Soon, I will have no choice; I will need to launch the Voice Memo app on my iPhone 4 as soon as I leave my apartment.
First, the snippet I overheard on the 71-Noriega on my way home from the Civic Center farmers market (cherries $2.50/lb., say hallelujah!):
1st Young Woman (pointing at her friend’s new blouse): So what’s with the color?
2nd Young Woman: It’s my new boyfriend, he wants me to be more into purple.
At that point, we arrived at the Haight & Divisadero stop, where I disembarked to walk a few blocks to the local hardware store on Divizz (as we San Francisco insiders call it, although we can’t agree on whether Divizz or Diviz is correct). I walked down the shady side of the street behind these two gentlemen, age 20-25, both short, about 5′ 6″ – 5′ 8″, both Caucasian, both wearing graphic tees and baggy jeans, but one wore a black stocking cap because he was, you know, an individual. The other one is the reason I needed my audio recorder. His spoke both loudly and fast as in fast, 2,985 words per minute, +/- 2 words. I cannot promise that these are his exact words, but I can promise that this represents my best good-faith effort to remember them. It’s his fault, really; he should know better than to talk so loudly in front of a stranger who might be a blogger. And if he wants to speak loudly in front of a stranger who might be a blogger, he should at least have the courtesy to speak slowly enough to make it easier to remember his words.
The red light at Oak and Divizz is a very long one, but Mr. Fast spoke so quickly that the entire following conversation happened during our wait.
Mr. Fast: So I bought these two tickets to the Giants’ game last June and my bro couldn’t go so I’m like, I know, I’ll ask her to go with me, because I’m really into her, so I text her and go like, “Hey I got two free tix to the Giants’ game, wanna go?” and she texts back she’s got plans and I text her back “What plans?” and she texts back that she just has plans which pisses me off because people should be like, more open, so I text her again “What plans?” because I’m feeling, you know, a little-”
Mr. Stocking Cap: Douchey?
Mr. Fast: No, man, but she doesn’t text me back at all, which is total dissing, so I wait a few months, you know, just wait a few months, not text her at all, you know, because I’m feeling, you know-
Mr. Stocking Cap: Douchey?
Mr. Fast: No, I just want her to know what it feels like when people don’t text you back, teach her a lesson, but then I text her again that I wanted to-
(loud car horn, language drowned out)
Mr. Fast: -and I wanted to do it with her that morning–
Mr. Stocking Cap: Now that’s a little douchey-
Mr. Fast: I know, I know, and like, since then she’s like, never responded to any of my texts and that’s my problem man, I have like, serious self-esteem issues, like, no self-esteem at all-
At which point the light turned green and I put some distance between me and them, because closet repairs were just barely more important than listening any further, and in any case, I would not be able to remember any more. Maybe I should call this blog The San Francisco Scene & Heard.
Vonn Scott Bair