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Glot

Weird Street

Look at you, in your little green tutu with the pink trim. I see you’re co-ordinated with the tights. And with the pink and green foofura tufts around the shade structures, even. Who just keeps neon green fishnets lying around the house, nowadays? You do. Great getup… although it doesn’t really match the wig. That is a wig, I hope? The dark sunglasses bring everything together and remind me that, hey, you have facial hairyou have facial hair. Your girlfriend’s pretty hot too.

I went to the How Weird Street Fair along Howard street, here in San Francisco. A very San Francisco event. Midday not many people were there, but the later I stayed the more teeming and freaky and hot it became. When I say hot, I mean summertime-hot, unforeseen unseasonably early-May hot, hojeez I think my sunburn matches my red shirt hot. Lots of people-watching, loads of dancing, more loud music than you could shake the ground at. It’s like a preview of Burning Man without the water rationing. I didn’t dance—a reasonable fear of overheating. Perhaps also an unreasonable fear that dancing would annoy more than amuse.

Heard there was talk of shutting it down, before. I left earlier in the day, around three, and missed some action. There’s a lot of talk now about shutting it down, after. I sure hope not. Seems about ten or fewer people on the street don’t like the noise it causes one Sunday a year. Despite the signed petition of around 100 residents, the city and police wanna be rid of it. Damned if I’m the first to say it—but that’s pretty weird.

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Glot

Cinco de Whatevs

I am not of Hispanic origin. Nor am I Latino. Nor am I non-white of Hispanic/Latin ancestry. I am, in fact, a European-American a.k.a. Caucasian a.k.a. Whitey—and therefore possess no formal distinction between any of the previous terms. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good party.

Which, by the way, where was the party? Last year, apparently, it was at a park I can see from my window. No este año. There was supposed to be a parade down Mission street, which is in the Mission District of San Francisco, which is where I live. But I didn’t see much of that at 5:00pm when I finally got around to leaving the house… and by then I looked darn festive, you better believe. So no parade. That’s OK. I notice the bars are a little cup-runneth-over with people drinking Margaritas and Coronas… but then again it is a Saturday. Fewer ice cream vendors. More people on the street, I suppose. Need I remind you, but this is The Mission, the most Latino district in the whole city. If I walk down past Caesar Chavez street, I see Salvadoran, Honduran, Peruvian, Guatemalan, Nicaraguan, Ecuadorian, and (I suppose) a few Mexican restaurants too, but If I were to do it today, how many revelers would I see, how many true Latinos, or Hispanics, or just plain well-tanned individuals, on this, “the all-Latin holiday?” None too many, and none too many that look like they might enjoy a bullfight or an iguana taco. No me gusta. Most Latin thing I did all evening was give a street interview for a radio show about burritos.

Some say I’m part of the problem. I’ll agree with them for now. See, I’m white and I think this place is cool: the food is great, the rent is cheap and the community is good, it’s an easy ride most places and the weather’s nice too. But too many of me, or people like me who are young and hip and have zero children and want thrift stores and nice Vespas but don’t but salted pork or paint freedom-fighter murals and the whole Latin culture that made the place’ll be gone. That’s the fear, and that’d suck. So we made a compromise, my woman and I. We didn’t visit an packed taqueria or purchase overpriced Corona, chilled as it might’ve been. I’ll tell you what we did do, to get some nice spicy flavorful food in us. Latinos forgive us. Has anyone ever had Tapas before? They’re delicious.

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Glot-glot

Booted

Sometimes one has just stop caring about our dear ones. We grow them well, we make them the best that we can with the time we are given, but at some point we must let them out into the world and hope for the best…

Glotocracy-example

Here’s my web redesign. I call it: The Glotocracy, or rule by Glot. It’s been in born and incubating now for more than two months. Checking the first confirmed date—February 23rd. Those of you who are long-time… fans? Long-time readers (i.e. those who know me personally) will attest to how much has gone on between then and now. Moved out of one place, got another, lost a job in the process, still don’t make hardly any money and have more to write about than you could shake a shtick at… Hell, half the reason I don’t write anymore is cause every time I sit down to blog glot I start fixing something.

