Picture from the Chronicle


This outrages me.

I am not a boat specialist, so maybe someone else can explain to me why the hell freighters are always running into shit and then dumping their oil loads with the slightest puncture in their hulls? Is it necessary to design these things such that the water is separated from 58,000 gallons of oil by a thin sheet of tissue paper?

When I read the initial report, this was a minor incident. A day later, it became clear that that had been absolute bullshit. This is a MASSIVE spill, in a very delicate enclosed marine environment. I just can't believe this is right here in our backyard. Where we have walked on many occasions to observe and enjoy these very birds.

As the past few years we've been making an increasing habit of visiting the marine birds, this depressed me terribly. The Bay had been changing right in front of our eyes-- just in the past few years, the life there had really taken off. It seemed the birds and wildlife had been making a comeback, and then some dipshit with a recent history of running ships aground in the Bay Area runs a freighter into the Bay Bridge? Like it was a tight spot? No one has run into these towers in the 70 years the bridge has been open!

The birds and marine life we have been lucky enough to keep in the Bay Area are so delicate, and so beautiful, and so needed... If we can't design boats better, why the hell are we floating them into such a dense habitat?

Not that I think we couldn't design boats better. I just think no one wants to. Except, maybe the birds want us to?

Old Gold Mountain

As I type this out, I’m on a flight from Denver to Austin, for a training thing at our Austin office. I love traveling, and I like Austin, but right now? I do NOT have time for this.

I’m of course falling behind in my two classes. My Intro to Networking class is well-organized and easy-to follow, but the subject matter is dry, and the text is absolutely terrible. I do the work and the reading, but don’t have the time and drive to really do the background studying and extra effort to really *learn* this stuff. But just having a basic knowledge and vocabulary will be a good start, so I’m glad I’m taking this class.

The Macroeconomics class, on the other had, is a complete mess. The instructor can’t keep anything straight. Now I’m just trying to get through it with a relatively respectable finish.

And?

As of Tuesday, I have an offer letter in hand for my continued employment. This is a huge weight off of my mind, as of course, mergers and acquisitions often mean lost jobs. And, I really need, and really, really like, this job. I’m hoping to stick around for at least a few years, for several reasons, some of which are obvious (vesting things) but more importantly, I have a lot to learn, and this is the first step into a whole new career. Getting to this point was a big challenge, and involved a stroke of amazing luck, and I did not want to try to hit that combination again. And of course, there’s the team, which I adore. So, in short. I love my job, and I get to keep it at least a little while longer.

And?

After 13 wonderful years, I will be moving away from my beloved adopted hometown. It’s not something I expect anyone who lives in the suburbs to understand at all, but a city like San Francisco is more than a place to live and park my stuff, or have my crash-pad. San Francisco is a lead character in my life. Cities, real cities, function in people’s lives in a way that suburbs cannot. We live in them, our memories, attitudes, habits, and needs become interconnected. We compromise for each other. We create and complete each other. Sometimes we are mad at each other, but we work it out, knowing that we belong. Wandering around on Saturday afternoons, the City offers up secrets to its inhabitants, twisted alleys blanketed in trees, tiny parks overlooking the bridge views, neighborhood bars, a beautiful fountain, or a peek into the living room of its other lovers. These are intimate moments with the city you love. And out in the open, in the crowds, the city holds even more. A walk one morning found a Maori dance in Yerba Buena, and a Chinese Dragon dance a few blocks over in Union Square. The traditions! Just now the city is starting to move toward the frenetic Christmas traditions. All the things I know will come to signal my favorite time of the year: the SPCA’s kittens and puppies in the Macy’s window, the amazing animated displays at Saks, a giant tree in the Square will preside over all manner of craft fairs, from the ugly dental office art to the local crafty types fairs. The streets surrounding Union Square will become a throbbing retail mass, while the in the heart, families from all over the world will stop in the square to quietly admire the tree amidst the chaos.

