Going Steady With A16

Now that my semester is over, I have no excuses for not posting more. Except that, as previously mentioned, I have a tendency to be lazy and gluttonous. For example, the past two weekends I have managed to eat at A16 twice. TWICE. For those of you who haven't heard me go on and on about A16 or have been there yourselves, A16 is a Southern Italian restaurant, specifically based on cuisine in Campania, on Chestnut Street in The City. Definitely one of the most highly reviewed places in The City without being one of the most expensive or white table cloth-y. Then again, white table cloths are out, at least around here. In fact, table cloths in general are getting harder to come by. It's pretty much earth toned paper on wooden sheen or just the clamorous clank of your silverware on worm wood. We're very rustic these days. Needless to say, A16 is rustic, both in food and style. It's certainly a pleasurable rustic. You see it in their appetizers--we enjoyed their Minestra Maritata, which is pretty much the Italian name for Bomb Ass Meatball Soup--all the way to their sides--it's probably bad to say that I've had three of their five sides currently available; I especially loved the anchovy kale.

While I will warn that their pasta dishes can leave something to be desired--we concluded that they are truly meant as a pasta course and not a main entree, they're certainly delicious, but often drastically more mild then their pizzas, entrees, and even appetizer--obviously I truly enjoy every meal I have at this establishment. But even so, twice over two consecutive weekends, is even wild for me. The first was just a celebratory dinner with The BF, and this Saturday, The BF's sister and brother-in-law were coming into town from Wisconsin and just really needed to go there, which of course I respect deeply. You know when you're first dating someone and they seem really wonderful. You hardly notice the annoying way they have of sweeping their hand through their hair or saying "um" before beginning a long thought. They're just down right perfect, until a few weeks go by, a month or two, and then you start to see it all more clearly. Have you really been dating this person all along? Sometimes you shrug it off; it ain't a deal-breaker. But then sometimes, you can't. Sometimes it changes the way you see that person permanently. Well, with A16 and me, I guess I've finally started to pick up on some small flaws. And they are small, but still. The problem is that they're not A16's fault. It's locked in a burden of circumstance I suppose.

Okay, so what is this gripe of mine? The clientele of course. Though not all of them, namely just the overtly snobby ones that crowd the bar and make sniffling comments about wine that I can't stand. These are the kind of people that drive me nuts. People who are uptight and just plain rude. The BF and I witnessed a scene go down involving two of these said gentleman and another couple of (normal) gentlemen over two of the seats at the bar. No, there were no near brawls; there wasn't even any up-in-the-face action. There couldn't of been, since the two stick-up-ass men wouldn't even turn and look at the other guys and have a discussion with them. And the other guys were so very nice and accommodating. But no, stick-up-ass man one would only remark (loudly) to stick-up-ass man two, things like, "Um, should we give them these seats? I think no." Even their A-hole moves were lame as can be. I have Kharma Police Syndrome; basically I can't take it when people get to act mean with no repercussions, so of course, I was upset about the incident all night. I mean I was still able to lick my plate and dessert bowl clean, but you know, it wore on me. A16 isn't supposed to be about being mean for one seat at the bar. It's about noise, wine, burrata, pork and a wood fire oven. It's about eating seasonally and overdoing it on Salted Carmel gelato.

But maybe it's not. Maybe I've been living a lie, and I'm finally seeing it for what it is: all white table cloth-y or not even that, just plain snooty (there, I said it). I really want to make it work though. The way I feel about the pizza bianca and the tuna conserva salad, well, that's love. I can't just let it go. But without out a doubt, the honeymoon period is over. I guess we're in it for the long haul, fights and all.

