Dear SF Ethicist,
I drive for a ride-share company and often find myself stuck in traffic with a bladder full of Red Bull, açai extract, and yerba mate. Sometimes I can pull over into a South of Market alley and squat behind a Dumpster in the nick of time, but I’ve had so many close calls I think I need a, shall we say, collection device. I’ve asked my Maker friends to create a lady-friendly unit, but in the interim, I strap on a double helping of Depends. You never know when the next ride will want to go from downtown to SFO at 5 on a Friday. I’m an “independent contractor,” but if I get a urinary tract infection, can I sue the ride-share company for medical expenses?
Cup Here About to Runneth Over
Dear CHARO,
Just one word: Starbucks. Well, one more word: silicone. Looks like I’ve got a whole bag of words here with your name on them, CHARO, like GoGirl and Shewee. My last word: organize. Someone’s got to put the “p” in protest. Be the point person for female urinals or for greater ubiquity of services for women who want to git ’er done. Show the rest of us the way, and we will gladly follow in your stream.
Dear SF Ethicist,
I met him at a party last year, seemed nice. Exchanged phone numbers and emails, the whole deal. Then the phone rings one day, and there he is trying to sell me some wine. Pricey, precious, Napa Valley vintage wine.
I hem and haw, go on about how I have a lot on my plate right now, haven’t the time, the usual BS. I grit my teeth as I read him my credit-card number while repeating that no, I’m not interested in a whole frigging case, just a couple bottles, OK? He counters that I’m killing him on shipping just a couple of bottles, and upsells me to four.
Next he says I can’t even drink the booze this year. No problem, I blurt out, hoping the nightmare is almost over. I make a point to block the number after hanging up.
Sure enough, in like a week I get a box from the distributor and take out my Sharpie and write “$$$ Don’t drink till sometime in 2017” on it. Still with me? God, I hope so, because a couple weeks ago I said screw it, let’s open some of them fancy-schmancy bottles for friends coming over for dinner. We’ll just talk and throw it down without thinking a thing of it, what could possibly go wrong.
Holy Screaming Eagle in an elevator shaft, the stuff is absolute dynamite! But now I’m kinda freaked about calling the sales bro back to buy up futures for the coming years, since he probably thinks I’m a lowballing jerk and might have blocked me too, even. Should I suck it up, stick to the Rabbit Ridge from Trader Joe’s and pretend I never had this winegasm, or go crawling back to the guy and tell him I’m a terrible person?
Clearly Regretting Unwise Short-Changing Haught
Dear CRUSCH,
Stop whining and start wining. If you’re digging the vintage that much, you need to put on your gender-neutral big-kid pants and call the guy back. What does he want to do, rub your nose in it — or sell some more bottles? OK, maybe both. But if you want to salvage some face, pretend what happened was that you wanted a little appetizer, and now you’re ready for the main course. He’ll only be thinking about Mr. Commission. Make the call. Make his day.
Dear SF Ethicist,
It’s the Summer of Love anniversary, and as you know, tourists are flocking to the city to relive the youthful, freewheeling, anti-establishment spirit, wander the sidewalks that Jerry and Janis still haunt, and buy $200 sneakers on Haight Street. It’s all so beautiful, man, and I want to make sure my in-law apartment is here for everyone on Airbnb. I always put out a wide tea selection for my guests. I even let the Europeans smoke in the backyard.
Problem is, that fascist Ed Lee and his jackbooted City Hall minions want to bring us all down, tell us what to do, make us bow to the dictates of the soul-crushing bureaucracy!
Instead of kowtowing to the city and filling out an application, I’m going off the grid. People who find my listing through deep-web channels will be able to pay me in sand dollars. Their gonads are not as delicious as those of sea urchins, but I am willing to make sacrifices. Though for the convenience of my honored guests, perhaps I should also accept Bitcoin. Please advise.
Mi Casa Es Tu Casa
Dear MC ETC,
Sand dollars are only available certain times of year, and only during certain tides, which would often leave your in-law apartment an empty shell. As for stampeding toward a touchless, seamless, double-encrypted payment techno-future with Bitcoin, how about stepping back into an earthier time and barter?
You let someone stay in your extra unit, and that special someone does something in return. Picking up your dry cleaning, standing in line for a gluten-free croissant, walking the goldendoodle: What wide-eyed visitor to San Francisco wouldn’t want to be part of these authentic experiences? And for those who want an extended stay, there’s always an opportunity to help when you don’t have time protest the tech shuttle buses or make phone calls to elected officials about single-payer health care.
If the San Francisco of today is epitomized by an individual’s ability to tap an app and demand a service, there is no reason why we shouldn’t tap and have a beautiful soul tune in, turn on, drop off, chop up, hand-roll, wash, dry, fold, and deliver for you.
Got concerns about others that reveal your own lack of self-awareness? Let us know at thefrisc AT gmail.com. No attachments, please. We’ve got enough of our own.
Photo by Osbornb via Creative Commons.