The Chronicle has a great article in today’s edition talking about how rising sea levels will alter the way we think about urban development. As Jane Kay, the reporter, points out, the Bay Area has done a great job of thinking about earthquakes and planning for unstable ground. But not many planners are thinking about rising sea levels: something which is already starting to occur, and will probably only get worse in the coming decades. Given that most of the Bay Area is built on fill…a large part of San Francisco, including the Financial District, may be entirely fucked.

For once, I’m stoked about rising sea levels, because it may put the brakes on developing Treasure Island. According to the article, “parts” of the Island may be underwater…I call bullshit on that, because I suspect that the whole Island will be underwater if the sea level rises that much. Yerba Buena will probably still be visible, but I can’t see any way that the Island will not be completely flooded.

We’ve already got a couple of things going against us, development wise, including the issue of “liquification,” or “what will happen if there is a major earthquake on the Island.” Even if buildings are anchored in bedrock here, they will suffer during a major quake…that seems pretty obvious. The contamination issue is unlikely to go away any time soon, either: at the last meeting I was at, I was told that it would be at least five years before serious talks about development begin. The Navy is totally unprepared to hand the City over, which is really just fine with us, because we enjoy our gently decaying toxic dump just the way it is.

By then, there may be a moratorium on building this low, thanks to rising sea levels. This means that our dream of being left alone may actually be realized.

Personally, I don’t really object, I mean, our house is two stories. We can just turn into Venice, add another story on top, and call it good. I’ve always wanted to visit the neighbors via gondola.

Truly, I do realize that rising sea levels and other issues associated with global warming are causes for concern. Although I rejoice at the thought of being allowed to live in peace here, at least until it floods, I still think steps should be taken to reduce the impacts of global warming, if not reverse it, assuming that is even possible. This response, of rethinking urban planning, intrigues me, though. I suppose that there is nothing we can do as an individual city to stop the water level from rising, so we should plan on dealing with it, rather than marching around with signs.

I also wonder when someone is going to propose a system of dikes, like they have in the Netherlands…if that is even a viable option. I assume someone with an engineering degree who understands these things a little better than I do is already considering this.

There certainly seem to be growing hints that civilization may not be long for this Earth, if we’re already planning for catastrophe, eh?

At 5:30, the King, Cap’n Raspberry and I rode into San Francisco on the 108 to attend an organized flash mob pillowfight at Justin Herman Plaza.

It had been a long day for all of us, and naps were needed.

We ambled down Market towards the Ferry Building, noticing a growing number of individuals toting pillows of various sizes, along with suspiciously bulging backpacks.

About thirty seconds after I snapped this blurry photo, all chaos erupted, and I hit that woman square across the chest with my lethal couch pillow. The crowd started to surge while eyes went wild…

Hundreds of bystanders lined the pillow fighting arena, holding up cameras of all sorts along with cell phones. As I loped along the perimeter looking for a good target, I could hear hurried conversations shouted on cell phones.

“No, Embarcadero! You can’t miss it! All these people with pillows showed up out of nowhere! I’ve never seen anything like this man!”

Along the edges, people milled, setting themselves up, taking breathers, or watching the action with bemused expressions.

Here’s what it looked like from above.

I fought my way into the core of the action:

And my glasses fell off about two minutes later. I underwent a moment of panic, thinking for sure that this would be the last time I ever saw clearly, and luckily recovered them, hopelessly bent. I stuffed them into a pocket to deal with later and proceeded to beat everyone I could distinguish.

I stepped out now and then to snap shots of the violently milling, gleeful crowd.

The Cap’n flung himself in with a frenzy…at one point, we were fighting back to back, with feathers flying everywhere, and were viciously attacked by a team of hipster girls who almost devastated our defences. We rallied and carried on, into the depths of the action, where we were met by a man with a loudspeaker.

“Why can’t we all just get along? Stop the pillow on pillow violence!”

“No blood for pillows!”

“Do not *grunt* fuck with *grunt* TREASURE ISLAND,” I hollered, as I pounded on the back of a businessman wearing a tie and wielding a paisley pillow. When we looked up, I noticed this scientist, complete with lab coat, taking notes.

There was only one rational response: yes, kids, I hit him square on the hard hat.

“No, NO!” he screamed, as I beat him.

The pillow fight started petering out, and we noticed a friend in the crowd.

We didn’t even know ou would be there, but the King rose to the occasion with style.

