The $10 Blueberry

For a town that prides itself on intellectual curiosity and carries itself with an air of superiority, sometimes I really have to wonder about San Francisco and the people in it. Are we as smart as we think we are or do we just have hyper inflated egos? Do we wake up in the morning and put on compassion like it's an accessory?

A few weeks ago, a Farmer's Market opened in my neighborhood. The neighborhood association announced the grand debut with a twinkle in their eye, so proud that they were able to get Nopa on the farmer's map. On my way home from watching the SF Marathon this morning, I finally got the chance to peruse the market, on the corner of Grove and Divisadero. It's a small little gathering, about 1/2 block long with a modest assortment of vegetable stands, bakers, flowers, and various other non-farmed delectables.

I made my way up the street, hoping to fill my fridge with a cornucopia of local, organic produce for the week. Instead, I walked away empty-handed and empty-hearted. The farmer's market has lost it's soul, it seems, and has become yet another example of price gouging that we all seem willing to passively accept as part of the price we pay to live in this fabulous urban jungle. But when we have the same feeling at the Farmer's Market that we have at the gas pump, I have to think that something is most definitely wrong.

Exhibit A:
"Certified California" is now a classification. Marketing crap 101: use the word "certified" to elevate the status of an otherwise non-pretentious object. Are we taking the Foster's Chicken commercial a little too far here? Are those pesky Oregonians and Nevadans masquerading their produce as Californian because they can charge more here? Obviously, this is a serious epidemic and must be regulated.

Exhibit B:
$7 for "Mountain Grown" blueberries. This is like paying extra for fish that comes from water. Words cannot describe how it feels to realize that I am being targeted as an idiot savant who might not know that blueberries are a) from mountains and b) grown. They must have seen me drive up on the short bus.

Exhibit C:
An extra $3 for the artificial flavoring on an almond. Tip for you shoppers: you can get the same crap at Trader Joe's for 1/4 the price. Try the Wasabi flavored almonds. Delish.

While there was a bumper crop of BS, what I didn't find much of at this Farmer's Market was the word "organic". It was strikingly absent and in it's place were a smattering of dazed shopper wandering around asking the vendors, "is your produce organic?". The dream is still alive, you see.

But there seems to be a complex array of forces working hard to destroy this dream. Do we care more about the cache of what a Farmer's Market implies than whether it's actually done right? And since when did farming become a marketing playground where consumers are dodging meaningless labels and fruitlessly searching for substance and truth? I want to believe in the dream, but I'm most certainly not paying $7 for a pint of it, even if it is mountain grown.

And here's the final proof that this Farmer's Market has lost it's authenticity. No hippies.

Bare Asses: A Sign That All is Right in the World or Armageddon?

I posted this video on flickr. A day later, I received the following email:
"As per our Community Guidelines, “restricted” video
content is not allowed on Flickr . We’ve removed your
video.

If you continue to upload videos that contain
“restricted” content, we may take further action on
your account.

Regards,

Flickr Customer Care"

The whole time I was at Wildflower, I was pre-occupied with whether the streakers would do their thing. As the sun began to set on Saturday night, I grew worried, unsettled, discontent. No streakers at Wildflower, I just couldn't fathom the possibility. But they came and they were glorious. And now, I'm meant to feel shame for wanting to share the laughter they invoked in me with others. Flickr, I would just like to remind you that there is FAR more offensive content on your photo sharing site than the tushies and boobies of some drunk CalPoly students flapping in the dusk.

Le Poo

There are places where I expect to step in dog poo. When I'm walking down McAllister St. When I'm playing Frisbee in Golden Gate Park. When I'm looking for a place to sit and read in Alamo Square. The Marin town of Ross is not one of those places. The median income for Ross is $102,000; median home value is $1.7 million. With that, fool that I am, I expect a bit of civilized behavior.

But lo and behold, we ran through lovely Ross Commons this morning, ooh'ing and ah'ing over the beautiful mansions and socialites out walking their poodles with their lattes. After the run, I switched out my sneaks for my Uggs and went to join my team for a picnic on the lawn. Only seconds after I sat down and prepared to bite into my artistically crafted sandwich did I notice the brown-green-ish blotch on my suede boots. My mostly indoor slipper-boots which really, I'd be a lesser person without.

