Link log
8.12.2004
God I Love Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut, always one of my favorite writers, has another excellent essay in In These Times, I Love You, Madame Librarian
8.6.2004
Nuts! Bunghole
Here is yet another reason why LBJ is my favorite modern president (via)
Lemons! For Everyone!
Harper has a really well-written post up over at Lemons.
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11.30.2003
Homeless in San Francisco
The Chronicle's new series of articles on homelessness in San Francisco is positively heartbreaking and an all around amazing narrative. It's also neatly timed to coincide with a mayoral runoff election in which homelessness is a major issue.
Homelessness is a critical issue in San Francisco. When New Yorkers and Washingtonians recoil in horror at your city's streets, you've got a big-time problem. But I worry that the Chronicle cares less about the homeless than they do getting Newsom elected. This is his signature issue, after all. And the series, timed as close to the election as it is, smacks of Newsom boosting. And passages such as the following might as well scream "vote for Gavin."
Nobody wants to see people in various states of downtroddenness, but nobody knows the solution," Officer Maciel said later. "We're limited to what we can do under the law, and until there are new laws, there's just not that much we can do about people sleeping on the street and panhandling."I think it's wonderful for papers to take positions, but be up front about it. Or keep it in the back in the editorial section. And unfortunately, the homeless "issue" as it's most often portrayed and discussed here seems to be less about this:
Everything from the knee down was a gray, gnarled shank of flesh covered with open and scabbed-over sores. The grubby shoe tongue had fused into the 4- inch-wide raw abscess on Tommy's ankle, just as it had done every night for four months. The heat from the warm evening hit it. A stench like rancid meat wafted up.Or this:
"Make the pain go away! I want my daddy! Make it stop!" she moaned over and over, writhing along the 12th Street sidewalk, slamming hands against cement and walls as she made her way up to Market Street. She picked at abscesses on her arms and face, the blood mixing with dirt to leave brown smears wherever she rolled. She screamed and drooled.And entirely about this:
"Angel, we gotta go, the cops are coming, we gotta go," snapped her boyfriend, black-bearded One-Leg Mike, so dubbed because his left leg succumbed seven years ago to flesh-eating disease. Fighting to keep his crutches under his armpits, he snagged Angel's T-shirt and dragged her down the street, both of them bouncing off walls as they went.
"God. God. God," murmured one woman who runs a shop on Market, watching wide-eyed as the couple staggered. "God. God."
The worst for De Vincenzi came one morning in June. Randy, an old alcoholic, was sitting in his wheelchair by the front Honda entrance chatting with a local hooker over a bottle of vodka when he suddenly slumped over and died. His organs gave out from a lifetime of alcohol abuse, and when the paramedics cut his shirt open his stomach was a raw mass crawling with maggots.I do understand. I do sympathize. I do know how bad it is. I've been threatened and harrassed, I've watched men and women shit, piss, puke, fuck, shoot up and masturbate on our fair city's streets, sidewalks and subways. I have a right to walk down the street unmolested. Nobody enjoys cleaning turds from their doorways. And, fair enough, nobody has the right to shit on another's property, or public property for that matter. You have invested time, energy, and money into your business; you do not want it to drown in a sea of urine and booze.
A handful of Islanders, including Tommy, and local shopkeepers, including De Vincenzi, watched.
"Is this good for business?" De Vincenzi said. "This morning, I was talking to a woman about our cars, and a (homeless woman) backed herself up against the window right behind her head and crapped on the glass. Is that good for business? Nobody in the city seems to know how bad this all is."
Homelessness in San Francisco is horrifying. It threatens to become our city's defining attribute. When visitors from around the country and world think of San Francisco, I worry they will not think of our tolerance, or compassion, or progressive values, our beautiful views, Victorian architecture or mild oceanfront climate. Rather they will think of us a city whose citizens allow thousands of unfortunates to languish in misery on the streets. Yet if it's bad for business, well... It's much much worse for the people on the streets. Our suffering, our discomfort, is nothing compared to theirs. Whatever the reason they landed there; there they are. We have to help them.
The Chronicle is right to run this series, even if the timing is suspicious. The article itself is wonderfully written, and conveys a real caring for the people on the streets. The homeless are out there right now, suffering. It's important for us to know about them, to be reminded of them, to be confronted with them in our comfortable offices and living rooms just as we are when scurrying about on the street. But we are not New York City, nor should we be. We have no Wall Street, no Madison Avenue, no Times Square. Carson Daily doesn't live here. But just as it is not New York, it is not Amsterdam or Berkeley, either. San Francisco is a unique place, and it demands a unique solution.
