Happy Thanksgiving, Pat

I was reminded of something very important this morning: never leave for a walk without the camera.

This morning we walked by this antique wonderland called Pat's. From floor to ceiling across the huge expanse of store, Pat's is packed with distressed treasures from another lifetime -- which you can have custom refurbished for a very reasonable price.

To find something specific -- say, a small vanity and cute little stool -- you'd have to spend hours, days maybe, navigating the mazes of stuff stacked upon stuff propped up by stuff that's covering stuff. Or you could just ask Pat. Because Pat know exactly what's in every inch of that place, inside and in the giant antique graveyard out back. She's like the rainman of cluttertown. And she's awesome.

I can't say I know Pat all that well. She helped me find my vanity and cute little stool so many years ago, and that was our one and only interaction. But I remember her well. She's an older, no-nonsense, let's-get-down-to-business kind of lady. I like that. And she had this cat (there were many, but I remember this one, in particular) that laid on the counter, entirely uninterested in the world around it.

In any case, we were walking past Pat's, and I turned, as I have for the past few weeks, to look through one of the giant picture windows that surrounds the place to see if they still had the chair that I've been meaning to tell my friend Mary about. And there, sitting in that very chair, was Pat. Right there in the display window.

Now, when I say sitting, what I really mean is totally passed out, head draped over the back of the chair, mouth agape, wearing yesterday's clothes. And next to her, looking back at me, was that cat.

This was such a wonderously awesome sight that I actually looked around to see if there was anyone around who could maybe take the picture and send it to me. I don't mean this in any sort of condescending way. Even though I don't really know Pat, looking at her in that chair, all sprawled and uncaring, I thought, that's so Pat.

As I continued on my walk, I started thinking about Pat, and how it's a holiday, and that she was all alone (except for the cat) in her store. And I started to worry. I created a whole slew of "what if" scenarios as I hurried back that direction. To my delight, I found an empty chair when I passed by the second time. Pat's all good. Happy Thanksgiving, Pat.

On a side note, I also saw a round man wearing a sky blue velour suit with a green top hat pulling a roller bag behind him as he ran to catch the bus. I'd pay cash money to know what's in that bag. I also may or may not have seen Bono. It was a great walk.

Ruffin it

It's been raining a lot here. But the dog still must be walked. And the car still must be retrieved from the night before, hopefully before the ticket has been cast (not this time).

So Merlin and I were out walking in the rain, totally commando style (in the rain sense), and on the other side of the street we saw some sort of schnauzer wearing a raincoat. And when I say raincoat, I don't mean some flimsy canine poncho. I mean an REI-style raincoat designed for the hardcore doggie outdoor enthusiast. It was so elaborate that I had to do a double take.

As we continued on our walk, both pretty soggy, I started thinking about this alternative doggie lifestyle. And I wondered if I was a bad dog owner for making my beloved pooch brave the elements without protection. When I was in San Francisco a few weeks ago, I saw several dogs wearing sneakers -- yes, sneakers (I'm very sad that I didn't get photos of that). I have absolutely no clue what the point of that is. And yet, I still wonder, is Merlin underprivileged?

Of course, I will never know the answer to this, since Merlin can't whine about not having what all the cool kids, like the schauzers, have. Nor will he ever refuse to go outside for a walk or trip to the park in the rain, even though I know he hates being wet. But still, I wonder. Perhaps next summer I'll buy him some doggles just to keep him current. But for now, we'll just continue to ruff it ... ah, I know. terrible.

Superman in daisy dukes

This morning I was out walking the dog and I saw what I believe to be the oldest man in the world wearing what I'm certain are the shortest shorts I've ever seen on a man. His getaway sticks were long and the loose skin on them rippled in the breeze. And I looked away before I could confirm, but I think I may have caught a glimpse of the satchel ... ew.

At first I was horrified, but as I walked off I thought, good for him. If I make it to be that old and I want the ladies to peek out from beneath a totally inappropriately revealing blouse, then I hope I have the genuine F-it attitude required to just do it. If you're gonna do it, you better rock it.

That old guy in the daisy dukes stood with his fists on his hips, all superman style, chatting up his grand kids with all the confidence in the world. So I say, you go guy. You inspire me.

Coming Attractions

Great news! After way too many hours of sorting through online consumer reviews (Andy, I'm sorry you had to watch the So You Think You Can Dance results show with the dogs), I finally got a new digital camera. While my previous camera is perfectly good for capturing moments happening 12-14 inches from my face, it provides only a fuzzy memory of everything else.

So now I have the Canon PoweShot A2100IS. This is good news for Pedestrian View because while I strive to provide you with vivid verbal portraits of my observations, pictures just make everything better. And now I won't have to invade anyone's personal space or trespass to get them. Hooray for zoom!

Stay tuned for better, brighter posts!

Don't look up!

