I love a self-righteous rant and few people are better at getting red faced and strident than Bill O'Reilly. In the wake of last week's local elections Bill had the presence of mind to state, "Fine. You want to be your own country? Go right ahead, and if al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we're not going to do anything about it. We're going to say, look, every other place in America is off limits to you except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead."
Thems is fightin' words. Bill's opinion of America's preeminent hotbed of lefty, lezzo, homo, pinko liberalism has never been in any doubt, and for that reason the urge to dismiss his remarks out of hand as those of a loud-mouthed flame-thrower are made that much easier. Never the less, another Bill—in this case his last name is Maher—was dragged over the coals in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks for thinking beyond the knee-jerk reaction of let's-hurry-up-and-kill-a-pile-of-Muslims by actually suggesting that perhaps US international policy might have played a part in fomenting the kind of sentiment that ultimately steers extremists in the direction of the World Trade Centers. He was apparently "giving comfort to terrorists".
Now it's Bill O'Reilly's turn. Inconsequential? You betcha. Hypocritical? Right on.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
San Francisco Real Estate Part 3
The hallway is done. There's only one more room left to paint.
I really couldn't be happier. This protracted business of shifting into my first proper home is one that should really reach its conclusion sooner rather than later. When I open the door when I come home at night I want to see not a haphazard arrangement of partially unpacked boxes left to gape back at me as a reminder of all things not yet done; I want to kick of my shoes, grab the cat and plonk down on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand. That day is coming soon but I'm not there yet. Just one more room to go.
The noise dynamics of the place are just now being revealed. Currently the sounds of a party that's been going on across the back fence for the better part of five hours is wafting up through the cracks around my door. They're mostly women, lesbians by the looks of things, and they're fusing Mission hipster fashion sense with a healthy dose of "que onda vato" cumbia. The booze, sucked down from the piles of beer bottles that litter the area around the party-goers, has worked to throttle up the amplitude of chatter and laughter. My neighbour, Jill, let me know via a yell across the back porch last Friday night that the noise generated by Far Cry was too much to allow her to sleep. I wonder what she thinks of this.
But that's a dense urban environment for you and it's one of the aspects to life in San Francisco that I thoroughly enjoy. We're all in it together. As hackneyed and cliched as it might seem, black, white, gay, straight, whatever, we're all piled on top of each other, forced to endure the racket and stench we all generate and yet somehow we get along, minor squabbles aside. Unlike the masses farmed out in the secluded, fenced-in fortress homes of suburbia, urbanites tend to learn a kind of acceptance that comes from jamming in the ear plugs to dull the noise of the dog downstairs and not worrying about it. Generally speaking we're not afraid of the "other" - anyone dramatically different from us. Those sloppily dressed punk lesbians with their home cut hair and too-loose jeans, they're okay; in accordance with their stereotype they're usually pretty good at keeping the local bars alive and ensuring that the organic produce market gets business. And the hippy looking guy with the dreadlocks next door? He runs the daycare during the week. What's not to like about that?
So I've settled in now, I guess and the neighbourhood has had its predictable effect of making me spout a tired retread of the old "can't we all just get along" spiel. I couldn't be happier about it.
I really couldn't be happier. This protracted business of shifting into my first proper home is one that should really reach its conclusion sooner rather than later. When I open the door when I come home at night I want to see not a haphazard arrangement of partially unpacked boxes left to gape back at me as a reminder of all things not yet done; I want to kick of my shoes, grab the cat and plonk down on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand. That day is coming soon but I'm not there yet. Just one more room to go.
The noise dynamics of the place are just now being revealed. Currently the sounds of a party that's been going on across the back fence for the better part of five hours is wafting up through the cracks around my door. They're mostly women, lesbians by the looks of things, and they're fusing Mission hipster fashion sense with a healthy dose of "que onda vato" cumbia. The booze, sucked down from the piles of beer bottles that litter the area around the party-goers, has worked to throttle up the amplitude of chatter and laughter. My neighbour, Jill, let me know via a yell across the back porch last Friday night that the noise generated by Far Cry was too much to allow her to sleep. I wonder what she thinks of this.
