Sign, sign, everywhere a sign

Dear San Francisco,

Your political climate advocates tolerance. Your signs tell another story.


Here we have, at long last, the Victoria's Secret Hotel. They have hoisted a Brazilian flag to recognize the many anorexic models they've imported to meet their "exotic" quota.


Tell me about it, sister. Sometimes I try to capture the artist's intent by osmosis. But the security guards are never cool with that.


At long last, Fisherman's Wharf introduces the cross-branding of the chocolate and peanut butter of restaurant franchises. Yes, I think it's funny.


Now, come on.


This is a mixed blessing for hippies. The side door is harder to find, but there's a fake panel in the door. (You put your weed in there.)


In Muir Woods, less than an hour north of San Francisco, hippies are renamed "bohemians" and have to use a side trail. Upside: there's grass everywhere.


But apparently, mountain lions are an afterthought at Muir Woods. Don't they merit their own warning sign?


A friendly sign roughly across the street from our lodging in Pacific Heights. The inn's staff really didn't care where we parked in their tiny lot -- I usually opted for the wide, blocked off area between the handicapped spaces -- as long as we didn't park elsewhere and get their neighbors mad. (Walk quickly, iPod lady.)

It isn't all bad news, though.


Some furniture store on Van Ness is offering love, plus a sofa, at a reasonable price! How can you argue with that?

Bittersweetly,

Neel Mehta