On Sunday I spent five hours and 33 minutes walking something like 21 miles, my third time doing such high mileage. Each time I've chosen a beer-serving destination as my dangling carrot. (Beer and pizza never tastes as good as when you burn it off BEFORE you shovel it into your face.) And each time, when we get to our destination--sunburned, soggy, and limping--we look for any opportunity to announce how we got there. Aside from training for my walk, that's really my main motivation for spending my afternoons wearing a fanny pack, a stop watch, and capris that leave nothing to the imagination. And everyone we tell seems to have the exact same response: "Why?"

Not "wow" or "good for you" or even "holy shit!" Just "why?" punctuated with a baffled expression that borders on disgust. I don't want to dwell on this, but I do want to offer this bit of advice: If someone tells you they walked 20 miles to get where they're standing right then, this is the preferred response: "Wow, holy shit! Good for you!"

Anyway, about 13 miles into Sunday's walk, we stopped to ponder a capped pipe sticking out of the ground that was labeled "Latin America." Of the many, many explanations we both offered, my favorite was that it was a vacuum tube like the ones used at bank drivethroughs (in the olden days) to suck in your deposit and spit out a dum dum lollipop. You can imagine where our theories went from there.

I was positively giddy about having such great blog fodder, until I looked up and saw that the dorm building to our right was called "China." And the next was "Europe." And so on. Sadly, the mystery quickly unraveled. It wasn't that we actually thought the pipe lead out of the country. But logical explanations can really kill a mood.

Shortly after that, everything below my waist started to ache from the miles, and not even the constant threat of careless cyclists careening at us at 70 mph seemed noteworthy.

No pee zone. Thank you.

On Saturday we walked up to the catch the gay pride parade. I must say that compared to the one other time I've gone, it was quite a let down. What I remembered were extravagant floats with thumping sound systems and boisterous, half-naked people of all preferences schooling the crowd on how to properly kick off an afternoon. What I saw were trucks barely covered with scribbled-on, hastily attached cardboard and people with megaphones shouting garbled chants. Of course, we didn't stay for the whole thing; perhaps the good floats had already passed. But from what I saw, I'd give it a C+ on level of entertainment.

What I did find entertaining was a little white sign with black lettering placed neatly on the manicured lawn of an art-deco apartment building. It said: "No pee zone. Thank you."

On a normal day, I would have assumed this was directed at dog owners. On that day, I wasn't totally sure. Regardless, I was struck by the politeness of the sign. I've seen other signs meant to protect precious green grass from death by urination, but they took a much different approach:

• "Keep the pee in the park."
• "My lawn is not your dog's toilet."
• "Pick up your dog crap. I'm watching from the house." (Seriously!)

By comparison, I was struck by this delightfully pleasant declaration. There was just one problem: the text was only on one side. Walking away, we passed by a hairy retriever, and on a hunch, I turned around in time to see him taking a leak just inches from the blank white sign.

Next time, zone wisely.

An old lady and an ugly wedding dress - at sunrise

I come from a long line of hard-working blue-collar people who think getting up at 6:00 a.m. is sleeping in. I remember more than one instance as a teenager when my dad or grandpa woke me up to ask if I "planned to sleep all day." It was 6:45 a.m. As an adult, I moved three time zones west, which made matters dramatically worse - six years later I still get calls at 7:00 a.m. and they sound surprised that I'm irritated. For better or worse, this is why I'm able to drag myself out of bed for sunrise walks, as I did today.

There are only a handful of reasons why people in my neighborhood are out and about that early in the day:

• They're going to or coming from some job I'm glad I don't have


• They're exercising themselves and/or their pets


• They're homeless and bored, crazy, or scavenging


• They're doing the walk of shame*

But for the most part, things are pretty quiet at this time. Today it reminded me why getting up that early is kind of appealing. But it also left something to be desired in the area of interesting encounters. Luckily, I was able to make a few observations:

1. I'm getting old. I know this because I no longer pretend like I'm not power walking when I pass a hot guy. Also, I don't bother to brush my hair or even wash my face before I leave.

2. Dry cleaners always showcase hideous clothes in their front windows. Why? I passed by one place that had a big sign that said: "We tailor wedding dresses." And it had the oldest, ugliest dress-rag I've ever seen, proudly displayed in the window. It probably wouldn't stop me from getting my pants hemmed there. But it stands to reason that their business could significantly improve if they exercised some good taste. Just a thought.



*For those who aren't familiar with this concept, the walk of shame is when you drink too much the night before, usually on a week night, and shack up with someone (who probably isn't exactly a prize). Early in the morning, you sneak out, looking a fright (possibly minus a sock, shoe, or some other hastily abandoned possession), and head for home. My favorite variety is the day-after-Halloween walk of shame, where you're forced to search for your car or, god forbid, wait for a cab while dressed as a now very haggard-looking sexy Sarah Palin or whatever costume you'd worn out.