Two weeks ago, I walked through and found there were free swing dancing lessons there. A few weeks before, free movie screenings.

It’s a dichotomy of living amongst the masses, that we are crammed in to each other and yet this mass feels so private. As I push through the hordes, I feel so calm, so private, so anonymous. Never *alone* but definitely with my own emotional space. Watching the sun come up over the Broadway Tunnel on a morning walk through my neighborhood, I see the cars zipping by below, streams of headlights, each with a private story inside. Here we all are together, crammed in, enjoying our solitude.

And now to think of leaving, the history of memories, smells, sights, tastes…

The cable car home from work, up through the fog on Nob Hill as we approached Grace Cathedral.

Sitting with my sketchbook out on the rocks past the cave at the Sutro Baths

The Ferry Building on a sunny weekend morning, feeding the seagulls buttery pastries, then retiring to the park across the street to visit the parakeets

Yakety-Yak coffee house, now gone, where I produced a fashion show, including the night before of getting a stinky Irish art student to completely decorate the walls in a cave-like collage.

The walk home from King Street Garage after stopping off at 2am and breaking up with a boyfriend.

The old Trocadero… the riot police… the shooting… the shows… riding home with a few coworkers afterward to stop in a greasy spoon in the Tenderloin at 4am

The giant rats that used to be at the Powell Street Turnaround area at night

Going cruising through the Tenderloin to check out the hookers, before they swept all the cool ones

Hiking out to the Presidio, drinks in hand

Parades, street fairs, cultural events. All the time, everywhere you look.

The Easter Morning Ride to Mount Tam, well before sunrise, mobs of motorcyclists waiting at their start points to join the fray as we proceed to Marin (the only time I’ll go)

The walk through Alamo Square at night, among the ornate Victorians

Being attacked by a squirrel in the park in the rain, and the quails inching slowly away from us

Following James up the road through the fog to emerge to the Sutro Tower and Twin Peaks lookout

Everything. All the time. And almost all of my memories of the last 13 years.

Sadly, the city couldn’t keep us. Paul’s career is in the South Bay, and mine appears to be there as well, at least for now. The commute was killing him.

Given our different tastes and needs, downtown city life is not going to work for us as a couple, so we’ve found a decent compromise in an area that is at least connected by transit to what I need. The new place is two blocks from a Caltrain station, so I can come back when I want, but also situated very close to our jobs so we’ll be able to enjoy our time and stop wasting so much time and mental energy lanesplitting our combined 150 miles each day. Being near each other will be not only lovely, but convenient, and free us to pursue things we’ve been shoving aside for a long time. I can’t believe I stopped sewing some years ago. But maybe I needed to stop for a while. Somehow the idea of sewing while Paul is nearby seems fantastical to me, like a weird domestic dream I never could have imagined.

The new place is in probably the most walkable city-esque part of the South Bay, next to Caltrain, and with plenty of restaurants and stores nearby, which is an ideal compromise of what we each need.

And I can’t wait, though part of me wishes to prolong my time in my hometown. Now I look forward to many days sitting at home pursuing my hobbies and studies while knowing that Paul is in the room next to me, that we can be nearby and create a new home and new favorites and new memories together. I don’t expect Mountain View to ever be the leading love-interest character that San Francisco was, that’s not what the suburbs are for. But now I’ll have space to be with my real leading love, and time and space to do the things I haven’t been able to do in the past couple of years.