We are all castoffs and vagabonds, to an extent. And we must develop our own solutions, and recognize that playing partisans and sticking to dogma--be they NYC-style get-tough tactics or grad-school theorizing--does nothing but make the problem worse for everyone. Allowing the status-quo to continue is just as heartless as anything Newsom and company have proposed. Whoever becomes mayor must have the courage to tackle this issue by exercising independent thought, and being captive to neither the draconian restaurant-hotel interests nor the do-nothing progressive base.
Gonzalez has already shown himself to be such a leader. He's unafraid to stand alone, to take actions that could jeopardize his standing with his liberal base (his mere entry into the race demonstrates this). Newsom, despite the grandstanding, represents four more years of downtown, business-interest, machine politics--the last eight years of which have led us where we are today.
Yes.
Yes, yes, yes. Something must be done. But Newsom is not the man to do it.
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Thanksgiving Rules!
Happy Thanksgiving!
Stay away from those GMO Turkeys!
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AIDS Lifecycle: From La-la Land to the City by the Fey in a 7 Days
Help me support the San Francisco AIDS Foundation and the HIV/AIDS services of the L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center. I need to raise $2,500 to join the ride, but because I think this is such an important issue, I've set a personal fundraising goal of $3,500. You can help me reach this goal, and make a donation to the fight against AIDS and HIV by clicking here. We'll keep riding until AIDS and HIV are a thing of the past.
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I'm A Democrat, Too
I have not yet decided who I'm going to support for President. I don't think I'll make that decision until early next year. But I do know that I'm going to back whomever I think has the best chance of beating George Bush.
I've always been an independent. I have never voted for a major party candidate for President. But I registered as a Democrat this year, so that I can vote in the primaries and make it count. I registered as a Democrat because I believe the foreign policy of this administration constitutes a perilous threat to our nation--to me and my family and friends, to the people I love.
The basic disconnect between Americans right now is safety. Liberals take the view that when Bush alienates the rest of the world (particularly a sector of the world in which we weren't very popular to begin with) while fueling terrorism with his unflagging support for the oil industry. They believe he makes the world less safe, and your local Wal-Mart more likely to be blown up by a suicide bomber. Conservatives, on the other hand, seem to find liberals to be candy-asses and question their patriotism and commitment to fighting the war on terror. They believe that liberals would allow our nation's great cities to be bombed to ashes rather than fire a single shot.
What neither side seems to recognize is that liberal, conservative, or moderate, it all comes down to whether you think Bush has made America safer, or put us all in harm's way.
I take the latter view. I think America is an inherently more dangerous place due to the actions of the Bush administration. No American president would have stood by after 9-11 and done nothing. I don't care what sort of Foxian fantasy you entertain; had Al Gore been president, we still would have bombed the piss out of Al Qaeda. Hell, if Bill Bradley had been president, we still would have bombed the piss out of Al Qaeda. But I also believe that no other administration would have recklessly thrown us into Iraq, necessarily devoting most of its time and energy to that fight rather than the one against extremist cells who seek to destroy us all, a few dozen at a time. And Americans dying are still Americans dying, be they wearing Brooks Brothers suits in the United States or government-issue camouflage in an alien desert. I also fear that just as we need international cooperation most, to help track down and eliminate terrorist threats to our homeland, we have squandered whatever goodwill we once had across the globe.
Yet the invasion of Iraq is water under the bridge. We're there now, up to our shoulder in the tar-baby. What we need now is someone who isn't going to make the problem worse. These perilous times require a courageous statesman with the wisdom of Solomon.
Even Bush supporters should be able to understand how his close ties to the oil industry and the corporations rebuilding Iraq can smack of political opportunism and cronyism to those who already do not trust him. And it becomes more evident with each week that passes that our postwar plan changes day to day, without any sort of realistic vision of how to accomplish anything. Meanwhile, it would be comforting to think that the administration had some clue as to what Osama bin Laden and company are up to these days. Or at least that it is devoting the majority of its efforts to answering that question. I don't support the president. I do not believe in him. I have no confidence in his policies. It is not because I hate America, Mr. O' Reilly, that I feel this way. That's what you don't seem to get. It's because I love America.
We need someone who can convince those on both sides of the debate--and in particular those in the middle who are uncomfortable with both the liberal and conservative labels--that he can keep us safe. That he knows what he's doing. That he's acting in the best interest of our nation as a whole, and not just for a select few.