The whole idea of stepping in dog poo is that you're not prepared for it; you don't see it coming. But the act is so insipid, it in turn causes a warm flood of hostility to course through your veins. It inspires hatred towards humanity. And, Matthes would like to add, towards dogs as well. We humans sure do have the art of talking about how great we are down. We just hardly actually live up to it. And it seems the more polished something (eg a neighborhood) is on the outside, the people inside of it are just as careless and self-absorbed as, say, the ghetto.

So, I say to all of you Ross habitants and non-poop-scoopers at large: you disappoint me. I expected more from you. I spent thirty minutes of my life cleaning your dog's poop off my beloved Uggs. You ruined a perfectly good sandwich. And the chocolate cupcake, there was no way I could even touch anything that was brown and gooey.

Thanks for that.

I Hate Starbucks

I really do. So much so that I am moved to write a non-triathlon related blog entry about it.

Here are my top 10 reasons why Starbucks deserves my hatred (please feel free to augment):
1) They make terrible coffee.
2) They put Torrefazione out of business.
3) My local cafe now charges $1.85 for a cup of coffee. This seems to be the going rate in the urban coffee-scape of San Francisco. Has the coffee changed? No. Are we fighting a war in Iraq over coffee? I think not.
4) Just the thought of being asked "Do you want a vente or a grande?" by some 22 year old political science major whose exposure to the word "vente" was Starbucks training camp makes me want to sneak up from behind the perky little chipmunk and strangle them with the strings of those green Starbucks aprons.
5) It makes me want to end my career in marketing.
6) They really know how to fuck up a cappuccino.
7) If I wanted to be greeted by a chipmunk before I've had my coffee, I'd be drinking herbal tea.
8) Do Americans really need more whipped cream in their diet?
9) There is always a line...even when there's a no-name coffee shop within a block radius. And as much as I hate Starbucks, I hate waiting in lines even more.
10) (Do I have to stop at 10?) Everybody in the world is so damned "proud" to serve Starbucks coffee. Hotels, airplanes, restaurants...it has become the universal symbol for the-best-half-assed-coffee-we-can-pull-off.

Why so bitter, you ask? I had a Starbucks incident this morning. I was in, of all places, the coffee capital of the US, Seattle for work this week. After a lovely morning jog along the waterfront, during which I passed 0 coffee shops, I decided that I would need to get my caffeine fix from the Starbucks in the hotel. I waited shamefully in the line, hoping I wouldn't be recognized (that's the nice thing about only getting Starbucks when traveling). I decided I would get the same thing I always get at Starbucks, a cappuccino.

I have had a lot of disappointing experiences with the Starbucks Cappuccino. In fact, it never ceases to be a let-down. There are a myriad of ways that they destroy what is one of the simpler creations on their menu...either the double-shot is really equivalent in volume to a small cup of coffee, or they put way too much milk in, or the foam is runny, or burned. I could go on, but I've already completed one top-ten list. I decided that the only way to get a normal cappuccino was to request that they use half the amount of milk and a double shot in a small cup (yes, "small". I am one of the Starbucks lingo rejectors). What follows is the dialogue I had with the barista.

Me: I'd like a double cappuccino in a small cup with half the amount of milk, please.
Barista: (young white guy. slightly artsy. slightly richie cunngingham) Huh?
(It would seem that while the Starbucks menu includes just about every frikkin' variation of coffee, decaf, soy, skim, whipped cream, etc...these poor robots have not been schooled in the variation of ingredient proportion)
Me: Repeat above.
Barista: Do you want me to just put it in the child's sized cup?
Me: I don't think so. The espresso and foam parts are still the same.
Barista: (in tone that resembles a mom asking her young child if they really don't want to sit on Santa's lap at the mall) You only want half the milk? Are you sure?
Me: Oh yes, I'm very sure. I've really thought this through.
Barista: Well, I really think you need the child's sized cup. I just think there will be too much space left in the small cup.
Me: Whatever you think is best. You're the expert.

I laughed just a little, my own little private joke. And my cappucino wasn't half bad. But I still hate Starbucks. Please, if you want to give me a coffee card for a holiday, make it Peet's.