next to me, holding her newborn said something in Mexican to the young mother. The older brother went back to licking the pole. The baby went back to watching his brother. Then he went back to punching the pole.

Then my stop arrived and I exited and walked up the stairs.

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