Archive | December, 2010

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

21 Dec

Well, more like I left my car in San Francisco and the SF PD/DPT reached through my ribcage and tore out my still-beating heart, held it firmly in front of me, and then asked me politely to pay them $600 to have it back.

"Hello sir, welcome to the San Francisco Department of Parking Fuck Ups, how can I be of service to you today?"

I’m not quite sure what happened here.  I am pretty confident that I parked in a legitimate space, right beneath a sizable tree and a sign that unambiguously permitted parking.  I’m also 100% sure that when I later returned to where my car used to be, there was another car parked in the same spot, unbothered.  The best I can figure is that PART of my car may have been encroaching on some red-painted curb indicating that a driveway may be nearby (although this is never clear in San Francisco, which has an abundance of weird inch-high curbs, hidden driveways, 4-foot long parking spaces, and other such confounding set-ups).  It was dark and almost historically rainy at the time, and I haven’t had a chance to go back and investigate, so this remains an open question.  The following day I tried to inspect the crime scene on Google Street View and the only conclusion I really came to was, again, that cars DO park in that spot.  Rightfully or wrongfully I can’t say, but still, at this point the evidence seems to favour that this is a permissible place to park when one is craving affordable French food and wine (< $10/plate, $7/glass).

In any event, the frugality of my dinner choice would prove to be painfully ironic.  Apparently some touchy asshole concerned citizen took issue with the placement of my car within about an hour of me placing it there and narc’ed to the SFPD, who then saw fit to issue me two parking tickets totaling $140, and ordered what must have been the SICKEST most LUXURIOUS auto tow in the history of the world for (and I even had to negotiate this down by $50) a mind-boggling $430.

The first offence.

The epic, full-service tow. This was clearly a pleasure for both car and tow'er alike, featuring a flatbed or dolly ride, premium storage, and a hefty "administration" fee. Note the time at completion.

Observe the second offence, "wheels the wrong way," issued a good 7 minutes after my car was already done being towed! Awe-some.

Moral: don’t park your car in San Francisco unless you hate your bank account.

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Genuine Crass

15 Dec

It is often pointed out that “hipster” culture is more about buying a certain image – “grittiness,” “authenticity,” “creativity,” etc. – than anything else.  I think this is largely true and nowhere more nauseatingly evident than at Free City.  This bullshit “art collective/fashion house” sells things like teal t-shirts with the words “BIKE FRIEND” on them for $135, and orange parachute pants with what appears to be a mash-up of the Twitter and City Sports logos for nearly $300.  If you thought American Apparel was grossly underpriced, Free City is for you.

I’m quite sure that this is some kind of joke being played upon vapid saps of Southern California.  I refuse to believe that it could be anything else.  That being said, I think as my next/first performance-art-slash-get-rich-quick scheme, I would like to take this nonsense to the next logical step.  If the rich A-holes fashion savvy consumers of Orange County want to pay real money to look like fake drug addicts, I’d like to provide them with something even harder: MURDER SHIRTS.  If you’re willing to drop hundreds on some manufactured tatter, wouldn’t you spend thousands for true grit?  Not the impression of authenticity, but its actual stanky DNA: a homeless guy’s old pants, a military-style jacket some unknown musician overdosed in, shirts off murder victims.  Why revel in the illusion of seediness when you can buy your way into so much more?  Be the envy of even your “hardest” hipster friends as vagrants recognize your outfit as something they think they used to have!  Watch girls in thick glasses and arm sleeve tattoos swoon when they find out that your slim fit v-neck tee is speckled with SOME BRO’S ACTUAL BLOOD.  “Dude, some dude fucking OD’d in this shirt!”  “Sick man, let’s drink a Pabst!”  Plus paying local house-unencumbered artisans and bereaved families to unload their dirty laundry on you reeks of “social consciousness,” a necessary veneer for any successful business attempting to sell hipness to rich people.  As soon as Taylor Momsen or James Franco is seen in one of these babies, this will be the thing.

The realest fake authenticity money can buy, soliciting investors NOW.

"Ryan Gosling helps the homeless" could soon be "Ryan Gosling IS the homeless." Think about it Ryan!