Like John Kerry, General Wesley Clark has a history of public service and putting his nation above himself. Above his very life. He has demonstrated a willingness to go against the best interests of his career in order to speak out for what he thinks is right. Although he is now a politician, it is new to him. He doesn't seem bought and paid for. He's smart. And his security credientials are impeccable. He understand the military in a military era.
I'm not endorsing anyone. Certainly not Clark. Not yet. But I do think that General Clark might be the man who can speak to this middle. And I'm going to support whichever Democrat makes middle America most comfortable. Many of my friends support Kucinich. While I agree with Kucinich on many, many issues, being right doesn't equate to being electable. Put Kucinich in front of a moderate, middle class, swing voter, and you've got a vote for Bush. Everyone else has already taken sides; these are the people who decide elections. I want to offer them someone they can get behind. Someone who can beat Bush. My ideal candidate would probably be far too extreme on multiple issues to be electable. I think one aspect of maturity is recognizing that just because you think something is the greatest idea in the world, that doesn't mean you will be able to get everyone, or even most people, to agree with you.
General Clark's new ad is one of the best political ads I've ever seen. (Just as good as his last was puzzling.) It plays perfectly for the times we live in. It's positively moving, and simultaneously takes away the patriotism and security cards from the Republicans, while presenting a peacemaker. This is the kind of thing the Democrats need to be doing to capture swing voters.
I like several of the Democrats. I like Clark, Dean, Kerry, Kucinich and Moseley Braun. However, I only like Clark and Dean's chances. I don't buy into the Third Way. I'm not a New Democrat, or an old one, either. I like to think that I'm still an independent. But now, I am a Democrat, too. I'm a Democrat because I believe that for the future of our democracy and very planet, we must evict George Bush from the White House . It's desperate. We have to make it happen.
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Why is it that...
In Italy, the entire nation turns out to honor its war dead, while on these shores our own troops pass unappreciated, and the administration conceals our own fallen youth from view.
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I Don't Write Fiction
I don't write fiction. I write non-fiction. Unless I'm lying. But I did write this story, as a favor to somebody putting out his own zine. The zine, as far as I know, never came out. Or if it did, I never got a copy. But I did write a bunch more stories. Sort of like this one. But not really. In any case, this was the first.
Debaser.
By Mat Honan
4PM
McNamera cursed, and wondered what he'd do for the next three hours. He peered down into the grate, hoping. Looking for a glimmer.
"Come on!"
He shifted angles, trying to let more light shine through into the darkness. To illuminate the murk.
"Come on!"
McNamera sat up now and glanced up at the boy on the bicycle. Then he moved across to the opposite side of the grate, in the street, and focused his attention downward again. All this sun and no light.
"Dude, come on! Let's go!"
"Hold on a minute. I think I see them."
"You don't see them."
"No, I think I see them. I think they're down there."
"Of course they're down there, but you can't get them, dicklick. Come on. You're fucked, we're fucked. Come on, let's go."
McNamera gave an enormous sigh and picked up his bike.
"Fuck," he said, braking to a stop. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." McNamera was learning his way around profanities. He still misused them, abused them. He looked to see if Brandon was impressed. He wasn't, or he hadn't noticed. Either way.
Brandon laughed, "now what are we going to do, dumb-ass?"
"Can we go to your house?" McNamera hoped they could. He didn't want to just hang around outside for the next few hours until his mother got off of work. He wished he could go home. Where he was in control. But Brandon's would do.
Of course, he could have gone home. He could have called her. He could have called and told her what happened, and she would have come. She might have been pissed, but she would have come. But he would have felt… He didn't know, he just would have felt like a pussy in front of Brandon.
"My mom's home. I mean. We could. But we'd have to just watch TV or something."
This actually sounded pretty good to McNamera. Pretty good. TV. There was always something on TV in the afternoon. Brandon had cable. But he knew from the way Brandon said it that it wasn't going to happen. That it would suck.
They rode off.
Boys turning cranks through the streets with no sidewalks, past Chem-Lawn green yards and worms twisting and dying in the gutters. They didn't talk much. Occasionally one of the two of them would point. The other would look.
The boys rode to the edge of Hunter's Glenn, and out along Old Church Road. They passed the Magic-Mart, the dry cleaner, and the bank. They walked their bikes across the Bull's Ford Drive overpass, and stopped halfway to spit on cars. Brandon held his fingers in a circle down by his waist, making the OK sign. McNamera glanced down at it, and cursed. Brandon hit him twice in the arm half-heartedly, and then wiped both punches off. They went on, drifting through the subdivisions until they came to the storm sewers.