Don’t ever expect me to love the South Bay though. I was raised there, and I know what it’s about. It’s a place to hang your hat, park your cars, and keep your stuff. It’s a place to landscape, shop, and plan your kitchen remodel. None of this interests me. I don’t need to park my car, and I don’t need to have space for a third bedroom, and I don’t need a yard to make my own personal park. I don’t want an Applebee’s; I prefer the worn in seat at Orphan Andy’s where we retired after many a night closing nightclubs. The food was crap, but we always knew we’d get the same cranky but genuine service. I don’t want the options, parking, and service of Home Depot, I just want the hardware store that is too small to carry much, but where I remember putting in my special order for 36 locks keyed alike for my senior collection. They never asked, because it probably wasn’t the weirdest thing they’d been asked that day. I could give a shit about your McMansion with a three-car garage. You wouldn’t need a three-car garage if you didn’t live in a wasteland, and you wouldn’t need all those extra rooms if you didn’t have to fill your life with crap to make up for the lack of substance and culture.

It’s the quiet moments I’ll miss the most. Most people respond to my hometown with “there’s so much going on there” or “I hate it; there’s no place to park.” “Too many people, not enough space” They don’t know that every Tuesday night returning from Mandarin class, raccoons would scurry across my path on Church Street, and they don’t know the glory of Delores Park on a summer weekend. That I can walk 30 minutes and see starfish, an overlook of the bay from a remote bench in a national park, wild parrots (not where you think). Every so often, you let something show, a little flash of ankle: a sunken ship off Ocean Beach, an earthquake shack, a grave hiccupped from your depths (weren’t they all moved?), Lotta’s Fountain, some twisted metal unearthed at Land’s End... Memories of all the great people that loved you. All the memories of my life forming in random places. (will anyone discover them a hundred years from now?) That just there, I broke a boy’s heart, four hundred feet away, mine was broken too. In that grocery aisle, in that intersection. That’s where I decided I would never put up with that shit, ever again. There, I forgave someone smaller than myself. There, I got good news, and behind that corner, I cried…

All this time, I saw our future together, but it isn’t meant to be. Besides, I remember when Willie Brown sold you like a cheap whore. I felt bad for you then, but now it just gets worse. It’s not your fault. Your spirit is still there, but hidden in quiet places the tourists never see. They criticize you because they don’t know you for who you are. You’re right to hide it, keep some for yourself and those who are willing to make the effort. They love you for all the wrong reasons, but you coyly keep something for yourself. Hopefully you’ll keep a little something for me when I come to be with you again. And I hope I will, but we never know where our lives will lead. I couldn’t have guessed this path, and I don’t know yours, but I’ll always carry the Old Gold Mountain with me, and the part of you that is shared by all your many lovers, over the years, over the centuries.

sniff, sniff.

It is the end of an era.

riiiiiiiip... BOOM!

There are sonic booms, over my apartment right now, and? They are thrilling.
I know, it is a very, very guilty pleasure, being military and all, but the Blue Angels buzzing my town is an awesome sound.

I have very mixed feelings about it. There are non-military stunt pilots in the airshow too. But I like the whole bit. Sorry.

I just like gas-powered vroomy things. I could definitely do without the rest of the Fleet Week bullshit, but the sound of these planes tearing up the sky, them the BOOM, while in the comfort of my home, is thrilling.

I'm sending more cash to the ACLU this week to make up for this guilty enjoyment of military prowess.

Birffday

A few weeks back (I am totally behind) I had a birthday! And, since I had not had birthday party goodness for a few years, I demanded a little party. It was also Amy's birthday, so we combined festivities and had a get-together at the Park Chalet. Park Chalet is pretty good, and it was a nice warm day, perfect to enjoy the indoor-outdoor park setting. Park Chalet is at the end of Golden Gate Park, near the windmill.



After nearly losing our table due to lateness, the waitress finally took pity on me and seated our half-party. By this time, I was a few beers in. I then drank some more. Beer! I even had the little taster menu, which was darn cute. The food was good, the company was grand, and, oh, did I mention BEER?











Things get a little blurry in the middle, but afterwards, Jennifer and Paul and I walked out to the beach. There were a lot of bonfires, and the weather was reasonably good. Then we hiked up to the Cliff House and down to the Sutro Baths side. That area has changed quite a bit in the past few years. We woke a hobo up in the cave, and then found that some park authority had "closed" off the opening of the cave on the other side. This is where you access what I deemed my favorite spot in all of San Francisco when I was in college. An excellent judge of my own inebriation, I hopped the new fence but did not attempt the climb to my old spot. Next time.

