Moose in the Kitchen

I love discovering things within walking distance of my front door that I had no idea existed. Not annoying things like an overabundance of meter maids (I know they exist) or the latest den of hippies who offer you pot as you walk home (if I was of a different persuasion that would count as a Discovery, but…no). I’m talking about bars with light-up blowfish and menus of historically annotated rum and libraries with dusty cabinets full of maps. In one of his essays, David Sedaris writes that you’re not allowed to say you discovered something if it can be found in the Yellow Pages. But in my world – the one that revolves around me – you totally can.

Discovery That Can Be Found in the Yellow Pages, Number One

Last night, after the magical potato slicing qualities of my new-to-me Cuisinart were revealed, Tiki goddess Humu took me to Smuggler’s Cove for the first time, where we (I) drank hot buttered rum and we (she) waxed eloquent on the exoticism of places like Hawaii to the variety-deprived people of the 1950s. We also carried in the scent of latkes on our jackets, making everyone in the vicinity envious of our peasant dinner. Then she started talking about science and I was lost. Science + its evil stepbrother Math = not my strong points. Not that they couldn’t be my strong points, but since I passed through Chemistry and Astronomy (which has more calculus and physics than it does pretty stars) (it also had Casey Affleck, but that sort of opportunity is consistently lost on me) without grasping the finer points, it seems unlikely. Plus, there was that rum.

Now that I know there’s a tiki bar within sensible walking shoed distance of my apartment, my knowledge of grog will expand exponentially. Calculus remains a loss.

Discovery That Can Be Found in the Yellow Pages, Number Two

Attempting to further my Decidedly Not Scientific Career this afternoon, I left my den of laze in search of ideas.

The amount of time I just spent figuring out this Twitter Update on Blog Thing implies some alarmingly perfectionist tendencies. And yes, Cat Fancy is indeed on my list. I’m sorry to say.

After I was done taking notes that won’t help me much (get cat! subscribe to American History! try squash recipe if it’s online!), I pondered my options. Option 1: check out the atrium that’s supposed to be all sunny and pretty. Option 2: go home and realize that all I’d gotten from my “work” session are instructions to eat squash with a new cat. Option 1 – and procrastination – wins! So I hiked upstairs and found not only the atrium but the San Francisco History Center. Which is nerd crack to my little nerdling heart. San Francisco history makes me wriggle with glee because, and there’s just no other way to put this, IT’S SO DAMN COOL. What other city lets you ride the train out to the ball park and GO THROUGH A GOLD RUSH-ERA SCHOONER? Right? And I found the mecca. Some off-center twist of my cerebellum (a science person could probably tell you exactly which part of the brain would store that bit but, as previously established, I am not that person) knew it existed, but I’d never seen it. Fun. I will soon be back to annoy the poor soul assigned to that department. “What do you have about awesome stuff buried under the Financial District? Do you have any of it behind your little desk there?” And then I’ll squeal like an Olsen Twin in Balenciaga and get tossed out of the library for good.