Heels On Hardwood

I had my post for today all written out about how I'm all set to enjoy my final weeks of the semester instead of willing them to go by faster, cause I'm "all positive and stuff." But you know what, eff that. It just ain't my style, never has been. Maybe I'll post it, but certainly not today. I'm not feeling "all positive" at the moment, especially when I awoke to the sounds of heels on hardwood this morning, brought to me by who else but my lovely neighbors. I pretty much wake up to their sounds everyday, which is fine. I get it, they have hardwood floors, it's gonna happen, but at 4:45 in the frickin morning? WTF?! Does Ms. Noisy Neighbor really need to stomp around the apartment in heels before 5am on her way to the airport or god knows where? Can she not just place them on her nyloned feet as she walks out the door? Is that so damn difficult?

I fantasize...

Dear Noisy Neighbors,

I do not mean this letter to be an attack on your lifestyle, but rather an informative message so that you might make more considerate daily choices. From downstairs your short runs to reach a telephone in time sound like the violent tremors of giant's feet. Your patterned romps and bed creaks sound both depressing and disturbing. Oh, and are you really moving furniture nightly? Cause it sure as hell sounds like you might be.

PS: Hearing the steady whir and then buzz of your dryer is just plain cruel as we stuff our three week old laundry into overflowing hampers and netted bags to far off locations.

PPS: It's called a space rug. Try it.



I'm bitter, I know. I'll work on it. I mean I won't but, you know, I'm at least aware of it.

Neighbors or How I USED To Love People-Watching

I'm admittedly a lurker. I look through countless websites weekly, reading articles, comments, scoping out new pictures and posts, and very rarely do I actually make my presence known with the responses that are brewing in my mind. Maybe that's one of the reasons I started this blog to begin with. I'm an observer by nature, a big time people-watcher. (This is probably related to the melancholy I feel when I look into other's glowing windows on Thanksgiving evening--but that's entirely different post, I'm sure.) But getting that momentary glimpse into someone else's life when they pull back their curtain, leave their garage door open, or have that ridiculously loud phone call in public is intriguing.

In fact, people-watching is one of the only things that I like about big crowds. It's also one of the things I like more about the city then anywhere else around here. The people-watching is constant, endless, and very entertaining. People are nuts, and yes, I do lump myself in with that statement. I'm sure if my own conversations were taken completely out of context, I would seem crazy too. The sidewalks and buses are just rife with the satisfying tidbits of other peoples' lives. But even I have limits. Sometimes it's just too much. Case in point, I was talking to my good ol' pal Scrap Lazy yesterday via IM, and she was transcribing the fight that was taking place between the guy who lives next door to her and his girlfriend.

SL: Thhhhhank you, Ryan. Thank Youuuuu. (Her reenactment of the fight)
LP: HAHA
SL: I seriously hate her. (Her personal commentary on the situation)

And she seriously does, because this is this tenth time Scrap Lazy's had to listen to one of this upset girl's rants. Knowing the intimate issues of her neighbor's relationship isn't as exciting as it is annoying. I've hit this point with some neighbors of my own as well. The wooden floors so common in the city are gorgeous if you have them, and excruciatingly noisy if you live below them. The first time you hear your neighbors, uh, coupling (floor against bed posts, bed frame against wall, steady, rhythmic) at 9:15 on Tuesday night, it’s funny. The second time it’s gross. The third, it’s just annoying, and every time after that, well, it’s just too much information.

I find myself suddenly wondering things about them that I know I shouldn’t: Is it more then just once a week? Is it always at the same time? Is THAT normal? And every time I see them I find myself wanting to blurt it out, “9:15 on Tuesdays.” It’s so wrong. I’ve been taken too far into their world. They’ve pulled back the curtain, but it’s gotten stuck like that. Now instead of enjoying the momentary fascination with their life, I’m caught up in it. It’s the kind of people-watching that’s just not fun anymore. It leaves nothing, literally zero, to the imagination. I can’t make bitter assumptions and judgments like I usually do. I have to remember that even though they have loud, painfully boring sex above my room, they still let me park my car in driveway when I can’t find parking.

