At a moment when much of the country has reverted to Amazonian levels of jungle heat, the steamiest room in temperate San Francisco is the 5th floor of a warehouse at the corner of 16th and Mission Streets. On a clear day, the downtown skyline polks out to the northeast and the Castro unfolds to the west across Twin Peaks.

Today the view is obscured by the collective fog of some 100 yoga-goers whose hippie sweat mists the windows of Yoga to the People’s 6 PM class.

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Loehmann’s, a discount fashion retailer once at the corner of Sutter and Kearny Streets, sold off-rack Calvin Klein and Michael Kors to thrifty Financial District suits. When One Taste opened their pop-up shop, they jury-rigged the former tennants’ sign to read “Women’s Store,” wallpapered the walls with completed “Orgasm is _____________” (addictive, ¡bueno!, hard with two little kids), and just like that, downtown San Francisco had its first dedicated orgasm store.

“I have never met a woman who is not, right now, at this moment, orgasmic,” Nicole Daedone writes in the introduction to her store’s only tangible product: Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of Female Orgasm.

The sales clerk who greeted me on a recent Friday jumped straight to testimonial: “They’re longer, stronger, and more powerful,” she gushed, as if discussing, say, leaf blowers. Then she flipped the book to an illustration of the basic Orgasmic Meditation position that was equal parts karma sutra and soccer stretch.  “See?” she exclaimed.

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The already muddled rules of twenty-something romance took a bizarre detour late last Saturday night at some bar in the Mission. Someone recorded a failed (ironic?) last-call, standing on the sidewalk pickup attempt that read likes some unwritten passage in “Waiting for Godot”. Mission Mission has the full transcript and video:

Boy: Yeah
Girl: You’re a fuckin’ asshole
Boy: Exactly
Girl: And a hipster would never fuckin’ talk that way
Boy: Hipsters do talk that way
Girl: They don’t
Boy: Hipsters are — have you read anything about us?
Girl: They don’t
Boy: We are fucking assholes
Girl: Oh, ’cause you’re so fuckin’ cool, right?
Boy: Exactly
Girl: You’re an ass
Boy: You are an ass
Girl: I’m not!

The digitization of the dinner date

OK, so craigslist may not be the place to find a classy date. In tech-sessed San Francisco, more traditional (in relative terms) alternatives not only exist, but enjoy a kind of popularity. OK Cupid, in particular, is fast becoming this date-averse city’s accepted mode of introduction. These algorithm matchmakers are becoming so widespread that even the New Yorker, which recently devoted an entire 3 pages to the Royal Danish Ballet, loosened up it’s tux to sniff at OK Cupid:

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Sometime in the doldrums of winter, some friends and I came up with a brilliant business scheme. Experts say that the best ideas for products address unmet consumer needs. The top of that list: banana transport.

There is no frustration quite like opening a lunch poisoned by banana mush. Those gooey globs mash into intimate corners of backpacks, wreaking havoc on sandwiches and causing more than their fair share of adult tantrums.

There must be a better way, we reasoned, to transport bananas.

After settling on the concept of a banana phone banana transportation pouch for its silly, irreverent quality, we set to answering the big question: should we target ironic twenty-somethings or yuppie preschoolers? Consult with an artist or engineer first?

We found lots of websites that would love our product.

We toured TechShop and quized a bemused representative on the kind of software we’d need to get design specs (“A what? I have no idea what that is.”).

One of us called an uncle to consult about copyright law.

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Sick of the SF housing drama? Meet Oakland.

There are moments in my current living situation–when, for instance, I awake at 2 AM in a windowless room, catch the apartment’s fourth mouse in my bedroom’s trash can and release it to the wilds of 26th St (a better fate than its predecessors)–that try my patience with this whole Americorps-sponsored experiment in glamorous poverty. Fur-balls drift like tumbleweeds through our hallway. Pigeons lay eggs on our bathroom window. People leave Polaroid baby pictures on the grate of the Tiny Bubbles Laundromat next door.

And yet my recent search for subletters proves that anyone could open a craigslist with the previous paragraph and still get a dozen responses in six hours. I have never seen desperation quite like San Francisco apartment hunting. Getting an email reply for a room is like getting one of Wanka’s Golden Tickets, except instead of candy, you get furballs.

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About a month ago, I was talking to a friend of a friend and my blog came up. I described to her the conceit, to which she said, “Oh, like Bold Italic.” And that was my Knocked Up-Mr. Skin-moment.

Bold Italic “equips you with unique local intel, backstories and adventures that define San Francisco.” Sound familiar, but more articulate? And you haven’t even seen their splashy graphic designs, ingeniously uncluttered layout, and coterie of strong writers. Or you have, and you’re not reading this anymore.

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From SF Weekly

In the ’70’s, all that you needed to have a good time was long hair, wide-collared floral prints, and a fistful of cocaine. Since those days, the Man has monetized fun through Dave & Busters and Shrek sequels.

But there’s a place where the dream is still alive–where, on a Friday night in February, you can find the heroes of the roller disco and their stepchildren jiving in the same ring. In a tucked away pocket of the Outer Mission, a couple hundred revelers gathered to groove like Rick James was a performer and not a punchline.

I arrived wearing ’70’s attire judiciously chosen by my roommate, who routinely dresses and behaves as though Dick Nixon was still president. Kevin spruced up his usual getup with flare pants with a pair of funky Napoleon Dynamite nerd shine blockers. Our female friends wore high socks, short shorts, and tanks. Needless to say, we walked in like we owned the place.

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Last weekend I went to the coolest city on the earth. If your mind went anywhere other than Los Angles, shame on you. I bet you don’t take out egg yolks in your omelets. I bet you wear fur for warmth, not fashion. I bet you don’t even do yoga.

LA, like the People’s Republic of SF, is a world onto its own. Everything–chests, cars, curves–undergoes behemoth mutations. Synthetic and organic life become blurred; pets look like people, and people look like (really good looking) aliens. It’s the worlds’ most cosmopolitan suburb, chock full of girls-next-door and the men-with-gold-chains-who-prey-on-girls-next-door.  And I heard they filmed Entourage there!

I thought that since So-Cal, Nor-Cal distinctions are well-worn, I’d focus on a story that I think illustrates the diabolically warped perspective of LA.

It begins with an EXCLUSIVE email thread a friend forwarded to me.  The author is a girl that claimed to have met, made-out with, and had her toes sucked by Quentin Tarantino. Where we pick up the story, our Tucker Max-esque heroine has arrived at a party and is bored:

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Another jem from County government, taken from our seasonal newsletter.

See also: Don’t be This Guy