5PM
"Check out this hammer." Brandon dropped in, came up across the opposite side of the sewer, and surged into the air. He kicked his bike up and out from under him, flattening it, before bringing it back down and landing smoothly along the slope of the ditch. McNamera smiled. This was something he was good at. Better than Brandon. He dropped in, repeating the trick, higher in the air and holding the pose. This was good, and they went at it hard.
Finally, Brandon coasted to a stop by a pylon, and sunk down beside his bike. McNamera rode over next to him, and sat down alongside. Brandon reached into his backpack and produced a pack of Marlboros. The boys smoked in silence.
"I need to go."
McNamera rolled his cigarette between his fingers. He looked over at Brandon. He hoped maybe Brandon would invite him. He didn't say anything. He waited.
"I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. See you then. Can I have a cigarette or two for the road?"
Brandon held one out to him. McNamera reached for it. Brandon laughed and yanked the cigarette back. He slid it behind his ear and grinned. "Psyche! Buy your own, pussy."
He kept his seat and watched as Brandon rode off. He looked at his watch. He cursed. He wished he had another cigarette.
McNamera walked alongside his bike. His backpack was too heavy, but there was nothing he could really get rid of. Cars whizzed by. He stopped, looking up. It was hot. His dad lived in Boulder, it wasn't hot there. Not like here, at least. And even in the summer, it wasn't the same kind of hot. He wished he was in Boulder. His dad was always home by 6.
He came to the Magic-Mart, and went inside for a cold drink. The air-conditioning hit him as soon as the door opened. It smelled good, like sugar. He walked towards the back and grabbed a 32 ounce bottle of Orange Gatorade.
"Anything else?"
"Box of Marlboro Lights, please." McNamera used the word "box" rather than "pack" because it implied a familiarity with the process. It said you bought cigarettes often enough to prefer the kind in the hard pack. It was what his dad said.
"Can I see some ID?"
"I don't have any on me right now. I'm 18."
"Yeah. Whatever. Two bucks for the Gatorade."
6 PM
When McNamera walked out, he noted that Josh Cappello was hanging out in the parking lot, looking at his bike. This was. Well. Concerning. Josh was older by a couple of years. Bigger, and reputedly mean. He had his license.
"Is this your bike?"
McNamera bristled. "Yeah."
"Nice bike. I used to have a bike like this."
"Thanks." He relaxed some. "It's a Mongoose, but I tricked it out some."
"I see. Can I ride it for a second?"
McNamera thought about it. He wasn't sure.
"Look, I'll let you hold my car keys, okay? Can I ride it? I'm not going to ride off with it, man." Josh laughed.
"Will you buy me a pack of cigarettes if I do? I'll pay for them."
Josh laughed again and tossed McNamera his keys. "Cigarettes will kill you, man." He rode in a long lazy circle through the parking lot. He stepped off of the pedals onto the pegs, and tightened the circle in, spinning in a pirouette.
"You like these cranks? What are they, Smack Daddys?"
Josh walked in the store, and came back out with a box of Marlboro Lights. McNamera lit one and took a long draw. He blew smoke rings, hoping Josh would notice and be impressed. He didn't appear to be.
"What's your name?"
"McNamera."
"That's a funny name. Is that a family name?"
"It's my last name. It's what people call me."
The two of them took turns doing tricks, sharing the Gatorade. The sun beat down.
"Want a cigarette?"
"No. Thanks, though." Josh looked at his feet, then up."Hey, um… Listen. Do you get high?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, um… Do you smoke weed? I mean…"
"Yeah. Sure, man."
They walked around to Josh's Toyota and got in. Josh turned the keys in the ignition, and Master of Puppets began to play. McNamera watched, fascinated, as he dropped the little green nuggets onto a rolling paper and twisted it up.
McNamera held the smoke deep in his lungs. He had done this a couple of times before, to no real effect. But now. Now, he was really stoned. This was different. He was laughing. Josh was enjoying himself, too. He ejected the Metallica CD and put in one by The Pixies. McNamera had never heard of The Pixies but he told Josh that he liked the music, and he did. He did!
7 PM
They were driving around now, McNamera's bike in the rear of Josh's Toyota. Josh told McNamera he wanted to go out of state for college. Maybe NYU, or Berkeley. McNamera nodded sagely. They parked at Circuit City and smoked another joint. Josh put on a DJ Shadow CD. McNamera thought maybe Josh was trying to fuck with him.
