The Everywhereist

I have, on occasion, been known to get a idea stuck in my head, and no matter how crazy, random, scientifically inaccurate, or illogical, I cannot seem to shake it. I once claimed China was an island (thank you, American school systems!). I am convinced, to this day, that Duran Duran sings Mysterious Ways. I actually refuse to accept that it is anyone else. I’ve considered amassing a fortune (by whatever means necessary) and paying Duran Duran to record Mysterious Ways, thereby proving the accuracy of that notion (let’s face it: you’ve never actually seen U2 sing it, right? So it could all be a hoax).

And after a few minutes editing Wikipedia, I could actually be right about all this stuff.

Occasionally, I get a crazy idea in my head that turns out to be correct (like the time I got into a screaming match with a kid in middle school, after I claimed that spiders weren’t insects. Take that, Vipul Shah). This is awful, because then I start to lack the necessary dose of self-doubt that people who entertain crazy notions should have.

So, when I got the idea to go to the Presidio because, I assumed, there would be amazing things to do, fantastic views of the Golden Gate bridge and lots of food vendors giving away free caramel apples exclusively to girls named Geraldine (what? It’s my fantasy), I never for a second questioned whether or not it would be a worthwhile trip.

Let me just say, my excitement was ill-advised. (more…)

In my constant search for comfortable travel shoes, I am amazed by the number of heinously ugly options out there. If these shoes were horses, they would be shot, immediately.

I once thought that I was immune to such ugliness. When searching for comfortable shoes online, there were so many options, I’d simply skip over the unappealing ones and straight to the cute. My brain has its own filter for this sort of thing. And yet, there are times when a shoe is so unsightly, it will not be ignored. It screams to be noticed. “LOOK AT ME!”, it shouts. “I WAS DESIGNED BY DRUNK KINDERGARTNERS!”

Some of these shoes are impractical. Others are baffling.

All of them are very, very ugly.

Here are the top twelve worst pairs I’ve encountered while digging through the bowels of Zappos. Enjoy.

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1. Arcopedico N42

Seriously? N42 is what you are going to call the shoe? Sweet Jesus. Put in a little effort. Give it a name. May I suggest “The Bertha”?

Also, they appear to melting.

Ugh. These look like what the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man would wear when he wants to get laid.

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I am having a serious case of those wistful, end-of-summer blues. Fortunately, there are a few sunny days left on the calendar to keep them at bay, a few trips to sunny locales that will help me forget that soon Seattle will be back to its old gray tricks. And there are things to smile about. Silly things. Wonderful things.

And a few things to think about, too, because I read somewhere that we ought to try and do that every now and then, even when we’re screwing around on the internet.

Oh, and some inane stuff, too, of course. Enjoy.

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A Pop-Tarts restaurant is opening in Times Square. Just looking at the footage makes my blood sugar spike. We’re clearly taking steps to make sure Britain doesn’t inch anywhere closer to our title of World’s Most Obese Country. (via Vagabondish)

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Continuing on the junkfood theme, this comparison of fast food items as they appear in ads versus real life is pretty darn interesting. Unsurprising, but interesting. (Thanks to my bro, Edward, for the link)

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Thanks to my eagle-eyed readers, who are able to not only identify themselves, but other things as well! – I learned some fascinating things this week.

Remember how I freaked when an adorable gal asked for a photo with me? Well, it was kindly sent my way. While my face looks utterly confused, I look skinny, despite wearing horizontal stripes. I’d consider that a win.

See? I TOLD you she existed. And she's cute, too.

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“The coldest winter I’ve ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” – Mark Twain

“Holy f*ck, it’s FREEZING.” – The Everywhereist

Last week, we were waiting in line at a huge, popular ice cream shop with a group of our friends. We all wore jackets. A few of us had scarves. We clustered together for warmth, joking that perhaps ice cream was not the best choice on such a chilly night.

This is August in San Francisco.

Rand and I have learned, thankfully without too much discomfort on our own parts, to check the weather report before leaving for any trip. In the case of San Francisco, we check it two or three times before our flight.

It was 95 degrees in Seattle on this same day.

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I am always amazed when I rifle through old vacation photos. There are pictures of Rand and myself from only a few years ago, but, dear god, it might as well be a lifetime ago. As I stare at them, I wonder what exactly we were wearing. And what’s going on with our hair.

In five years, a city doesn’t change much, if at all. Trees are barely taller. Roads are virtually in the same condition. Five years in the lifespan of a building are insignificant, especially in cities that have been around for hundreds of years. The landscape remains static.

Seattle from above: 2005

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Seattle from above: 2010

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San Francisco is a weird town. Sometimes, I forget this. You visit enough times, and you begin to lose site of just how bizarre a place is. And my frame of reference is pretty good: I travel enough to where the occasional jacked-up hobo in old-timey pajamas doesn’t phase me. But San Francisco is in another category all its own. Stranger than Seattle. More bizarre than Boston. And possibly more neurotic than New York (if such a thing is possible). Take a look at ten of the crazier things I saw last week …

1. Well, there’s goes the marketing budget for the year. What the hell is this ad for? I have no idea. But it’s awful. I mean, you want to be smart right? And balls-less? Or stupid and virile? I just DON’T UNDERSTAND.

Stupid is also the one approving the marketing campaign.

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While we were down in San Francisco last week, we attended a charity event that a friend of ours was hosting. A lot of people in attendance at the event were from Rand’s industry.

I used to be petrified of these sort of social gatherings. Rand usually got swept up in conversation, leaving me in a room full of strangers (the real clincher: many of them knew who I was, and I knew no one. This meant that EVERYONE KNEW WHO THE LOSER STANDING ALONE IN THE CORNER WAS. I couldn’t even hide my social ineptness behind my anonymity). After a while, I realized I had to adapt to survive, and I started chatting people up like a bubbling moron. Someone would ask why I was at the party, and I’d explain my connection to Rand.

“Oh, you’re Mystery Guest!” they’d say, referring to the screen name that Rand had given me on his blog several years ago. I would smile and nod. They’d inevitably be his customers or clients (remember, the party was hosted by a friend of ours, and the guests were all people in the same industry as Rand). We’d chat a bit about his company or the industry as a whole. Run-off of my husband’s internet start-up fame. They’d look shocked when I explained I knew next to nothing about SEO.

But last weekend, at this particular party, something very peculiar happened.

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