The city’s taught me a lot about people. The biggest lesson learned? That there is a certain group of people that fall somewhere between stranger and acquaintance: neighbors. Beware. They city is crawling with them, and they take all the fun out of feeling anonymous.

It's OK To Call It Frisco

If you know me at all, you know I like to read. I count on reading in the way other people depend on cigarettes, pets, myspace. It’s my go-to leisure activity, pass the time plan, sleeping aid, and personal therapy. But it’s not just reading, its books. I love the way in which they're tangible, consistent but ever-changing.

The best thing about SF is that it’s still crawling with independent bookstores. And I got to finally check out one of the more well-known gems this weekend. Green Apple Books on Clement. Just how many people had told me that I needed to check it out, that I’d love it. Have you ever noticed that when someone tells you you’ll just love something, you automatically grow weary?


But this time I did…love it. It was crowded and spread across three shops over two blocks of busy Clement. The colors alone made me happy. Book spines in red, purple, lime green, burgundy, chocolate brown. Endless aisles of books: cooking books, psychology books, plain old fiction books, nature books, used books, new books. A reading Mecca of sorts.

And if I’m the only person who picks up a used book and flicks through the yellowed pages wondering how many people have read this particular copy of this particular novel, then so be it, I’ll wear my nerdiness like a crown, but if there are others out there, then let’s go explore the dusty, wooden shelves of Green Apple together. I’ll even provide the Dim Sum.

Dateway, & Getting Acquainted with the Neighborhood

Ah, the Marina. So glittery and shiny in the mornings. Almost as if the wealth of the multitudes living in it's cloistered walls oozes from their bodies at night, coating their front doors and sidewalks, their Beamers and nannies pushing strollers with the glean of gold and diamonds. I'm teasing. I love this neighborhood; I truly do. And I assume that it's negative reputation spawns more from envy than anything else. Well, at least, that's what I tell people. "You're just jealous" I say as a friend scolds the yuppies in the Marina for being, well, so yuppie-ish.

It's true that the familiar pseudonym for the local Safeway is "dateway," and it really is so appropo. When my roommate, Shirley, we'll call her, and I venture there after a long day of work wearing our bulky and so untrendy sweatshirts and slippers, we're faced with serious blows to the self-esteem. The girls are either decked out in their best Jeans for All Mankind and Prada shoes or matching sweatsuit/spandex ensembles complete with post-workout sweat beads on their collar--that actually make them look better!? I know, I know. It's unbelievable. But don't feel too sorry for me and Shirley, we're quite brilliant at drowning our sorrows in chips, salsa, and cheap wine.

Or we'll go out and get awesome Thai food (trendy or more authentic), pizza (pie or slice), sushi (bar or restaurant). Certainly there is always something to do in the Marina, day and night. And though I will not pretend that it could find me a decent burrito to save it's life, I appreciate it for giving me 24 hour donuts. In fact, sometimes I embrace the yuppiness myself, grabbing a latte and meandering down Marina Blvd. and Chrissy Fields on a Saturday morning. Watching the dogs frolic and the fog escape, reminding myself how lucky I am that I don't live in the Sunset where the fog doesn't dissipate know matter how much you will it away.

But it's not all sunshine and non-fat capps. I'm often frustrated by my fellow spoiled neighbors. Take the family that lives across the street for instance. They have a beautiful home, as in an actual house, with a yard and everything. They own a nice car, and have two very cute kids ( a boy and a girl). Their life appears to be the epitome of perfect, and yet, after only one night in my own humble basement flat across the road, I heard the makings of the classic dysfunctional family: Lot's of yelling and unkind words over a stupid thing (where the car - Land Rover - was parked). Then there was the time The BF's car was broken into (right on our block!) or all the numerous times we've been yelled at for parking too close to someone's driveway...at least THEY have one.

But the thing to remember is that all of the neighborhoods in SF suffer from these same problems, they just don't look as good doing it.