Weekend, with birdies!

Saturday we went to Boulder Creek for a surprise birthday party. There were babies and mojitos with no liquor and some very noisy Bong brothers.

Sunday afternoon, we decided to go for a little walk that turned into a 12 or 13 mile hike. We started with beer (of course) and hiked out toward the Presidio. This took us through some fancy-pants neighborhoods, where the only really good way to piss off your 7 million dollar neighbors is by posting a giant robot out front next to their chateau. Bonus if your giant robot appears anatomically "correct."















Paul stopped to pop some flowers, and then found a house he liked.




























Heading down the Lyon Street steps, we found some great views of the bay and Alcatraz. I found a house with nifty glass and stuff.





At the Presidio, we played on the wartoys and then wandered around a bit looking for lunch. Instead, we found parrots. Laughing at us. No pigikeets these! These were big and green and had a different call than the ones in Berkeley or at the Embarcadero. They were too shy to photograph.





















Out by the water, we found a little marsh that had been reclaimed and set aside for birdies. There were a ton of seabirdies that we hadn't seen before. They were rather noisy, and enjoyed divebombing the pond. Fishing? Or just screwing around?




























We finally got out to Fort Point just as they were closing. We just got to run in to the main interior area as they were telling us to get out. Bummer. But we caught some nice touristy photos at the Fort Point parking lot.



































Then Paul climbed down to the rocks to make the starfishes famous. He apparently forgot that we were close enough to the ocean to get waves, and got splashed a whole bunch.




























On the way back from the Fort, we found this friendly bird of prey. He wanted to play with us, but was too shy to ask. Oh well. Better luck next time, birdie!






The hike home was a bit of a death march, but we did make it back around 7:30, in time to return to Berkeley to visit cats and clean up the birdfeeder (catfeeder?)

Wednesday is Paul's birthday. He is teh bestest.

Roommates

I got bogged down.
The Epiphany party was great. The next day Charles came over and we made baby blankets. All was spectacular.
Monday night, I was awoken by my noisy neighbors around 1am.
Not a big deal, but then the rustling in the kitchen. Yes, I do indeed have a roommate.

I knew it a few weeks before. Around 5am one morning, too much rustling of plastic bags or something... too much to be just the wind or something I stacked poorly.
I told myself maybe there was a mouse. I imagined my mouse was cute, shiny, full-coated, with long eyelashes and a charming smile.

But at 1am, with the kitchen trash roughly 5 feet from my head, I couldn't ignore it.
My thought was that if I turned the light on, threw some crap into the kitchen, waited a few minutes, my roommate would go away, not wanting to come face-to-face.

Then I went and wahsed a few dishes. Washing dishes calms me, and I decided that after I finished, I'd go back to sleep. And I was calmed, and as I put the last pot onto the dish dryer rack, my roomate scurried from the refrigerator across to the other corner, just where I could see him. I even yelped a little bit, but quietly, so as not to wake the (paying) neighbors. Now I was wide awake. And if that wasn't bad enough, my rommate whacked into the wall (clutz!) and then proceeded to rustle around rahter loudly for a minute or two. Sheesh! Just shut the hell up already, noisy little bastard!

I called Paul and was at his house within a half an hour, around 2am-something.

Long story short is that the roomate is not a problem, at least not in my apartment, anymore. We locked it out. Apparently, the building and block are infested, and my apartment managers have been fighting them valiently. They'll be gone soon. But at least it's not my problem any more.

I mean, it's not that I have anything against Rats, I just don't want them in my house.

Those darn neighbors!

It's really my fault that I found my neighbors on a porn site. I mean, if they allow you to sort the models by geographic area, that's pretty much just asking for it, right?