So here it is, the solution to all my worries. The solution to all my very web-specific, non-life-relevant worries. And hey, just in time for the internet. The Glotocracy. Version 1.0!

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Glot

We Have It

We may just have it. I mean, we have it. The apartment. I have in my right jacket pocket a cashier’s check in the amount of $3680 and a contract signed by us, dated today. It’s going to happen. I’m going to live in this town, not just stay in it for an extended period.

A confluence of circumstances has led us to this occasion. This apartment isn’t perfect. Or rather, it’s not perfect for me. I won’t bother writing about the one we didn’t choose. We could’ve. I was persuaded, after Emily and Lynae persuaded me it was perfect for everyone. If this had come a couple days before or after it did, we wouldn’t have had it.

But we have it.

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Glot

Critiquing the Viewing of the Dwelling

There are a lot of apartments in this world. Some of them are livable. Lemme tell you what…

There’s a place in the Marina with bay windows and a couple of big bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Private entry. Nice Chinese landlady. View to the bay (just a little). Extra room, almost as big as the bedrooms. Dining room’s gigantic too.

There’s another place in the Mission, on a corner. Got a lot of character and some nice bedrooms, really sunny. Been painted a dozen or more times and we could do the same. Sliding door between the bedrooms. Lots of stuff in the neighborhood, markets and little stores and maybe a crazy-cool neighbor downstairs.

Both places cost the same. They’re both spacious and close enough to public transit. Awesome party houses, if that turned out to be our thing. There are four roommates and we’re split down the middle. Not two and two, but each one of us liking the both of them. We applied to one. The other gets put in tomorrow. How do you decide these things? A coin toss seems somehow inadequate. They’re both good.

Then again, the Mission one is in what some would call “el Barrio.” Those charming taquerias and markets and community parks might harbor gang-bangers at night. The paint is peeling outside and the common courtyard has stained asphalt and a half-dozen neighbor’s windows. Loud music bumped from the place next-door, and I’d assume more of the same. The guy downstairs could just as easily be crazy-crazy. Valencia, the cool street in the Mission, is way farther than I’d like it. I think it’s also possible there’s ten people living next door.

But in contrast, the Marina spot is as boring as a lobotomy. There are enough cool restaurants to shake a toothpick at. A flavorless, bland and splintered toothpick. Union street is close, at several blocks away, and has lots of charming… upscale shops. Every room is ample (and then some) save for the kitchen—which wraps around both the hot water heater and the recycling and the back door and indeed, despite it’s granite-osity, still manages to seem cramped and uninviting. Did I mention that this place is situated on the main highway? Yeah, that’s our doorstep.

I’m not sure if I told everyone who reads this yet: me and three others are currently seeking an apartment in San Francisco. We’ve been living together in a small room on the fifth floor of a hostel in the Financial District, one that now houses a total of six, and we really want to move out by April 1st.

We’re gonna get a cat.

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Glot

All Over the Internet

I haven’t been paying attention. The place changes so fast.

I find it is a healthy and normal internet activity to Google oneself™. While some might characterize this activity as self-indulgent and call it “ego-surfing,” those 21st-century web-savvy digitally-enabled electronically-mobile young semi-professionals amongst us… we know better. We’ve got enough stuff up on The Internet that the FBI doesn’t even have to ask us where we were four nights ago—we’ll tell them. I’d suppose, what with all this stuff lying around right here on this website, that I am counted among the no-privacy generation.

So I should really know (since I’m in charge of it) what about me is going up on the web. That’s half the idea of this glot-thing: to manage digital identity—all my junk in one pile. I was amused yesterday when a friend stumbled on an article about how to dump your travel partner that featured one of my Flickr photos. They’re all Creative Commons licensed, which means anyone can use ’em so long as they say who took ’em. Then today, for whatever reason, I decided instead of googling my name I would google my flickr name.