Some of the bystanders seemed a little shocked by the ferocity.

As the fight waxed on, pillows sometimes sailed gracefully overhead, frozen in mid air for a moment before releasing a crowd of feathers…the fight must have been visible all the way to Montgomery, because of the cloud of feathers that hung suspended in the air over us, and coated the ground like a slick snow drift uder us.

When I got home and blew my nose, feathers came out.

My glasses: fucked. I bent them into shape enough to wear, but if they take one more hit, I’m facing blindness.

Here are some Flickr photosets taken with cameras other than cell phones…I was impressed both by the number of people with cameras, and how respectful everyone was of them. Laughing Squid is posting roundups of the action in two posts, which both link to a plethora of photo sets and video.

I appear in this shot by Laughing Squid, as well as several others.

Truly, a fight to remember!

[pillow fight]
[San Francisco]
[Valentine's Day]

Missing? Could it be?

According to this article in the Chronicle, this San Francisco icon is, indeed, missing. John’s Grill has had a long association with the famous film, and owned one of the plaster replicas used in the movie: the owner even tried to buy the “real” Maltese Falcon at one point, but was foiled by the high price.

Many fans of the book visit the grill to see a piece of history, where the book was written and many of the characters were known to drop by for a cup of coffee. Long time patrons just enjoy the atmosphere.

Sadly, some low down loser stole the Maltese Falcon, and the story seems to have caught national attention: which might be good, because it could lead to the return of the falcon.

It is really kind of unfathomable. I mean, the object has no actual monetary value, since it’s made out of plaster, but it obviously has sentimental value to the man who used to own it. I suppose it could be sold as film memorabilia, and someone who didn’t care all that much about provenance could purchase it…but I still think it’s an immense shame that it was stolen. In addition to the falcon itself, the case also contained other memorabilia with sentimental and monetary value, such as signed books by famous authors. Whoever did the job must have had balls, because John’s Grill is a busy sort of place, and you’d think someone would have noticed a thief looting the display case.

A reward is being offered for the recovery of the Maltese Falcon, but if history repeats itself, it will probably drift the globe for awhile before Sam Spade can track it down again.

[Maltese Falcon]

Cap’n Raspberry and I were waiting for the MUNI tonight in Castro station, eating tasties from Hot Cookie and talking about nothing in particular, when they forced us to walk to the other track to catch the Castro Shuttle, because MUNI is doing work on the lines at night…some sort of constant upgrade thing. This is only a small symptom of the general MUNI/Metro chaos, let me assure you…earlier today, I sat in the tunnel between Van Ness and Civic Center for half an hour with no explanation. And the lights in the train went off. Did I mention it’s really dark in the metro tunnels? Because it is.

Now, here’s my question: San Francisco has a population of about 800,000, right?

Do you think it might be in any way possible that some of those 800,000 people might want to take MUNI between Castro and West Portal after 9pm? Because MUNI doesn’t, apparently.

The Castro shuttle is part of a larger issue: they are shutting down the tracks entirely between Castro and West Portal after 9pm, and running a single track shuttle from Castro to Embarcadero, but only until 1am.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that you need to get from San Francisco State to Treasure Island after your class gets out at 9:30, like Puff does.

First, you board an M at State.

Then, you get off at West Portal and get onto a Metro Shuttle, which you take to Castro.

Then, you take a Castro Shuttle to Embarcadero.

Then, you walk to the Transbay and take the 108.

Total traveling time? 1:45.

Insanity, I tell you.

I don’t understand why MUNI can’t keep the Metro open another hour, until 10pm—it would make such a huge difference in general satisfaction levels of the usually disgruntled populace. A hell of a lot of folks live in San Francisco, and a lot of us also use public transit, either because don’t have cars or don’t want to use them. When the public transit sucks, it forces people to buy cars, which clogs the streets and causes unhappiness for all.

It’s also a huge pain in the ass for me to get around at night now, thanks to the constant fussing with the Metro. The other night I ended up just catching an F, because I thought it would be more simple, and arriving home at some ungodly hour rumpled like a newspaper. The city does not die at night: if MUNI was reliably open, or had 24 hour service, I think the economy in San Francisco in general might improve, with more restless youth out, ready to buy things, in the wee hours. Even at three am, Market Street is alive, and would be even more so with more night transit options.

