It's been over a year since we last hiked up the hill in Noe Valley so we could watch the ground fall out beneath us, so let's allow Austin Kamps' killer photo inspire this weekend's whimsy.

It's been a while since we've made fun of 7x7 for being, well, 7x7.  But this latest tidbit from the magazine's new executive editor Chloe Harris Frankeny is too rich to pass up.

For once, it seems as though the magazine is not only recognizing their whiteness, but embracing it.  However, they took it one step further by calling their reader's skin “lily-white,” a term forever marred by the racist anti-civil-rights movement to expel African-Americans from Southern politics and the Republican Party.  Oops.

But, more importantly, does anyone want to go glamping?  That sure does sound nice.

[Thanks for the tip, Laura!]

SFist reports:

A woman described as “heavyset” and naked except for her shoes was pulled off the J-Church line on Tuesday morning, and while cops and medical personnel were evaluating her near the intersection of 24th and Church, she threw off a blanket that had been wrapped around her, walked up on the hood of one man's car, and stomped on his windshield. The man, John Knight, described the crazed woman as about 250 pounds, and he had a lot of explaining to do to his insurance company.

“They asked if the car was on the side of a street or in a parking lot,” [Knight told the Chronicle]. “I told them, ‘No, a naked woman just got on my hood and stomped on it.’ They didn’t really know what to make of it.”

And here's the aftermath:

We reached out to Mr. Knight for an additional comment*, “No, see I was inside the car when it happened! Do you realize what kind of a vantage point that gave me? There are some things that can't be unseen! … Thank God I was driving a Volvo.”

*Mr. Knight really didn't tell us that.

[SFgate, via SFist]

This rope swing isn't for the faint-of-heart, or for overweight people with shitty grip strength, for that matter.  These people may look like they are enjoying themselves, but they're not.  They're fucking pissing themselves.  And for good reason: the swing flies 300 feet above the San Francisco skyline from a dusty knoll on the little-known Billy Goat Hill in Noe Valley.  Or Glen Park.  All those neighborhoods look the same to me.  But, I digress…

Standing atop of a rat's nest of eroded roots snarling along the precipice of self-inflicted bodily harm, you grab a rope dangling from a branch some fifteen or twenty feet above your head, curse your shithead friends for roping you into this idiocy, and leap into flight.

The ground instantly drops out from between you.  Five feet.  Ten feet.  Fifteen feet. Next thing you know, you're staring at the roofs of homes 50 feet below and wishing you hadn't slammed back all those beers beforehand.  All the thrills over a roller coaster, but with none of the safety features that come with riding a 50-year-old wooden death trap that's operated by meth addicts.  And just as you become convinced you're going to be hauled off the mountain on a stretcher, you make your triumphant return to the safety of solid ground from which you departed.

If you're as graceful as you are ballsy, you leap from the swing to the ground below, shuffling your feet to a quick stop.  If you're a clumsy old fool like me, you flail erratically and slam into the tree.

Examining your newfound bruises and ensuring you didn't unexpectedly crap lunch into your pants, everyone fortunate enough to witness your foray into the life of someone with courage will remark that they didn't know a grow-ass man was capable to emitting such screams.

“Whatever, no big deal.”