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.

Doped up on Dramamine

Saturday night I worked at New Wave City and got in about 2 am. Which meant that I had gotten about 4 hours of sleep when the alarm went off at 6:30 am. No matter! There were BIRDIES and WHALES to go visit! And they would have no lateness.

We got to Fort Mason to meet our boat at about 7:30. I had already taken my Dramamine Less Drowsy an hour before takeoff time, and so at 8 am, we were on our way! With about 40 other people. One of whom was some Marina chicklet (she had not fully grown into a Marina chick, as she was not wearing heels or carrying a large purse) and her boyfriend. She complained about her hair and the ten pounds of makeup she had dutifully applied getting mess up as we made our way out through the bay and into the ocean.

I had worn my entire riding get-up, sans helmet, which, as it turned out, was a very fortunate outfit. Standing on deck gets you really, really wet. And it's cold too, but mostly, wet. Seawater, which is super salty and tastes icky. We stood on the deck most of the time, as sitting inside is more for people who wish to get seasick, which I did not.

We first made our way up along the coast of Marin, never getting close enough that I would have the misfortune of meeting any Marin people. We did come upon some harbor seals in a cove, balancing their fat carefully on tiny rocks. Puppies!

Out at a bouy, we found a bunch of sea lions playing in the water. The picture doesn't do it justice. They were jumping up out of the water over and over, and when they traveled as a pack, they were jumping and propelling themselves they way we imagine dolphins doing, only with less finesse and showiness.

We quickly left the sea lions when someone spotted a whale nearby. And as we chased that whale (not really chased, just trying to get closer), and everyone got to the front right of the boat, I was left on the left side of the boat, and something weird was in the water near our path. At first thought? Dead body. No, wait, too much surface area. Not a whale, too ridgey. Then, holy CRAP! The biggest damn turtle I have ever seen! It's unfortunate that I did not have the camera at this point, because I had a very, very clear shot of this thing. I have never seen a turlte in the wild before, and certainly not on e like this. It must have been about 10 feet long? And was floating near the top of the water nearly directly by where I was standing. Beautiful!

Once the captain saw what we had found, he kind of lost his shit and got on the horn to tell all of the other boats, which all stopped whatever they were doing to rush over to see the Leatherback. Leatherbacks are very rare to sight, and very, very endangered. They will most likely be extinct within the next decade or so. To bad, they are cute. And could probably be saved with some party hat fashion, to warn fishers to get them out of their nets.

After all the other boats had come to see the turtle, and it had become less easy to see anyway, we went back on our way, stopping here and there to see whales. The rest of the people on the boat were starting to get seasick as we headed out to the Farallones, so I thought maybe I'd better take a second dose of Dramomine Less drowsy to make sure I did not get sick. Big mistake! That stuff mess you up! Two days later, and a whole lot of extra sleep hours, and I am just feeling normal again.

The shape of the Faralonnes through the fog emerged slowly around the same time the smell emerged. Nature is stinky, and noisy. As we pulled close to them, the noise of the sea lions and gulls is nearly deafening. The islands are covered, literally, with birds; Cormorants hop up the rock face, murrs are hanging out on the beach, gulls are flying around picking stuff out of the water and carrying it up to the top of the rock (I guess they are nesting up there?)

As we floated away from the Faralonnes, we found the water teeming with jelllyfish. I had also never seen jellyfish in the wild, and to see so many was, frankly, a little much. Somebody should eat them! Like the Leatherback, but unfortunately, he was nowhere near there.

Coming back to the bay was a long trip, and everyone was basically passing out. Trying to keep my eyes open on the way, Paul and I sat in the front of the boat by ourselves and got to see several more whales. Each time we saw some whales, people would rush to the front of the boat and then we couldn't see anymore, nor could I sleep. Bummer. This must be when I got sunburned as well. Fortunately, I was wearing a hat to keep the sun off of my scalp.

Eventually, we came back to the bay, where the water got choppy again, and we saw some porpoises. The porpoises were not all that exciting, because you could barely see them in the water. They were not feeling like putting on a performance for us, apparently.

We got back to dock around 3:30 I think (I was so out of it by this point, I just wanted to nap, and could not be bothered by any more whales) and then headed back to Berkeley, where we took a nap, hobbled to dinner, then returned to bed. We were in bed by 8pm! Monday morning I had to be at work early, but still managed a good 9.5 hours of sleep. Unfortunately, no amount of sleep would cut through the thick cloud of Dramamine, and I was drowsy all day Monday as well.

We went whale watching with sfbaywhalewatching.com and I highly recommend them. they seem to really like what they are doing (there is a lot of cool info and pictures at their website) and they allowed a good deal of flexibility in going to see what we wanted, when we wanted. Good times!

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.

do it for the monkeys!

This boggles my little mind.

