Fly Away!

In celebration of the 100 year anniversary of the Wright Brothers’ historic flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, British Airways is having a $100 sale. Hurry – flights must be booked by November 6. I’m going to London!

For the Love of Computers…

At a recent computer expo (COMDEX), Bill Gates reportedly compared the computer industry with the auto industry and stated, “If GM had kept up with technology like the computer industry has, we would all be driving $25.00 cars that got 1,000 miles to the gallon.”

In response to Bill’s comments, General Motors issued a press release stating: If GM had developed technology like Microsoft, we would all be driving cars with the following characteristics:

1. For no reason whatsoever, your car would crash twice a day.

2. Every time they repainted the lines in the road, you would have to buy a new car.

3. Occasionally your car would die on the freeway for no reason. You would have to pull over to the side of the road, close all of the windows, shut off the car, restart it, and reopen the windows before you could continue. For some reason you would simply accept this.

4. Occasionally, executing a maneuver such as a left turn would cause your car to shut down and refuse to restart, in which case you would have to reinstall the engine.

5. Macintosh would make a car that was powered by the sun, was reliable, five times as fast and twice as easy to drive – but would run on only five percent of the roads.

6. The oil, water temperature, and alternator warning lights would all be replaced by a single “This Car Has Performed An Illegal Operation” warning light.

7. The airbag system would ask “Are you sure?” before deploying.

8. Occasionally, for no reason whatsoever, your car would lock you out and refuse to let you in until you simultaneously lifted the door handle, turned the key and grabbed hold of the radio antenna.

9. Every time a new car was introduced car buyers would have to learn how to drive all over again because none of the controls would operate in the same manner as the old car.

10.You’d have to press the “Start” button to turn the engine off.

Apartment Life

I met my upstairs neighbor tonight.

Until this point, I imagined him to be a hulking creature, at least eight feet tall, four or five hundred pounds, who constantly hurls small objects, or people, across his apartment, usually at 4 in the morning.

I wasn’t far off in my assessment of him.

He is tall. Not eight feet, but a good 6’4″. And he doesn’t weigh five hundred pounds, but is easily in the upper 200s. A lurking, bald, dressed all in black young man.

Normally I only hear him at 4 am. I’ve deducted that he works some kind of night job which causes him to return home between 4 and 5 am. Or he’s a professional raver. Tonight, however, my ceiling was threatening to cave in at 7 pm. I went upstairs, not so much irritated, but more out of curiosity to see who could possibly make so much noise. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again. Still no one. I rang an annoying buzzer.

He opened the door. I smiled. “Hi…”

He immediately started, “You must live downstairs. Um.. Well, see normally I don’t wear my shoes in the house, but tonight we’re getting ready to go out and I have my boots on…”

I looked down. He did indeed have heavy, steel-toed cowboy boots on.

“… and I was telling a story, and I had to stomp on the floor. And I only have hardwood floors. So I guess it was kind of loud…”

I continued smiling, not having said more than the initial hi.

“…and it was part of the story. And was loud. But normally I don’t wear shoes.”

He stopped for a breath. I seized the opportunity.

“I’m not really concerned about noise now. But I do hear you come home every night. Morning. Around 4 or 4:30. If you could make just a slight effort to be quieter, I’d really appreciate it.”

This is saying a lot. I’m the world’s heaviest sleeper. I have to set 3 alarm clocks to rise in the morning. I’ve slept through many phone calls, earthquakes, and other natural disasters.

He continued. “…well, I try to take my shoes off when I come in. I guess sometimes I drop my boots. That must be loud. I’ll try not to. I manage a night club, so I come home late. Normally I wouldn’t have my shoes on, but we’re getting ready to go out. And I was telling a story and I had to stomp. And the guy who lived in your apartment before you, Joe, no, Larry, yeah, he was always complaining about how noisy I was.”

At this I merely raised my eyebrows. You don’t say?

“By the way, I’m Bill. It’s nice to meet you. Really nice to meet you. I’ll try to be quieter.”

Even if he isn’t quieter, the meeting had merit as pure entertainment.