I didn't need to see that, but I do recognize that it's nobody's fault but mine.

Should I start calling them by their porn names?

These are the People in Your Neighborhood

This guy used to live in my apartment building.
I would see him daily sweeping in the hallway and foyer.
I always thought he was a little weird, but it wasn't until the fire on the floor above me that I found out how weird he was, more importantly, WHO he was...

what's not mentioned in this article is that the whole Bush St. apartment thing came to light when one night in the wee hours, the fire alarm went off, which, in a large building like mine, happens more often than it should, and frequently just because of bored teenagers. Expecting to be greeted once again by a lot of people coming out in their PJ's to a non-event followed by a return to bed, I threw on some clothes, opened my door, and was greeted by smoke. But not a lot of heat, or flames, or anything of that nature. So I investigated. Went up one floor and there, on the floor in front of the apartment one floor up and on the opposite side of the hallway (this doorway would face me if I were on the 3rd floor instead of the 2nd) was a bottle, like a wine bottle, with smoke coming out. The door it sat in front of was charred black (burned, not smoked) but not on fire. Most importantly, the sprinkler system was going off. WHOA! and DAMN! Because a.) someone set this fire, and b.) the sprinklers were destroying the building.

I ran down and scurried to remove anything that was in that area of my apartment. the water was gushing in from the ceiling. In the hallway, the rectangle slats of the ceiling were disintegrating and bursting out. Firemen finally rushed in to do whatever they do when there isn't really a fire anymore. The water gushed through even to the floor below me. In the end, they had to rip out the bathroom and redo it, and the hallway carpets, and do this thing where they drilled a bunch of holes in the walls and used some machines to dry them out on all three floors.

Creepy?

a day or so later, the fire department or police department ( I can't remember now) called me to find out what I had seen. I told them, and asked if they found anyone. they told me they were investigating to find out what caused the fire. I was like, "um, maybe the firebomb someone planted in front of that door?!?"

The following Thursday I came home from visiting a friend at SFMC to find a big white van double parked in front of my building. The white van had a wide black stripe on it, with big white block letters
"BOMB SQUAD"
As I walked up the stairs, I could see men carrying out assloads of stuff and some computers.
I turned around and went back to SFMC for a bit.

The next day I asked my apartment manager what was going on, as this was starting to make me feel uneasy at home. He told me that there was an investigation to see how the fire started. I told him I saw what started it. I asked him why the bomb squad was there last night. He told me the bomb squad had not been there, but there were detectives. I felt like I was being lied to. Maybe the DETECTIVE car was out of gas, so they borrowed the BOMB SQUAD van? The funny thing was, my apartment manager (who was always kind of a dick) started going on this tirade about "this is what happens when people let people into the building." He was stuck on the idea that non-residents were getting let in all the time. Ironically, HE was the one that rented to this guy.

A few days later, one of my coworkers mentioned she saw an article about a fire, and showed it to me. I still have it somewhere. Yes, that's my building! Holy SHIT, that's the weird creepy guy I see in the hallway all the time. OMFG, that's the guy who burnt his son! Even *I* remember that, and I was like 6 years old when that was news. If it weren't for Jamie catching that in the paper, I would never know what happened in my building.

So, what's not mentioned in the article below, about the Bush St building, is that he (or, someone else, I guess they never proved it?) set a little firebomb in front of the door of a couple of girls he had been stalking. He was also charged with, as I recall, some sort of breaking and entering and stealing debit and credit cards from some of the apartments. I guess none of that ever went anywhere, but they did find a gun and a bunch of ammo on my nutjob psychotic creepyman neighbor. And that during his time at Bush St, he had been working at an IHOP in (I think) North Beach or Marina or somewhere, and carrying a picture of his son (pre-burn, I assume) and telling coworkers that his son died of leukemia.