Josh was talking about some guy named Tesla now, and McNamera wasn't really keeping up. He was listening to his heartbeat and he kept forgetting to breathe. He was afraid he was going to forget to breathe and pass out. McNamera looked up at Josh, who was talking about Fugazi, and put in a Minor Threat CD. "Straight edge bullshit, man," he bellowed. McNamera decided Josh was definitely trying to fuck with him. Trying to make him break down. Freak him out. Well McNamera would show him. He'd just get the fuck out. And he did.
There was some laughing and confused head-scratching and then more laughing and a long sigh and finally Josh said, "you're a freak, man," and laughed one last time and left McNamera standing there with his bicycle lying by his feet in the parking lot of the Circuit City. Stoned.
Walking back, he saw the sidewalk close in on him in stop-motion and he realized he was falling.
McNamera sat in the dark and watched the cars go by beneath him on Bull's Ford Drive.
9 PM
McNamera walked his bike up the driveway. His mother's LeSabre was parked there. He tried to remember what Josh had been telling him about Tesla. Something to do with coils and a conspiracy. He looked around him at the neighborhood. Blue lights flickered in unison in the windows all along his block. A small engine buzzed in the distance. He exhaled, cursed, and opened the front door.
"Where have you been? What happened?"
"I'm sorry, I… I lost my keys."
"Goddamnit, Ryan, that's no excuse. I've been waiting on you."
-THE END-
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Go, Matt, Go
Nobody reads the Saturday paper. Wedged between the Sunday behemoth and the Friday pink pages, Saturday's news is as prominent as the organic produce section of Safeway. Which is not to say that sometimes Safeway doesn't have the greatest grapes nature ever grew. Um. Or something. Whatever. Enough with the groceries. It's just a device to get you to keep reading. To draw your attention. The juicy plums that draw your eye over to the... sorry.
In any case, in case you missed it in today's Chron, Gonzalez has a slight edge over Newsom among "certain" voters. In fact, Gonzalez is leading Newsom in almost every demographic category.
(Go, Kamala, Go)
Also: Harris is poised to oust Hallinan. "'The district attorney's race seems more about competence than ideology,' [Joseph Shipman, director of election polling for SurveyUSA] said." Agreed. Get him out.
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Pancakes of the World
Check out Mac's new story on Omnivore:
Between Witbank and Nelspruit, South AfricaMore
A beautiful day under clear blue skies and a dazzling African sun. A sleepy roadside cafe. And a pancake, in the European tradition, of the crepe variety. A wonderfully soft texture with a hint of crispiness, light and airy but not insubstantial, and served with a healthy dollop of vanilla ice cream. This, my friends, is how a pancake is supposed to be, sweet and perfect.
Unfortunately, it seems that in the long journey from the Netherlands to the southern tip of Africa some bright spark decided that chicken liver (that's right, chicken liver) would make for a better filling.
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George Soros Rules:
George Soros, one of the world's richest men, has given away nearly $5 billion to promote democracy in the former Soviet bloc, Africa and Asia. Now he has a new project: defeating President Bush.
"It is the central focus of my life," Soros said, his blue eyes settled on an unseen target. The 2004 presidential race, he said in an interview, is "a matter of life and death."
Soros, who has financed efforts to promote open societies in more than 50 countries around the world, is bringing the fight home, he said. On Monday, he and a partner committed up to $5 million to MoveOn.org, a liberal activist group, bringing to $15.5 million the total of his personal contributions to oust Bush.
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I Live in Pilsen in a Pile of Burning Tires
Just after we got back from Asia, Harper bought the Fruit Bats' album, Mouthfuls. It quickly worked its way into our CD heavy rotation list, and has become one of my favorite albums of the past few years.
Yesterday evening, while I was messing around on Upcoming , I saw that the Fruit Bats were to play at the Bottom of The Hill last night. $8. Harper's out of town, so I flew solo. I haven't been to a show by myself in some time. I kind of like doing that, you (or at least I) really get more out of a performance if you are there strictly to see it, and not to socialize.
Lurking about, I noticed several other solo lurkers lurking about the BOTH, all of them guys. It's always guys. The problem with going to a show by your lonesome is that you don't really have much to do between bands other than stand around and drink beer. I ran into an old friend from work, and talked to her for a few minutes between two of the bands, but for most of the time I just paced the floor, or circled back around to see if, maybe this time, they had anything for sale at the Merch table that I might want. I noticed at least three other guys doing the same thing. I also noticed that whenever I made eye contact with any of the others, he would quickly look away, as if to say, "this is my own private Idaho, bud. Go get your own." Anyone who goes to a show by himself is a weirdo. Anyone.