An article about a check-cashing place moving into a neighborhood. A post about natural selection and environment. A thought piece about “The Creator Economy” and Web 2.0. A German guy writing about American fireman and beer (I think). Many, many other things. Occasionally I’ll get an email asking for my consent to use a photo, or (since that’s not actually necessary) just a notice that someone has decided to use it. People make things out of my photos. Bloggers find them daily. I am all over the internet.

I’m not unthankful for such attention, however inattentive. This is a definite ego-boost for my ego-surfing as you could’ve guessed. It’s just that I had no idea how much I contributed. I’m not a photographer; I take photos. A long time ago, I used to touch up every photo I’d upload. Made sure each one had the right framing and adjusted the light levels. Used to work carefully on ’em. Thing is, I learned to trust my camera-hand. Framing is easy enough with a program like Flock. I still take out red-eye and sometimes play around a bit more. But by and large, I choose laissez-faire snapshot photography over the careful and deliberate shot.

What I’m saying is that I like that The Internet likes me. I just always thought, way in the back of my head, that there’d be time for perfecting things. Digital identity means what you contribute, you contribute instantaneously, no filter. Living freely on the internet where all your friends and family and old girlfriends and possible stalkers can see you has it’s disadvantages. But it can be fun from time to time (when you damn well catch up).

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Glot

things I can and cannot do without pants

  • I can open the desk at the hostel without pants, no problem.
  • Other people (other people who aren’t me) can’t even come downstairs without pants.
  • However, I still cannot cook salmon burgers naked and/or pants-free (waffers are still ok).
  • I can be in a mariachi band (in my imagination) with no pants, because that’s actually a funnier image than just being in a mariachi band.
  • I cannot be sworn in as the President of the United States without wearing pants. It sends the wrong message to the nation.
  • I can take a nice bath with absolutely no pants — it is, in fact, recommended.
  • Pants are encouraged for all trips to relatives house’s. Gramma has staunch morals.
  • I cannot take a driver’s test without pants, but I can help someone get to a driver’s test with no pants.
  • I could make mixed drinks with no pants if I were required.
  • In fact, I can delegate tasks effectively while managing multiple priorities, solve problems proactively in a dynamic environment, work well against deadlines, all without pants.
  • It is still not recommended to go to a job interview without pants.
  • Similarly, inspecting apartments without pants can be problematic. Think of the children.
  • I do a pretty good “Fuzzbottom McTickleface duke of Catchester” impression, if I am free of any pants I may or may not have worn.
  • I wear pants if it’s cold out. It has not been cold out.
  • For the record, it is perfectly fine to blog pantsless.
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Glot Smartglot

Specialized Civilization (and Clowns)

Let me become suddenly, emphatically clear on something: the pervasive specialization of human skills frightens me. Our civilization is endangered. Empirical knowledge compels me to think we have a fascinating, frightening condition called “Whole-Picture Anemia.”

In academia, one can major in increasingly specific subjects. The still-infectious ideal of scientific reductionism makes believe we can split things into smaller and smaller units. Until what? Until they all fit together and we understand how the watch was made. Hey, organizing into more complex forms worked for single-celled organisms, right? I read Future Shock. I’m not so sure it’ll work for us.

