Hey, I witnessed history today

Sometimes the job sucks. Nobody calls you back, high school kids treat you like dirt, you lose your self respect and then a Muni train runs over your foot.

But some days, like today, for example, you get up early, you find a parking spot, and you witness history -- all before 9 a.m.


Stuart Gaffney and John Lewis, first in line at City Hall to receive a same-sex marriage license.



Who was he talkin' to? Duh -- God.


That kid in the middle? The state made an honest couple outta her Daddy and her Poppa. Fuck yeah.


Rejoice, gentlemen. That's a very significant piece a paper.

I hate street fairs

I hate them.


Hate them (but this guy was friendly enough)



Hate them (all these guys were douches)



Hate them (this band made my tinnitus worse)

Fuck. Why do I hate these things so much? Well, they're crowded by asshat scenesters, they're utterly homogeneous events with the same bbq, same tents, same booths and -- in a lot of cases -- same people at each and every one. And inevitably, I have to be the one sober guy, toting a camera through the crowd, trying to find enough PG-13 images to fill a page in some raggedy-ass paper.

That'd be why I hate these things so fucking much.

Attention, street fairs: Go away, never come back. Fuck off and die while you're at it.

Happy Sunday!

Mark it

While we wait for election results to trickle in, we take a moment to gloat.


In case you can't see -- cos, dammit, Blogger, why is that so small?? -- that's some history on the browser.

A rug for the ages

I don't know much about rugs -- Persian, Pennsylvanian or Patagonian -- but this one's kinda unique.

Behold.



I want guns and tanks on my floor. Why not?

God, the media is dumb

When I worked in small-town journalism, I hated being known as the reporter. This was mostly because I hated being conspicuous and just wanted to seep into the background unnoticed. Sometimes, it seemed, I couldn't go to the bar or Safeway without being recognized and sucked into a long-ass conversation. Other times, I was 'that faggot sports kid' hanging around the high school jocks waiting for a 16-year old Young Future Cement Mixer to drop me a nugget of knowledge on The Big Upcoming Game. In either case, I had the attention and I didn't want it.

I'd love to have that problem now I'm in the big-city game. Now, people act as if I barely exist. This extends to sources at City Hall or companies, people I meet in the street, people on the Muni, and even asshole high school kids. No phone calls returned, no e-mails read, no respect. I'm just some jackass with a notebook -- I don't even have a fucking press pass (more on that later).

Sometimes, though, I see how the prominent, legit media act -- and it doesn't matter so much anymore.

Last week, PG&E staged a media cavalcade for a rescue of some cute baby falcon chicks stuck underneath the Bay Bridge. Aww. But Mistah Birds, they dead, and the following melodrama ensued.


Ok, are you seeing this?That's three radio outlets, six (six!!) tv outlets, the Associated Press, two SF Chronicle photogs -- and my ass.


Seriously.

Quote of the morning was from an unnamed handsome, svelte broadcast journalist, whose production team mercifully cut the following nugget of brilliance:

In Gravitas voice: "It's actually... kind of.... in a way.... sad... isn't it?"

Now that's NEWS!

Public restroom report card #1

Some peoples who will remain nameless and faceless like to complain about the "now generation" peeing in public TOO MUCH. Some peoples contend that this is because there's nowheres else to go. I espouse the latter, but I can agree with the former: peeing in public is bad, but lots of times there's noplace to go.

In the spirit of pleasing all parties, we present the first in a series: the public restroom report card.

Today's inaugural entry: Dolores Park.


View Larger Map

A fine park it is, too, with great views, tons of hipster scum on single speed bikes -- and a public shitter.

Behold:


There it is.

On crowded days, like on Hunky Jesus, the line to this man's room is out the door and way down the park back to Dolores Street. I'm only half kidding. The door, as far as I know, is always open, and when I visited some asshat had ripped out the stall of the poop-place, thus making a Dolores defecation a public action.

Let's take a closer look at the piss-pot, shall we?




Yum. Points for the graffy.

So -- crowded, dirty, and a donkey show if you want to use the crapper.

Grade: D+

I picked the wrong fuckin career

Everybody knows nobody -- save a few, a few lucky few -- can get rich doing what they love. This applies to reporters, photographers, street performers, chalk artists, squirt-gun aficionados and artists.

But not this fucking guy.

Ok, or THAT fucking guy. Me like the Cinderblock stuff.

On Thursday I visited an art gallery in Hayes Valley. I shot the shit with the owner -- says back 10 years ago, before the Central Freeway came down and the area was just like the Tenderloin, he used to go outside and give crack dealers/hookers/etc. $5 to go stand across the street -- and found out a little about this artist, Michalopoulos: lives in New Orleans, loves San Francisco, loves to come up here and paint, and has his very own rum line in N.O.

Awesome. Cool guy. I'm probably going to go to this gallery opening next Friday, just to taste some rum.

Here are some of his paintings.

Guess how much one costs?


That one of the pig? 8 grand. The one with the building? 13k.

The guy just spits these things out, too -- he paints around 120-130 pictures a year. Yeah. At 5k-15k a pop.

Ffffffffffffffffffuck....

This, and I've developed a case of tinnitus. If nothing was worse than being broke, being disillusioned and being painfully sober, it's hearing a constant EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE in one's brain for about 40 hours now -- and if the Internet is be trusted, I have about 40 years left.

EEEEEEEEEEEE fuck.