But the Fruit Bats, who had apparently left their backing band at Mount Shasta (no, really), were exceptional. Eric Johnson was one of the better guitar players I've seen some time, and I was surprised how good the songs--which I had previously assumed were heavily produced--sounded, coming live from a two piece with a minimal set up. Those gorgeous songs. Johnson is, in my opinion, one of the better songwriters of my generation. Although the Fruit Bats do sound somewhat similar to The Shins, who sound somewhat similar to The Apples, who sound somewhat similar to The Beatles, I'd rather hear a well-crafted pop melody than a completely original composition that lacks emotion, strength, and soul.
But the real clincher for me was reading the group's tour diaries, which feature such shimmering little pearls of wisdom as the following:
Portland -- Any time you're a musician or artist and you live in a city or go to cities a lot, you usually run into people who live in unusual spaces. Or at least you overhear people say 'yeah, I live in Williamsburg in an abandoned bauxite mine shaft,' or 'yeah, I live in Athens Georgia in a tree,' or 'yeah, I live in Pilsen in a pile of burning tires,' or my favorite, 'yeah, I live in Silver Lake in a hollowed out whale carcass. ...(snipped)... We were going to have to drive down into the warm, forgiving arms of California, the place where all the wretched souls of the earth come to for salvation, and some are saved, some are saved.San Francisco -- San Francisco is gorgeous, there's no doubt about it, but I stick out like a sore goddamn thumb there. To blend in, you need to be there for a little while and breathe in the air, the air where even the bus fumes smell like eucalyptus and the garbage smells like pines. After that little while you get it deep down in your bones, which is why people can't leave there. It's a bit like a cult, except instead of this enigmatic leader who appears occasionally to take another young bride, you just have this city perched on these hills, water on three sides and some really attractive people. Attractive and filthy rich people living on houses teetering precariously at 90 degree angles, and attractive and simply filthy bums who probably came from someplace clean and easy and boring and a million miles away from this wonderland. A few times ago that Fruit Bats played in San Fran, some bums were actually in the club and heckled us during our sound check. Nobody in the club really said anything; they just sort of grinned and said something like, "that's our boys."
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Hello!
Things look very different, do they not? We are re-organizing! Spring Cleaning! Doing a little shuffling about! Redesign, redesign! Fear not. Everything (well, nearly everything) is right where we left it for the time being. The weblog has a new address, it is http://www.honan.net/emptyage.php.
To do:
- Articles page
Add links page- Tweak and make pretty Photo, Links & Resume pages
- World peace
I would very much appreciate feedback.
I love you all like the brothers I never had.
Your friend,
Mat
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Kim Jong Il Gets His Freak On
Long Live North Korea Cunnilingus!
For much more Young-Hae Chang Heavy Industries jazz flash madness click here.
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Neighborhoodies are gay.
I'm sorry. They are. There's no other way to say it. Neighborhoodies make me want to go out and buy Dockers and a Dodge Stratus, move to Tracy and join a country club.
Now, don't get me wrong. I do love hoodies. I essentially live in hoodies. And I'm completely down with personalizing them. But the DIFM (do-it-for-me) culture they represent seems completely at odds with the aesthetic. Spending a fortune to look poor is lame. Want to put iron-on letters on your hoodie to say something cute? Go buy an iron, you fucking yuppie.
Or at least have the courage to be authentic. Wear a Marina or Cow Hollow or Lake Merced hoodie. You know, somewhere you'll live after you get out of grad school. (But you don't know where Lake Merced is, do you? Just wait, your real-estate agent will point it out in a few years if you stick around.) If I see another pre-fab pinhead in a Lower Haight, Mission, Fillmore, or, God help me, Tenderloin hoodie purchased for five times the price of making it yourself, I'm going to yank that iced latte right out of your hand and pour it down your $100 pants. You don't even want to know what I'd like to do with that $85 Von Dutch asshat of yours. "Hey, look at me! I'm poor!," they scream. "Not really. Look closely," they whisper.
And finally, quite frankly, I don't care how much irony is involved, wearing matching his and hers anything is still gay. Fannypack gay. Pleated shorts gay. It isn't original. It isn't funny. It isn't ironic. It isn't cool. It's gay. Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay. And you should know better.
