Sometimes the art is in the detail.

The sun is shining through the window onto my back and into my hair. I'm in another phase of giving up coffee, so I have a latte in my hand. The Picasso exhibition I've been to this morning is still moving in my brain. I want to know more about his life, definitely more about his lovers but it appears that Picasso lived his life in four parts that retail for thirty dollars each.

And that's the trick of the museum shop, isn't it? Capture people when they have been broken open by the creativity of others and convince them they can possess some of the greatness. But why must the greatness be inevitably stamped onto magnets? Or impractically small notepads? 

In the same cafe, the young woman across from me is eating her cookie as if she were a gopher - all hunched shoulders, two hands holding her food, big teeth bared, taking tiny nibbles until she has nibbled the unfortunate cookie ragged.

She has dark hair, pulled back from her face, blunt fringe up front. She is self-conscious of her acne; her mother seems conscious of her in her entirety. 

The two of them don't talk. As the young woman gets up and walks away she could be mistaken for a woman much older; she is bowed by age though she must be less than twenty.

An elderly couple sits close by too. Their rings are thin slivers of gold; the edges of the rings were soaked up by surrounding skin over the many years of marriage. 

A proud grandmother struts past pushing her new granddaughter in a pram. Her daughter, the mother of the baby, half walks, half skips to keep up. Her mother is racing away with the baby; her mother is so happy to be a grandmother at last that she doesn't really care.

I can't sit here any longer. The latte is finished; the little cookie has been eaten. I'm off to happily wander in Golden Gate Park. 

Riding the buses - A field guide on how NOT to be that asshole.

There are ways to ride the buses that leaves everyone with no impression of you whatsoever and there are ways to ride the buses so that people know you are an asshole. 

Don't let people know for sure that you are an asshole. Here's how in six easy points.

1. Don't be that asshole who takes his golf clubs on the bus. Because that's just stupid. You want to be the guy who is standing next to the homeless man while you're holding your golf clubs? You want people to push past you and your golf clubs in the aisle? You want people to mutter 'asshole' under their breath? Then sure, take your clubs for a ride on the number 5. 

2. Don't be that asshole who takes up two seats because you are reading the paper. Or because you need to rest your sixteen-year-old feet. Or because your bag needs a lie down. Or because you just feel like it. And in related asshole-ness, don't sit in the aisle seat so that someone has to push past you to sit in the window seat. 

3. Don't be that asshole who gropes women. It's not legal and it's certainly uncool. Also, if you get punched in the balls or your eyes gouged out, no one is going to help you. They'll just call you an asshole. 

4. Don't be that asshole who does stupid stuff. Like using the rails to work on your chin-ups. We're not an audience. We're just trying to get places. 

5. Don't be that young asshole who sits while older people stand. One day you'll be old and you'll have to stand on your rickety arthritic hips while some fourteen-year-old asshole sits in a seat. Don't tempt karma. 

6. So you're an asshole who likes listening to Bon Jovi really, really loudly? Good on you. And you are welcome to do just that. In the privacy of your own home. Don't inflict your music on other people. And see your doctor for a hearing test. I know you need one. 

There's no easy way to sum this up. Let's see... Did I cover everything y'all need to know? 

Don't be an asshole. 

Check.

We're done here. 

How's it going?

I know now that I was quite naive coming to America. I thought that it would be just the same as home, just, you know, more like on the telly. Maybe a little swearier and with a touch more god.

But the crazies in this city seem a little crazier. The people more beautiful, definitely skinnier, probably richer. The diamonds are bigger, the politics more extreme.

Shopping is both cheaper and more expensive. Sitting in this park, I can see the mansion that belongs to Danielle Steele. It takes up a whole city block and has its own carriage entrance. There are houses in the paper for sale for $45 million dollars.

Dog walkers fill the parks. Nannies fill the parks. Women in yoga pants fill Marc Jacobs, Ralph Lauren, small and tasteful boutiques.

Children are treated as little adults, tiny little employers, special snowflakes who can be forgiven anything and who should be given everything. They are on a tight leash; no further away from an adult than a few metres. Strangers are confused when Remy talks to them; kids don't speak to strangers here. The strangers have all been so kind to him, playing along with his superhero games, being good sports when he shoots them.

The food is confusing. The variety of products is astounding. The amount of corn syrup unimaginable and almost impossible to avoid.

People stand for others on the buses. It's more than good manners; there is a strong feeling of community and looking after each other here. Except when they don't, because sometimes they won't. There are signs around the parks telling us all not to befriend the animals because it makes them more aggressive. The animals they are talking about are coyotes. Seriously, coyotes. It's like being in a foreign country sometimes.

While I was out.

I've moved to San Francisco.

Yes, yes I have. Remy is here too of course, and Rees.

It's awesome here. Obviously. It's San Francisco. How could it be anything else?