Doctors are a great example. Allow me to give an awful example of this example. Say you’re a dermatologist, and discover an unusual skin condition. It seems your patient’s top layer of skin is eroding, producing a mottled pattern over their body. While it doesn’t seem like it’s getting worse (and there’s no apparent bodily irritation), it’s interfering with his work as a children’s party entertainer a.k.a. clown. Let’s call this patient “the Mystery Clown.” Now I’m not a doctor, and I hate clowns. Clowns are scary old men who play with children (most clowns). But—bound by the hippocratic—you’ll treat him anyways. While it could be a lot of things, the only thing that works is having him wear gloves at night. Big polka-dotted clown gloves, let’s say. Problem solved (freaky excema and clown-shame aside, right?). On to the next doctor, his shrink, to whom he reports that he can no longer sleep at night. Hormones? They’re ok. Personal life? Same. No increased stress on the job? Nope, still a clown. Well, here’s some nappy-time pills. That works.sorrk..wko..rkr.wrso….s.k.rokrwossss… What’s this? My fingers are stuck to the keyboard? Hmm, that’s unusual. Seems this whole time the Mystery Clown had been handling children his hands had gotten so perilously and annoyingly sticky that he had to remove the child-goo by unconsciously scraping his skin off in the dead of night. That is one devoted clown—he loves at his work; it’s all he knows. He’d never admit his disgust by washing away all the friendly child-smells. Whoa, Mr. Shrink, you totally should have caught that “reverse OCD” thing. That and all the makeup still caked on, too. And wouldn’t he smell? As I said, this is the worst great example written. Take that, House.

I’ve lost my point. Clowns are still very disconcerting for me. Ah yes… I’d like to express my dislike for the idea of becoming a liver cell by age 30. Wait—lemme try again. The prospect of human beings becoming separated by unbridgeable esoteric chasms of knowledge is an alarming one. It seems to me that this thing called “the internet” could just be serving as a prosthetic to bridge the great divide.

Homo sapiens grew up in tribal groups, divvying roles out to who could do them. And we thrived! But can we really take biology meant for groups of about 200 (maybe) and use it in societies of, say, 300 million plus? It worries me that it doesn’t seem to be anyone’s job to oversee “the Big Picture,” and invigorate this damned anemia. I guess what I’m saying is that I’d like to be something greater than the sum of my part.

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Glot

Burned Out not a Burnout

I might be bored. I might be lazy. I could be frustrated or befuddled. Mostly, I think I might be burned out (and so young; I know).

But I’m hoping in this case for the specific. I’m hoping I mean the status quo. I’m hoping, because homeostasis is boring although the animal’s body seems to like it. I’ve been hanging out a couple of new places… Builder. Monster. List. They’re not that fun… not as fun as Hostel. But Hostel is getting old. I’m young; I said so myself. It’s my imperative to have more ambition than resources. The only ones I need anyways are my wits (not wit — even though having Woody Allen and Winston Churchill in one’s back pocket can come in handy).

Here’s what I’m trying to say: I want to quit working here, at this place that I love, sooner rather than later. Simple enough.

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Glot

Womb with a View

Home. Returning home. I want to return home.

That was me, four days ago. I’m back. I’ve returned from returning. I got stuff. New undies (manties), some chocolate, some booze, some womper speakers. I got a new book about San Francisco and writing. I got a mind to do a lot of things. One of ’em is to write.

So here I am, writing the wannabe sublime. I wonder how many of my friends and family realize that a blog is not really a window to the subconscious? Glot. Glot glot. Editing is for sissies.

My feeling about the hostel has undergone a shift. I understand why those who live here, live here shortly. It’s a great place. But it’s a place where space has to be constantly claimed and carved out, where one’s status is never in comfortable stasis. Even more so than the ever-arriving travellers, I understand this: one is judged by one’s actions—in the past week. It is exactly the same as when I came here more than three months ago. It should perhaps at this point be pointed out that the point of moving here was to find a job and settle somewhere. I applied to SFSU back awhile ago, but never finished the application… so I never went. Now here I am, living in the city of San Francisco but not quite of it, living in a limbo world where I greet the world’s visitor’s who take in the place in larger doses than I’ve had since too long ago.

Returning home brought me back into a place where my mere presence is appreciated. Being here again is like emerging from the womb again, cold and blinking and more than a little confused. It’s a different view. It’s something I need to think about more.