But that's a dense urban environment for you and it's one of the aspects to life in San Francisco that I thoroughly enjoy. We're all in it together. As hackneyed and cliched as it might seem, black, white, gay, straight, whatever, we're all piled on top of each other, forced to endure the racket and stench we all generate and yet somehow we get along, minor squabbles aside. Unlike the masses farmed out in the secluded, fenced-in fortress homes of suburbia, urbanites tend to learn a kind of acceptance that comes from jamming in the ear plugs to dull the noise of the dog downstairs and not worrying about it. Generally speaking we're not afraid of the "other" - anyone dramatically different from us. Those sloppily dressed punk lesbians with their home cut hair and too-loose jeans, they're okay; in accordance with their stereotype they're usually pretty good at keeping the local bars alive and ensuring that the organic produce market gets business. And the hippy looking guy with the dreadlocks next door? He runs the daycare during the week. What's not to like about that?
So I've settled in now, I guess and the neighbourhood has had its predictable effect of making me spout a tired retread of the old "can't we all just get along" spiel. I couldn't be happier about it.
Monday, November 07, 2005
San Francisco Real Estate Part 2
One month has passed and untold cans of paint later the place is starting to feel like a home. The operative word in that sentence is "starting". Anyone with half a brain will nod a head in knowing agreement when reminded that this whole move in bizzo is at least a six month process. One down and five to go.
The colours chosen to eradicate the reminders of a cheap and shoddy interior spray by the previous owner are bold, and that's nearly an understatement. The obnoxious green in the hallway has been plastered over with an equally obnoxious greenish yellow, the living room is now a radiant orange and the bathroom honestly glows red. That, and a so-hip-it-hurts Formica table is about all I have to show for one month's worth of night in, night out labour. Where has the time gone?
A visit from my father, of course. Parents are obligated to fuss over their children whenever they take any kind of grand leap up the ladder of maturity. Purchasing this place was no exception. Dad, affectionately known as the Rog, made his first landing the Friday I moved into the property - 14 October. His stay was part of the inbound leg of a journey that would take him across the continent to DC, New York City and Princeton. I immediately put him to task.
A house guest with a vested interest is a wonderful thing - nearly as wonderful as a girlfriend with vested interest. With the work day comfortably in the past you can swing open the front door and take in an eyeful of the changes that have miraculously taken place in your absence. Usually my dad would be standing there, a little soft around the middle and bald headed, peering back at me with a wet paint brush in hand.
When all the work stretching out before you seems endless and insurmountable even the smallest accomplishments completed during the hours in which you're away count like evolutionary steps. There's one more job struck off the list, one less coat to be applied that night.
There's still a lot more to go. There's a cat that won't shut up and that way too trendy Formica table sits out in the kitchen area with no chairs to make it feel important. And I don't own a vacuum cleaner. But I've got a cat tree that came for a bargain, more cutlery than I've ever seen in one location and a vintage Danish lounge set that smells like stale urine. Care to pop over for a visit?
The colours chosen to eradicate the reminders of a cheap and shoddy interior spray by the previous owner are bold, and that's nearly an understatement. The obnoxious green in the hallway has been plastered over with an equally obnoxious greenish yellow, the living room is now a radiant orange and the bathroom honestly glows red. That, and a so-hip-it-hurts Formica table is about all I have to show for one month's worth of night in, night out labour. Where has the time gone?
A visit from my father, of course. Parents are obligated to fuss over their children whenever they take any kind of grand leap up the ladder of maturity. Purchasing this place was no exception. Dad, affectionately known as the Rog, made his first landing the Friday I moved into the property - 14 October. His stay was part of the inbound leg of a journey that would take him across the continent to DC, New York City and Princeton. I immediately put him to task.
A house guest with a vested interest is a wonderful thing - nearly as wonderful as a girlfriend with vested interest. With the work day comfortably in the past you can swing open the front door and take in an eyeful of the changes that have miraculously taken place in your absence. Usually my dad would be standing there, a little soft around the middle and bald headed, peering back at me with a wet paint brush in hand.
When all the work stretching out before you seems endless and insurmountable even the smallest accomplishments completed during the hours in which you're away count like evolutionary steps. There's one more job struck off the list, one less coat to be applied that night.
There's still a lot more to go. There's a cat that won't shut up and that way too trendy Formica table sits out in the kitchen area with no chairs to make it feel important. And I don't own a vacuum cleaner. But I've got a cat tree that came for a bargain, more cutlery than I've ever seen in one location and a vintage Danish lounge set that smells like stale urine. Care to pop over for a visit?
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