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Tools: More Useful Than Air
I've always been a tremendous fan of Chris Komlenic's site, but now there's yet another reason to visit. Check out his new Power Google search, which added torrent searching. Very cool.
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Matt Gonzalez: The DJ Forest Green Party Candidate
At 12:40 a.m. Wednesday -- two hours after they snuffed the canned disco and packed up the Diet Coke at Gavin Newsom's election night celebration -- the party raged on at Matt Gonzalez's South of Market fest, with DJ Forest Green whipping the dance floor into a sweaty groove.One thing I don't think this story emphasizes enough is that for Newsom, the real party won't come until he wins the Mayor's race. For Gonzalez and his supporters, Tuesday was a victory party. Everyone knew Newsom would still be here today, that's not true of Gonzalez. The problem is, if Matt's supporters don't follow Newsom's lead and treat Tuesday as a rally, rather than a voctory celebration, the party's over for sure.
...
Filling Newsom's gathering at the Avalon Ballroom on Van Ness Avenue were longtime City Hall types, a half-dozen TV news crews and an abundance of men wearing suit jackets. Playing on the large video screen before the election results flashed: the "Dr. Phil" show. The room emptied by 11 p.m.
Fewer than a dozen suits were spotted at Gonzalez's fest at the SOMA gallery and performance space 111 Minna St., where supporters were asked to bring their own food for a potluck. Playing on the video screens above the dance floor: a trippy montage of a bumper-level car ride over San Francisco's streets interwoven with frames of Gonzalez on the campaign trail. The room emptied at bar-closing time.
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Every Rock The Vote Ad: Reviewed in One Word Or Less.
John Edwards: Phony
Wes Clark: (below)
Dennis Kucinich: Embarrasing
John Kerry: Prostrate-exam
Howard Dean: Gimicky
Carol Mosely Braun: Honorable
Joseph Lieberman: "Is this what the kids like these days? Are you sure the kids will like this? This music, I don't know... Okay, I like that we mention Al Gore in here, the kids all loved him. They could relate to him, you know. I'm not so sure how well I relate to the kids."
Al Sharpton:
Update: Andy points out that Al Sharpton spelled "Florida" wrong in his ad:
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President Hey Ya
Wesley Clark's new TV ad is beyond a doubt the most unusual advertisement by a presidential candidate that I've ever seen.
I have no idea what to make of it. I mean, I'm not even sure how to gauge a thing like that. Is it good? Is it bad? Please. Tell me.
(I can tell that the Kucinich ad reminds me of a Simpsons sketch.)
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Can Spam Act Story
I have a story in Salon today on the Can Spam Act. If you aren't a Salonn premium member, you'll probably have to watch an ad to get a "day pass" to read the article. Enjoy.
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Informed
If you still aren't sure where you stand on the election, be sure to stop by SF Usual Suspects before you stop by the polls. SFUS is the best source for comprehensive coverage of local politics, period. If an article has run in any local (or national) publication on an issue that matters to San Franciosco votes, you'll sind it here. I like this site so much I almost want to keep it secret.
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Steve Earle to Appear on O'Reilly
Steve Earle is the coolest: "'The deal is, he's gonna interrupt me and then eventually he's gonna tell me to shut up,' Earle says. 'That's what he does, then on to the next thing. Equating any of that with a serious political discussion is like thinking pro wrestling is real. But the worst that comes out of it is I get the shit kicked out of me on Fox News and we get free publicity for the tour. It's a win-win situation. The worst part is I actually have to watch Fox.'"
(via mefi)
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Quick! Hide the Trucker Hats!
Hipsters under attack in NYC's Williamsburg: Im glad more people are beating hipsters. It would be nice to get together some sort of gang specificaly to beat the shit out of hipsters.
(be sure to check out the Week on Craig archive while you're there.