Right now, if I wanted to go into the City, I would have to stand in the cold until 2:16 to wait for the 108, assuming it was running vaguely on time. I’ve had to sit for an hour or more waiting for an owl bus, though. No good, I tell you.

MUNI, you are directly affecting my quality of life.

Stop it, I tell you. For the love of Pete.

[MUNI]

…and it was really big.

Alas, my cellphone was not up to the task, picture wise, but I’m sure there are tons of pictures of it circulating around the internets for your viewing pleasure, dear readers.

But it was…really, really big. And really late. We kept peering at the Bridge, waiting for it to show up, and when it finally did, it was quite a sight. It almost looked like it wouldn’t fit under the bridge, because it was so large. To us, it looked like it was bigger than Alcatraz, although that may have been an optical illusion. We headed into the City before it docked, but apparently it was anchored off the coast of the Island for awhile. I’m sure those on board enjoyed looking at San Francisco’s finest toxic waste dump.

And now I can see I’ve seen some sort of important historical moment, especially if the damn thing sinks.

Friday was an epic adventure, a whirlwind trip to Willits, a prolonged comedy of errors with the rental car company, a sitting in the doctor’s office for hours, and a long soak in a Silky Pagoda Bath at Bamboo Garden Spa, something which was sorely needed by the end of the day. Although I hopped into a car and drove back to San Francisco immediately afterwards, which did somewhat reduce the effects. Cap’n Raspberry seemed to enjoy it immensely, though.

At any rate, one episode in the comedy on Friday sticks with me. The Cap’n and I were in the Transbay waiting for the 108 to take us to the Island so that I could pick up paperwork and we could dash back into the City with it. As was his wont, the Cap’n was nursing a toxic flaming cylinder of paper and weeds, along with another older gentlemen. We were neutrally conversing well out of the way of other people waiting for the bus and general human life, when a very aggressive and very rude man stormed over to us.

“Can’t you fucking read! You see that big sign over there?! Yeah, it says ‘NO SMOKING.’ You assholes should fucking MOVE.”

Now, the thing is, I don’t like smoking. I think it is foul and disgusting, and I fervently wish that most of my friends did not engage in it. Alas, my opinion is not a factor in their personal choices, so I do my best to just tolerate it. I move upwind, I leave, whatever. I figure my scene out. Sometimes I will politely ask someone to move, especially in a public place where I feel like their smoking is infringing my ability to live. However, most of the time, smokers are aware that they are completely disgusting, and they tend to cluster in one location, allowing the rest of us to do our own thing.

I really try not to be self-righteous about smoking. I have better things to do, and I’m sure I have habits which disgust other people. For example, I like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.

At any rate, the Cap’n and the older gentleman said “oh, pardon us,” and moved almost out of the Transbay altogether. I shook my head at the thought of fussing over cigarette smoke in a huge structure filled with buses farting out exhaust, and pulled out my book while I waited for them to return. The guy with the attitude problem continued to storm around, kicking various items in the Terminal and generally looking like he was spoiling for a fight.

Then, another younger man came up the entry, mindlessly smoking a cigarette. He moved to the side and out of the way, and pondered the bus lane waiting for the 108 to show up. Only moments later, the guy with the attitude stormed over again:

“What’s your FUCKING PROBLEM, ASSHOLE? Can’t you READ? I don’t like smoking! I think it’s gross! You should go SOMEWHERE ELSE.”

The Cap’n and the older man were just returning, and they paused in amazement to survey the situation.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the younger man. “Am I bothering you? I apologize.”

But the thing is, the guy with the attitude was blocking him in, so he couldn’t move. He tried to go to the right, and the guy moved to block him.

“Why don’t you put that out, YOU JERK,” he said.

The guy dodged to the right, and the attitude problem moved with him. Behind me, an African American woman was waiting for the bus, calming checking her voicemail.

“What’s your fucking problem, BITCH,” attitude guy suddenly said.

I started, because I don’t take kindly to being called a bitch. Then I realized that he was talking to the African American woman, who was sassing him right back, to her credit, while the confused younger gentleman made a run for it.

“Hey, why are you talking to me like that,” she said.

“I’ll talk to you any way I want.” attitude problem says.

“Hey now,” confused gentleman says. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“I’ll talk anyway I want, ASSHOLE,” attitude problem says. The Cap’n and I study each other and then look at older man. All of us are sort of stunned, flabbergasted, looking for MUNI police. When we turn back, attitude problem is threatening to castrate confused gentleman. I’m not quite sure how that turn of events was reached, and meanwhile African American girl was calling her posse to whup some ass.

