Snoqualmie

Oh, is it three o'clock already?

In the immortal words of Michele, EW EW EW EW!

A group of maybe 13-year-old kids walked down the street past the office just now, looking like, well, kids walking around San Francisco without enough to do. They've wandered past our office before; last week one of them stood in front of the door, pointing at the "PUSH" sign and pulling on the door handle for several minutes. I wasn't impressed.

Today one of them--the same one, perhaps-- opened the front door and walked into the office. He mumbled something. "Sorry?" I prompted. "Can I borrow your phone?" he asked more clearly this time, raising the SF Weekly that he was holding. I gave him a quizzical look, and he opened the paper to reveal a two-page spread of 1-900 porn ads. "I want to call her," he said, pointing.

It's possibly just as well that my brain and mouth rebelled against the suggestion of formulating a verbal response to this. I gave him the most unamused look I can recall ever giving anyone, and a kid-get-the-hell-out-of-my-office wave. He retreated out the door muttering something irritated and incomprehensible, which turned into an irritated and incomprehensible yell by the time he got back to the sidewalk. He balled up the SF Weekly and flung it in the street, where it's still fluttering around.

"That kid needs therapy," remarked one of the architects with a shake of his head. I think I could use some too at this point. Agh!