And so here's to Charley Charles...


from sfgate

Man who burned son could get life
Court says he had 3 strikes, orders new sentencing hearing

A man who tried to burn his 6-year-old son to death in 1983 is eligible for a life sentence under the three-strikes law for two weapons convictions in San Francisco, a state appeals court ruled Thursday.

Charley Charles will get one more chance to persuade a San Francisco Superior Court judge to set aside one of his past convictions and sentence him to less than the three-strikes term of 25 years to life. But the First District Court of Appeal agreed with prosecutors Thursday that the judge was wrong when she ruled last year that she had no authority to sentence Charles as a third-striker.

Charles, now 66, was known as Charles Rothenberg when, after a custody dispute with his wife, he took his son to an Orange County motel, gave him at least one sleeping pill, doused him with kerosene and set him on fire. The boy survived but was badly disfigured and had part of his fingers amputated. The father was convicted of attempted murder and arson and sentenced to 13 years in prison.

He was released in 1990 after serving half his sentence, was paroled to Oakland and later moved to San Francisco. After another arrest and a final jailhouse meeting with his son -- who, according to a statement he released, told Rothenberg he was an impostor and not the youth's father -- Rothenberg changed his name to Charley Charles in 1998. He also bought a handgun, which he said he needed for protection after someone shot at him on Market Street in 1995.

Charles was arrested in June 2001 and charged with being a felon in possession of the handgun as well as 44 rounds of ammunition, which police found in a fanny-pack in his Bush Street apartment. He was convicted of both charges, and has also been charged with credit card fraud and with making telephone threats from jail in 2005 to the prosecutor in the weapons case.

Under the 1994 three-strikes law, Charles faced a potential life sentence for the weapons convictions because of his two 1983 convictions. But Superior Court Judge Cynthia Lee ruled in April 2005 that Charles' arson and attempted murder convictions had to be considered only one strike because they arose from the same act.

Saying the three-strikes law was made for someone like Charles, Lee nevertheless sentenced him as a second-striker to seven years and four months in prison.

In Thursday's ruling, however, the appeals court said Charles' 1983 convictions were both strikes because they involved multiple acts -- taking his son to the motel, giving him a sleeping pill, attempting to murder him and setting fire to the motel -- and multiple victims: his son and the motel owner.

Rather than imposing a 25-years-to-life sentence, the court ordered another sentencing hearing to let Lee decide whether to dismiss one of the strikes.

Where should you go, if your home won't have you?

I've come, again, to the conclusion that I cannot afford to live here.

On a day-to-day basis it's all fine, but I know that it can only be day-to-day. Yes, including living in the same apartment, now 11 years, and having to stay here for another 11 or 22, or maybe more like 55?

Rents are too high to move; homeownership is a joke. I have no meaningful gains in earnings in sight.

Staying here means just living day-to-day.

Last year I made a goal and laid groundwork to clean up my financial house. And then I did. But I can see that things being as they are, I can't make any real progress.

About a year ago I started thinking about buying a place. Everyone seemed to be doing it. I guess I figured I was around that age or stage in my life...

But a little research showed something much weirder going on. The majority of these people took out toxic loans, or are living in buildings they bought with strangers... I'm too financially conservative to consider either of these options.

But it will take a long time to correct itself, and I do think prices will remain sticky on the downside, for a long time. I don't know enough for this to matter, but my uneducated guess would be winter of 2008 would be a nice time to buy. Maybe even later.

In case you don't know, wages have been stagnant for several years.
The US savings rate dipped below 0% recently.
Millions of dollars of ARMs are set to adjust next year.
Trillions the year after that.

So it has to come down.

But this is life, not investing. If the best time to buy is in 2011, shall I put my life on hold until then? What if it isn't until 2015? I'll be 38 before I can move out of this apartment?


I don't see any future of much better salaries in my current career path. I don't have a clue what else I can do. I assume I'd have to go back to school, but I don't even know for what? Could I afford to go back to school? Would it be another mistake?