Luckily for attitude problem, the 108 rolled up. We all boarded the bus, staring at him resentfully, and filed to the back.

Only moments later, we heard him choking on his Powerbar.

“Heh,” I said softly to the Cap’n. “I hope he chokes on his own self righteousness.”

“Heh, yeah,” African American girl said. “That would be hilarious.”

“Yeah, the great thing is,” confused gentleman chimed in, “that no one would make a move to save him.”

We all sat frozen in happy expectation, but unfortunately attitude problem lived to be a dick another day, and stomped off the bus at Yerba Buena.

The Cap’n and I were somewhat amazed by the whole experience, given that the guy seemed to be spoiling for a fight. I longed to sock him one in the face, and only the basic rules of social propreity restrained me. There certainly wasn’t any cause for the guy to be such a dick, or to needlessly pick on that poor woman. He could have made a polite request of all of the repulsive smokers and they would have moved, because they are used to the social stigma that smoking carries, and courteous enough to respect other people’s wishes.

As the Cap’n pointed out, karma is a bitch.

I just kind of hope I get to be there to see the guy’s comeuppance, is all.

[smoking]
[self righeous]

While we were taking BART to the Mission the other day, Cap’n Raspberry happened to notice this sign:

If you are having trouble because of the image quality, the sign says “Freedom of the Press in the Middle East? Only in Israel.” Just for reference, Israel was ranked 135 on the Freedom of Press Index 2006 by Reporters Sans Frontieres. That would be behind Lebanon and the Palestinian Authority, along with a staggering number of African and South American nations. Numerous violations of press freedom have been recorded in the West Bank, and it is clear that the press in Israel is not, in fact, free. Ah, irony.

We were a bit surprised, to say the least. San Francisco is not exactly a hotbed of pro-Israel sentiment. As it turns out, of course, this is the point. Blue Star Public Relations (”The Jewish Ink Tank”) apparently launched a campaign on BART in late December to make us feel all warm and fuzzy about Israel. I can only hope that the signs spark lively debate, and that someone, er, edits them to make them more accurate. I mean, editing beyond the insertion of Hitler mustaches, which you may not be able to discern in the image.

Slightly sickened, we staggered out into the night.

Later that night, waiting for the 108, we saw this:

Yes. This is a MUNI bus being towed. The tow truck was unbelievably large. The bus was listing to the right, so we surmised that the kneeling bus feature had been damaged.

Will wonders never cease?

[BlueStarPR]
[MUNI]

There’s a great article in the Chronicle about city wide surveillance. The city council just approved the installation of more spy cams, despite not having any solid evidence that the already existing cameras were perventing crime. So, basically what the city council is saying is that they don’t care about our rights as citizens, and that they find it acceptable to test out new security systems on the populace. Hey, how about having more beat cops? Or an emergency respose system that actually works? Or encouraging neighborhood watch? Nope, cameras must be better.

I loved the property manager who said: “when you’re out in the public, there is no expectation of privacy. This is 2007.” Uh…yeah. Ok, crazy lady. It’s completely unreasonable for citizens to be allowed to go about their business in peace, shopping where they want to shop, and not feeling like their movements are being tracked and recorded. Hey, sometimes people have very good reasons for not wanting everyone to know what they are up to: perfectly normal, law abiding reasons.

Speaking of fingers in pies, it looks like the Guvernator wants California more involved in the primary process, and is pushing for a February 2008 primary. I’m a big supporter of this, actually, because I am tired of the focus being on New Hampshire. California is a really big state, and we face a lot of major issues that also affect the country as a whole. I’d like to see politicians giving California more than lip service, especially since they have no problems taking our money. Really, I think that all states should hold their primaries on the same day, to provide an even spread across the nation, but I know that’s not going to happen.

As the article points out, having an early primary in California would force candidates to talk about important issues like immigration, agriculture, and education…things that all affect us here in California deeply. I suspect that an earlier primary might also encourage more left of center candidates to fight for a place in the election, rather than giving up the ghost in New Hampshire and despairing.

I’m tired of Presidential candidates basically ignoring us. Republicans and Democrats come for fundraisers, the Democratic candidate assumes that he has our electoral votes, and they never return. Pfft. Time for more clout, California!