VOTE

Tomorrow is election day. Per tradition, we gathered to discuss the issues. Pros, cons, who supports what, who receives money from whom. Short-term fixes versus long-term solutions.

The issues, as always in San Francisco, are varied. Here’s a rundown of what we’re voting for:

Mayor

Sheriff

D.A.

Prop A – $295 Million School Bond

Prop B – Retirement Benefits – City Employees

Prop C – City Services Auditor

Prop D – Small Business Commission

Prop E – Ethics Charter Amendment

Prop F – Early Retirement for City Employees

Prop G – Rainy Day Fund

Prop H – Police Commission

Prop I – Funding Set Aside For Early Childhood Education

Prop J – Separate Homeless Facilities for Seniors, Youth, and Disabled

Prop K – Transportation Sales Tax Renewal

Prop L – Minimum Wage Increase

Prop M – Aggressive Solicitation Ban

Prop N – Taxi Driver Disability

I encourage everyone to exercise their privilege to vote!

Trick or Treat

We arrived to the address, the spot of the post-Halloween party on Saturday night. It was a neighborhood we normally wouldn’t be walking in, the type that you slyly lock your car doors when you’re driving through.

None of the doors had numbers. We deducted we probably should enter the one on the end, the grey door with graffiti scrawled on it. As we walked closer, the door magically opened. A very large bald-headed man in all black looked us up and down, then nodded towards the stairs, not saying a word. We looked at each other through our veils, gave each other knowing glances, and entered.

The stairs weren’t quite wide enough for our feet. We carefully navigated up the dark planks, careful not to trip on the random upended board. The main room was even darker, smoke unfurling around people’s heads, cigarettes aglow, mirrored by a foggy smoke curling in and out around people’s ankles. Techno music pounded from around the corner. Our sight was impeded not only by the lack of lights, but by the black veils we wore over our faces. We were the Robert Palmer girls, in mourning. It was a bittersweet costume. People looked at us quizzically, not quite sure what we were. “Black widows?” “Brides in mourning?” Once we started playing our air guitars and humming “Addicted to Love” people exclaimed, “Of course. But where’s Robert Palmer?” We merely pointed to the veils and said, “That’s why we’re wearing these…”

We stood still in the main room, hoping our eyes would adjust to the light. People with freakily realistic bullet wounds passed by. Mummies, trailing bloody bandages. Death appeared, his gaunt face hooded, brandishing his scythe. The loft reminded me of the game “Mousetrap.” There were make shift ladders and stairways and loft-like platforms everywhere. Mirrors and graffiti marred the walls. A cauldron, filled with a devilish mixture, beckoned the brave to partake. Lockers, the kind found in high school hallways, lined the walls. Inside were unrecognizable items, possibly edible, at least at one time.

We ascended another stairway. Another dance floor writhed with ghoulish bodies, jerking this way and that. A basketball hoop was mounted on the wall, naked babies strangled in the net. A neon sign announced the “ass scan” nook, what we thought was a joke, but was a functioning niche. Arcade games, the kind from the ’80s, lined one wall. As we walked by, images flashed, briefly, looping over and over. Emily turned to me. “Was that porn on that screen?” Why, yes, I believe it was. Dressmaker dummies, headless and funkily dressed, appeared around every corner, at the top of each makeshift staircase. Peering animals, ridiculously realistic, perched upon the walls.

We struck up a conversation with a fairly normal looking fellow. We commented how the inhabitants had done such a good job of decorating for the party. He looked at us quizzically. “Mmm. Yeah, I guess they did put some cobwebs up. Everything else looks like it normally does….”

As he turned away, Emily and I peered at each other with delighted stares. This was the ultimate Halloween treat – we were in a real haunted house.

No, those pants don’t make you look fat.

I only buy it for the articles.

Honey, size doesn’t matter.

You’re the best I’ve ever had.

I’m doing this for your own good.

The check’s in the mail.

He wore a white turtleneck, white pants, white shoes, and white gloves. Taped to his body were dozens of sayings, all heard, many uttered. He was a walking white lie.

The Best Pick Up Line. Ever.