14:39 PDT SAN FRANCISCO -- Monkeys waving white flags joined protesters outside the district office of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi in San Francisco today to speak out against the Democratic leader's support for measures that organizers say undercuts the mission of the troops in Iraq.

Now, I thought that monkeys were illegal in California. I could be wrong. I know helper monkeys are illegal here, but perhaps protesting monkeys are not. When I read the article, I assumed they meant "dumbasses dressed as monkeys," but, no, these appear to be actual monkeys (dressed as dumbasses, but I don't think they chose their outfits)

So you have a monkey. And that monkey is protesting. I wonder how many monkeys they polled to find two who supported the war effort. I have to think most of them were like "No time for that. Can't talk now. Flinging poo." Not Jake and April. They jumped at the chance to exercise their First Amendment rights! Yay two party monkey system?

(I can't be the only one who thinks it's funny that these people chose the animal that is so often used in cartoons to mimic Dubya's facial features)

April looks very stylish in her beret, but she should learn to sit like a lady, not some wild west liberal hussy.

I'm Doomed

OK, so everyone knows about Gavin, right" Blah blah blah.

Who cares, right?

However, Gavin has decided to personally pay his (ex)friend's salary until he can get a new job. Oh, that's sweet. Nothing wrong with that.

Tourk is not talking to the press. His representative, Sam Singer, said that Newsom was following through on the commitment he made to Tourk, 35, who has a 3-year-old son. "Alex needs this assistance until he finds whatever he's going to do next. He has a son, a wife and a mortgage," Singer said. "He's highly respected and has many job offers right now, so it shouldn't take long."

Oh, Gavin's thinking of the kids. Don't want that three year old and wife to starve (well, maybe the wife, I mean she is a cheating skank wot outed her adultering partner for reasons I can only guess involve a need to stir shit up and get her name in the paper). 3 year olds eat a lot, and you gotta buy them new clothes all the time. And the mortgage. So how much does it cost to keep your (ex)friend's three year old off the street, Gavin?

San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom has agreed to personally pay $15,000 per month to his former campaign manager, who abruptly quit last week after learning his wife had had an affair with Newsom.

Holy CRAP! $15-THOUSAND DOLLARS?!?!? A MONTH?!?!??! THAT is what it costs to have a small family in these parts?!?!?!?

I am doomed.


As a sidenote, I suspect that makes Ms. Ruby whatever her name is, one of the most expensive "ladies" in town.
I wonder what it costs to bang your buddy's wife in Crockett?

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.

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.

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

Fun stuff about the city I love

Bikini-Clad Robots

Last night we went to the Parkway and watched Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine. It was great. I want to watch it again just to see the San Francisco chase scene.

I drank a bunch of beer, and rode around on the back of my bike.
Paul is The Hotness.

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?

weekend

Two weekends in a row of relative uneventfulness!
Which is pretty nice, given how much running around we’d been doing before.

Friday, we ran into Daniel at Lanesplitter, got a little drunk, and went back to Paul’s house to drink more, bake brownies, and expose Daniel to the wonders of Get Your War On.

Saturday flew by, mostly while I was sitting in the hammock reading, or nursing the good cat while Paul put his new radiators onto the good bike. Saturday night, I had to return to the city to work at New Wave City. It was OK. I kind of hated the door setup. For the record, I really really hate the “drinking” holidays. Halloween is becoming more and more of that to me, but maybe just because I was working. But, New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, etc., are really trying for me. Look, are you a drunk, or are you not? If not, you really shouldn’t try to make up for it all in one night. You aren’t going to wear it well.

And, are you a ho or not? If you are dressed as a ho for Halloween, you are basically a ho, but just scared to admit it all the rest of the year. Which means you’re just a self-hating ho the rest of the time. Love it, live it, or leave it. But don’t make it your Halloween costume.

The best costume I saw was a couple that came as Team Zissou, from Life Aquatic. I loved that movie. I also really like the camel outfit, for some reason. Guys in fatigues? Stupid, what are you, a frat boy that didn’t know what to do with himself?

Sunday I cleaned up the house a little bit, and spent what seemed like a few hours on the phone with SBC DSL tech support. Supposedly, they’ve fixed it today, and it should work when I get home. I’m not holding my breath.

Then Paul and I started walking: down to Grant, into China Town, through North Beach, where we stopped at an Irish Pub-slash-Indian restaurant for some Guinness, to Fisherman’s Wharf, where we did not stop at Hooters for another beer, then up to Ghiradelli Square and up Polk Street, which was UP. Stairs and stairs and stairs to some parks and vistas overlooking the Golden Gate and Fisherman’s Wharf. It was quite nice, and somehow a spot I’ve missed before. We were starting to sober up, so we stopped for a bit of Guinness at Bigfoot Lodge before heading to the store and then home.