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Critical Mass: Spooky!
 click to enlarge | It's not too often that Halloween and Critical Mass coincide. But when they do, you'd better get on your bike and ride. Last Friday's mass was one of the largest (if not the largest) I've ever ridden in. And *everyone* was in costume. I was dapper in a bunny costume, while Harp became Luna Moth, a character from Kavalier and Clay. |
(pictures of the scary bunny and horrifying moth during the Mass to follow)
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Endorse-O-Mania
It's almost that time of year, again. Election day is, for the second time in 30 days, upon us once again. While you could go with The Bay Guardian, or The Chronicle's choices, wouldn't you prefer to listen to, well, a yahoo like me? No? Well, here goes anyway:
Mayor: Matt Gonzalez / Angela Alioto
I've been torn on this one for some time now, particularly after the Bay Guardian, the loudest voice of the progressive community in San Francisco, came out in favor of Alioto. The 2000 election made me more pragmatic about voting. I no longer vote solely based on who I think should win. Never again. Today I'm more concerned about making sure that the candidate I don't like loses. The Bay Guardian thinks Alioto is the candidate that can best take on Newsom in a general election. I disagree. I think it's Gonzalez. In addition to having--by far--the most energetic and supportive grassroots base (despite being raked over the coals for entering the race by virtually every progressive organization and publication in town), I've found that Gonzalez seems to have the broadest appeal. His supporters aren't just the usual calvacade of professional students, activists, and non-profit workers. He's got the professional class behind him as well; doctors, lawyers, and those elusive swing voters. I urge you to vote Matt. But if you won't please vote for Angela.
DA: Kamala Harris
That a guy like me doesn't support Hallinan speaks to just how awful he is. Although he was full of promise, his arrogance and bombast have gone well past the point of personal failings and, I believe, actually could jeopardize the safety of the city. You had your chance, Terry. Let's throw the bum out.
Propositions: Yes on everything except L, M, and N.
L: I am, generally speaking, in favor of raising the minimum wage in San Francisco. You can not live on $6.75 an hour here. However, there must be a two-tiered system that takes tipped employees into account. If L passes, it will run mom-and-pop restaurants all over town out of business, and cause scores if not hundreds of servers to lose their jobs.
M: This cruel measure is not worthy of discussion.
N: Want a cab? I mean, want a cab now, and not an hour from now, if at all? Vote no.
Update: I don't claim to be right, just opinionated. For more on Gonzalez and Halinan, read Mr. Hughes excellent article on both men from 1999. Patrick knows his local politics like nobody's business, and makes a good point as to why Ammiano should be mayor in the comments below. Nonetheless, I'm sticking with Matt.
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What Are We Fighting For
This article in Sunday's New York Times is one of the saddest things I've read since the paper of record's Portraits of Grief series. I don't know if it's because I was in Kuwait after Gulf War I, and I know (somewhat) how frightening and unfamiliar that world can be, if it's because I seriously considered joining the military at several points in my life, if it's because I'm from Alabama and I feel like I've known 100 Aubrey Bells, or just that this was another Southern boy my own age. Whatever the reason, this story had me choking back the tears yesterday.
Sgt. Aubrey Bell grew up poor. He was raised in the woods drawing water from a well and eating whatever his mother stuck between two slices of bread. Butter sandwiches. Mayonnaise sandwiches. Ketchup sandwiches. You name it.Too many lefties focus only on the Iraqii people. Too many conservatives pretend there is nothing awry, while repeating the mantra "support our troops." I firmly believe we need to pray for and support all the people in Iraq. God Bless our troops. Let's bring them home as quickly as we can. Let's end the occupation and Bush's $87 Billion mess of cronyism and corruption, not by abandoning our duty, but by getting UN cooperation and internationalizing the forces to take some of theburdenn off of those who have already served their countries in far more hostile environments than the skies over Austin in the Texas Air National Guard.
His life, as his friends tell it, was taking a little and making a lot.
"He was just a cheerful, happy dude," said Eric Wingate, a childhood friend.
Sergeant Bell, 32, didn't especially savor the intense Iraqi heat, or sleeping in tents with 100 men and 100 pairs of ripening combat boots.
But he liked children. And in Iraq, the 280-pound soldier in the XXXL uniform drew them like a magnet. "I used to always ask him, why you let them get so close to you?" said his fiancée, Philandria Ezell. "And he'd say, honey, they're just kids."
On Oct. 27, Sergeant Bell, an Alabama National Guardsman with the 214th Military Police Company, was shot in the stomach in front of a police station, where he had been training Iraqi police officers.
His family is furious. As they sat around on folding chairs in his mother's front yard, an ice chest of Miller Lite at their feet, they glared at the ground.
"Why is it O.K. if he dies?" his cousin Vecie Williams asked. "The president don't care. You see him on TV. He says this, he says that. But show me one tear, one tear."
Something that nags them is whether Sergeant Bell was wearing a bulletproof vest. In many of the pictures he sent home he is not. There is nothing between him and the enemy but a few layers of cotton.
"The Army people say he got shot," Ms. Ezell said. "But they don't say nothing more."
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