I know there are a few manufacturers in the Seattle and Portland areas I could pursue, but I don't know how the salaries stack up there. I really couldn't see myself living in LA. New York would probably be a similar problem, although I know the salaries there for my position would be nearly double.

The vision I have for my ideal is working in downtown SF, living in the downtown or Potrero Hill or possibly Hayes Valley/Duboce areas... Mainly, specifically, walking to work or taking a bus down Market St. if needed.

But it's meaningless if wages and housing can't line up. I really can't stay.

Another horrible day in the City

OK.
It's possible that I maybe drank a little too much beer yesterday. But just a little too much, thankfully, and not a LOT too much.

We made mimosas and walked out to the waterfront on Sunday to watch the air show and the Blue Angels. Although I've lived her for, like 11 years, I've never actually watched the show. I've been awoken by the practice on many occasions (it is so so so much louder in my apartment than it was from the pier on Sunday) but never actually watched.

It was nice. We walked out onto a pier which is the home of several historic boats (which we will have to visit on a less crowded day) to watch the first air show, which was a really cool stunt airplane guy from Red Bull. And then later the 6 Blue Angels, which were fun too. I could totally do that, I just don't wanna.

We drank a bunch too, and walked out toward the Marina. Which was scary. Marina people are scary. I went toward something I identified as Thunderdome, but which turned out to be a bunch of army dipshits letting people pose with their automatic weapons. Kids holding assault rifles is fucking creepy and wrong. I liked it better when camo-net just meant a bunch of death-hippies beating the crap out of each other with foam-covered weapons?

We fed ducks and a seagull at the Palace of Fine Arts (I just really want to hug a seagull, at some point) and hiked back in, stopping at the small bar on the way back. YAY! I love the small bar. Except, perhaps I should have only had ONE of those beers. Oh, well.

Sunday was perfect, and just reminded me that I love San Francisco (Marina and all, including those fucked up little doggies that are so inbred they can't even keep their tongues from hanging out of their mouths.) Berkeley is nice, but it's really got nothing in San Francisco.

Oh. AHEM. I mean, San Francisco is HORRIBLE and TERRIBLE, and you shouldn't come here. Don't even think about moving here. There's, like, traffic, and stuff. And no parking ! How on earth can I go to the mini-mall without parking? And what about Applebee's? What can I eat if there's no Applebee's? Am I supposed to fry my own cheesecake?

Yep, San Francisco sucks. Stay away.

boom

The Blue Angels are in town this weekend. I have never actually watched the Blue Angels. I have been awoken by them on many occasions, particularly when I was in school and on a strange napping schedule, but never done the whole "watching the blue angels" thing.

I know, it's militaristic, and I'm not exactly a fan of the military. I know, it's Fleet Week, and I am officially annoyed (remember, I live in the middle of this shit. Marines Memorial Hall is just down the street, and totally within "WAHOO!" distance) but it's, like, so totally gearhead-y too, right? Vrrooooom, BOOOM, it's kind of like stupid motorcycle tricks, but much more expensive if you fuck up!

I propose sunday morning walking down to the "farmers market" at the ferry building, and then walking over to join the mob scene at the waterfront. Or, actually, I think that's the wrong waterfront. So maybe walking over to fisherman's wharf, and then... well, whatever. It probably involves mimosas. In my mind, sunday mornings should always involve mimosas.

This past Saturday, Paul and I got up early-ish and scurried down to Market Street to catch the Earthquake Cottage on its last display day. The shack itself wasn't much to look at, but the photos and info were interesting, and the fact that you could see the old wood in most of it, stories and all. These shacks were built as a part of a permanent answer to an immediate emergency need. These shacks provided previous slum dwellers who'd lost everything with a permanent structure and the option to take their house out into the "country" (sunset district! See, it IS the suburbs!) and make a new life. What do we have for Katrina refugees? A couple bucks for a hotel, and then out on the street see-ya-later!