[surveillance]
[primaries]

So, we’ve been having what I can only describe as a protracted chess game with the maintainance department. When we moved in, there was a whole list of things we asked them to fix. And they actually showed up, within the week, to steal a closet door and dither about in the downstairs hall closet for awhile. Then they vanished, presumably never to be heard from again.

I was, needless to say, devastated. Here I thought we had a connection and all.

So anyway, about twice a week I call the office up to find out where our work order is at, and about once every two weeks, something else breaks, so the work order just gets longer, and longer, and longer. I kind of get used to things like the downstairs sink dripping and missing closet doors and leaking sliding doors, because this is the way of the Island.

See, the thing is, I would fix all of these problems myself, except that I figure for what we’re paying, they can come and fix it. Damnit.

So last week, they actually showed up again and fixed a few things before furtively measuring the closet with the missing door and disappearing once more into the wild.

And today seemed like a good day for me to call the office and bitch, so I did. But I also mentioned, kind of off handedly, that the heat wasn’t working (and hadn’t been for a few days) and it was getting kind of annoying.

Now, this is California. This is a part of California where it gets cold, for sure, but not unreasonably cold. Chilly, yes. Wearing a couple layers, sure. But we are not about to die because our heat isn’t working. We’re just cold and a little bit grumpy about it. So I figured this was the kind of thing that might get fixed in, you know, August.

To my astonishment, thirty minutes later an amazingly attractive Russian man showed up on my doorstep.

“Heater, yes?”

“Uh, yeah…are you here to look at our, uh, heater?”

“Heater, yes?”

“Uh, ok.”

I let the man in, and he proceeded to tear the thermostat off the wall and diddle with the innards for a bit.

“Now, we wait,” he pronounced.

We stood in the living room, waiting, for a few minutes. Every now and then he shifted his weight from side to side, and I stared skeptically at the thermostat.

“We wait for heater, yes?”

He stared expectantly at the wall heater, and suddenly charged for it like a raging rhino. Throwing the living room chair aside, he hurled himself onto the ground next to the heater and nuzzled up to it.

“Ah,” he said. “Oh.”

The heater remained silent.

“You have step stool?”

“Er, yes,” I said, which is how it came to be that there is an amazingly attractive Russian man trapped inside my siding. I’d always wondered what was housed in the little overhang over the back yard, and it turns out that it is the controls or whatnot for the heater. Right now I can see the bottom of a pair of pants and a pair of natty black shoes kicking about, punctuated by grunting and banging noises.

The heater remains resolutely still.

…

Will the attractive Russian prevail? Will our house not actually be freezing cold tonight? Only time will tell. I only hope the poor man doesn’t electrocute himself on that frayed wiring.

[heater]
[Treasure Island]

As I dropped to my belly on the concrete, I heard glass crunching under my belt buckle.

The overhead lights were dim and flickering, and I was clinging to the floor in an attempt to appear invisible. Damp seeped through my knees and my right hand was wedged under a pile of old office lighting. My face felt gritty.

“Fuck,” I said. “What is he doing?”

“I’m not sure,” he muttered, sliding under the gigantic tractor to peer out into the parking lot.

I lay frozen on the filthy concrete pad and strained to hear something. He at least was relatively hidden from view by the tractor, but I was completely visible to anyone who might walk, or drive, by, despite my effort to hide behind a pole. Luckily I was wearing dark colors, and might at casual glance look like a heap of debris, assuming I didn’t do something foolish like lift my head.

I tried to inch into the relative shelter of a tractor scoop by dragging myself along the ground. I heard something rip.

“I think he’s parking,” he said. “Behind that building over there, look, you can just see.”

I peered up from behind a jumbled pile of transformers. The East Bay was cloaked in fog and a dim glow spread out invitingly across the Bay. Closer to home, I saw the car skulking in the lot next to us, lights off.

“Maybe he’s taking a nap. I don’t think he saw us. We can keep the tractor between him and us and slip out the back.”

I cautiously stretched to my full height and slid between a pile of empty pallets. We moved in wordless accord like inky shadows, welcoming the gathering darkness as the overhead lights became less widely distributed. Glass crackled under our feet and I decamped through a hole in the fence, holding it open for him.

“Well,” I said. “That was fun.”

We trotted off into the night along Avenue M, trying to look like people doing nothing in particular. In point of fact, that was exactly what we were.