San Francischronicles, Chapter 2.

We're staying at Fisherman's Wharf. This is the view from Tarantino's, a restaurant right around the corner. View our ghastly images ingesting food!




Camera perched precariously on a wine menu, Rebecca sat perfectly still for 732 seconds, which is how long it took to get the correct exposure needed for the extremely low lighting in the restaurant. And also why she hates me.




Our generous waitress took this photograph, even after my insistence that the flash would completely eradicate the scenery behind us, which is the only reason we wanted a photo there. We might as well have been at IHOP. Our generous, dumb waitress. Also note that I am still in a state of near catatonia, a remnant of my airplane tranquilization.




I proved that waitress wrong, boy. Just look at the majesty of the beautiful wharf and the hundreds and hundreds of sailboats and fishing skiffs. After our meal, the chef came out and explained how he was trying to illustrate the inherent violence in dining, in the vein of Kurosawa. I said, "Dude, we had cheese ravioli and the vegetarian linguine." His eyes flickered and twitched a few times, he shuffled his feet back and forth quickly, and said, "G-g-g-get the f-fuck outta my restaurant." Then a Dick Dale song blared through the P.A. and he half-walked, half-ran, knees unbent, back towards the kitchen, punching an Asian busboy who was cleaning a table squarely in the face.

Beach and Hyde Street, walking somewhere.
Doing what we, er, at least, I do best. Note Rebecca's uncanny ability to remain almost perfectly still. These are all five second exposures.