Some of these shacks have been cobbled into homes that are still lived in today.

Then.

My folks came to the city and picked us up and we all went to meet Paul's mom at the de Young Museum to see the Arts and Crafts exhibit. It was very cool. Everyone should go. Arts and crafts: very cool. Tower view, very cool. Getting stalked by the old Filipino security guard who kept telling me and the people around that I looked like the Mona Lisa? Not quite "cool," but it made for laughs later.

I worked Saturday night for New Wave city again. 550 Barneveld is a great space, but it's way too far from the rest of the city. It seemed slow. I got some reading done.

Sunday we went back to Berkeley and worked on getting the dirtbikes back into dirtbike trim. Paul had finished the SV tune-up (it idles so much smoother now) and installed the high-low horns Charles bought for my EX500 years ago. These are COOL. Loud. Fuck you mister cellphone driver!

Monday Paul did his part in the ongoing battle against highway litter and picked up a nail on his commute. Charles heroically arrived to save the day and feed him Mexican food. Or something. I don't know, but my boyfriend looks pretty hot in his fancy work outfit with a tiny jack under his Yamabego. All is well now, new tire has been installed.
So the XR can go back to dirtbike.
so we can *finally* go dirt riding this weekend.

*finally*


tonight?
Indian food... mmmmmm.... Priya

tweet tweet

As of last Thursday, some asshole in my building (or possibly the next door building facing the courtyard) has gotten a BIRD.

I will never understand people who keep birds for pets. They aren't particularly affectionate or compelling, and they are FUCKING NOISY. Birds are social animals; that is why they sing and twitter. So how cruel is it to not only cage a FLYING animal, but then to keep it alone?

It makes no sense to me.

And, to have one in a crowded downtown apartment building? Well, if I knew who it was, I'd go poop on their door.

The singing is somewhat charming in the afternoon, at least, it was the first time I heard it. BUT. The bird wakes up at 6am every morning.

Paul did not believe me. He keeps telling me it is a starling or something, taking up residence in the courtyard. I have lived in that apartment for eleven years. There are NO starlings in my neighborhood. No tweet-tweet, pippity-pip birds. Just a lot of pigeons (which I don't mind, toxic shit or no). Pigeon noises are sort of creepy and occasionally dirty-sounding, but ultimately low and unobtrusive.

Someone needs to die. And it's not the bird, it's the jackass keeping the damn thing in a downtown San Francisco studio apartment.

Granite countertops, nothing!

The weather smiled on us for the weekend. Gorgeous days! Too bad Saturday was mostly indoors.

We went to hang out with my parents and my sister and Jesse and Amy and the little creature they made. Who is really quite cute. I don't know a damn thing about gardening, except it is really not for me. I like the gardens where they put concrete over everything and then have a glass of wine. That's my style. And it was represented.

We flaked on a wedding (I know, classy, huh?) Saturday night, and stumbled around my neighborhood peeking into the various residences. There is a building I've been lusting after for a while; Saturday I noticed a light on upstairs and climbed up onto a little brick thing to look in. Granite walls! Beautiful building, I want it. We learned a little bit about its owner on the interweb. Ain't cyber-stalking grand?

Sunday was finally SV day.

It was also drinking beer on a parkbench day, incidentally.

I suspect that dirtbiking this weekend will be cancelled on account of raininess?

The things you take for granted

I was reminded once again this morning of how much I love living in this city.
Watching the headlights and tail lights buzz through the Broadway tunnel before the sun comes up...
seeing the night turn to orange and pink as the sun begins to come up in the Financial District...
The morning opening of a coffee house on Hyde I'd never seen before...
Brownstones, victorians, and garden apartments each with stories to tell...
Everthing, and everyone, right here, living and breathing, mixing and growing...
The quiet before the daily storm.

Perhaps compromise is not in order?