The pilot announced it was a full flight. I sat in one window seat, my co-worker across the aisle in the other window seat. We were prepared to sleep the flight away, sleep deprived as we were after 4 days in Sin City. A young, hip twenty-something with heavy eye make-up sat in the aisle seat in my co-worker’s row. A couple, just married, twenty years difference, sat next to me. At the very last moment, a strung out, sunglasses wearing, Ipod-listening, trendy dressing twenty-something sat in the middle seat next to my co-worker.

Within ten minutes, the hip twenty-something female and the trendy dressing twenty-something male were making out. Hands rubbing, lips touching, tongues intertwining.

He: What do you do?

She: I’m a massage therapist.

He: Really? That’s cool.

She: You know, you are not too firm, not too soft, you are just right. I’d so like to rub you.

Why I Love Las Vegas

The cling, cling, cling of the slot machines as I exit the plane.

Sitting at a table, screaming, “Face card! Face card! Face card!” then high fiving everyone at the table when that king appears.

Going to bed at 5 am, not tired at all, but knowing I need at least an hour of sleep before the next morning’s meeting.

Splitting sixes. Getting another six. Splitting again. Winning with a 13, 15, and 8 at the blackjack table.

“Loose slots and friendly service.”

People watching.

Coming home.

Why I Love San Francisco

It was a perfect morning. The sky was blue, the air crisp and cool. I strolled down Market Street, watching the few people awake and out early on a Saturday morning.

I felt him staring at me and glanced at him as he approached me. With the click, click, click, of an Indian speaking English, he said, “You have a very lucky face. Two gentlemen will love you.”

I smiled, thanked him, and continued my stroll, wondering, “Who are these two gentlemen? Will they be loving me at the same time? Will I know they are loving me?”

For Art’s Sake

It’s happened. I have made the shift from liberal to conservative. People warned me this would happen, but I didn’t believe them. Conservatism hit me like a wrecking ball last night. And I simply let it knock me down.

It began innocently enough. A friend had forwarded me a message about an art opening. The 10th anniversary celebration of the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. “Wild… exciting… not-to-be-missed…” these were some of the words used to describe the event.

In addition, I received an email at work. It turns out the company I work for is a sponsor of Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, so all headquarters employees received a special invitation to attend the opening, free of charge. Why wouldn’t I check it out?

I called a friend and asked if he wanted to join me. He was up for it. We entered, watching the people looking at the art as much as the art itself. It was mostly a young crowd, the twenty and thirty-somethings who personify urban hip. Women with short, spiky, bleached hair and heavy dark cat glasses. Men in all black, sporting bowling shirts reminiscent of the 1950s and trainers. Girls with teased raspberry hair, outfits disheveled enough to betray the hours spent getting ready.

The exhibits were disappointing. A sock puppet, recorded, the loop playing over and over, the dvd mounted on brown paint sample chips. Uninteresting photos. Video snippets that made no sense. And the live art. The exhibit that encouraged my new found conservatism to blossom.

We entered the crowded room, making our way counterclockwise from exhibit to exhibit. There were 4 or 5 scenarios, each with live artists. I witnessed shock tactics parading as art. In one a man, poured into a merry widow, stared into a mirror and cried, his mascara coated false eyelashes leaving jagged black residue on his cheeks. In another, a naked woman brandishing a Mexican flag whipped a naked man picking grapes. My friend turned to me, “See, that’s commentary on the trade agreements between the US and Mexico…” Without meaning to, I rolled my eyes and replied, “That’s bullshit.”

We walked to the last exhibit. A woman, clad in nothing but a black silk hooded mask, wrapped strings around her neck, pulling tighter and tighter, attempting to hang herself. A naked man stood erect beside her, writhing in assumed pain. I turned to my friend. My voice, with more sarcasm than intended, produced, “And what would *this* be commentary upon?”

We left the exhibit; I was consumed with both anger and curiosity. How many grants were awarded to these asinine artists? What were they trying to convey? How many homeless people had I passed on the way to the exhibit? How many people would one of those grants feed? Or house? I left the museum angry.

My friend tried to convince me that the exhibits had succeeded. They created a reaction in me, negative as it may have been. I disagree. In order for art to be successful, the viewer must feel a strong affinity for the viewing or the installation. Which did not happen at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts.