(no subject)
I am increasingly disturbed by this place. Currently, I sit in a cafe, where, on the other side of the room, a shell-shocked looking man stares out with beady little eyes, occasionally talking to himself. As far as I can tell, I am the only one who seems to take notice in this, who continues to glance at him. I am disturbed by the insanity of benign indifference to accepted insanity.
Last night my girlfriend and I went out to a favorite taqueria of ours. It's situated on a somewhat seedy strip, near the Mission and 16th Bart station, which, on weekends, spills over the mainly white, affluent crowd from the adjacent, now totally gentrified, Valencia street. After a certain time on weeknights, it assumes a pallor, which is to say, its regularly askew and slightly menacing character. The main characters to be found are panhandlers, a permanent underclass of Mexicans, and the occasional gang banger.
As we were waiting for our food, an apparently drunk man began aggressively encouraging several patrons to rip off part of his pants. I never quite figured out what that part was. At first I thought he was asking to have his pants pulled down. Then it seemed as though he was merely asking to have a patch on his pants pulled off. After a dedicated and patient session by one conscript, it seemed as though it was a take on that classic clown trick, in which the underpants are pulled right out from one's pants. Yet, I'm not entirely convinced this took place. In any case, he was loud, and we were tired and sick. I half expected the owner, who has a bald head and an incongruous manner, to do something, but he didn't. He just stood there, momentarily, like an overburdened teacher.
As we dug into our otherwise well-prepared meal, a massively obese black woman suddenly entered with a cadre of vacuous-looking, much smaller caucasian girls, who emitted comparatively little noise, in their defense. The obese woman yelled and screamed with much aplomb, demanding "a cookie with sprinkles." For some reason, like many things at this restaurant, the simplest thing--a glass of water, a cookie with sprinkles--took aeons to materialize, as if opening a plastic door, or turning on a faucet, somehow required the same energy or expertise as making a chicken mole tamale (which, as far as I can tell, has increased in price, and diminished in size, as of late, although it is still a pretty good deal).
Like one of those inhuman tyrants one reads about only in stories, this caused the woman to yell and twirl only further. The drunk/insane man, spurred on by his takers, meanwhile alternated this performance with his own yelps and whistles. The owner patted the black woman on the shoulder, gently reassuring her the cookie was coming, and smirked at the antics of the man.
To break up the monotony, an incomprehensible beggar entered and made his way to our table.
This is all pretty par for the course in Old Gold Mountain (named by Chinese immigrants around the time of the gold rush, which brought them here in droves). Unsurprisingly, there are some of us who have become sick of the homelessness and open drug use that pervades the city, incredibly high prices, and the smugness of many of those who inhabit it in a perpetually self-satisfied state, long-since convinced of their inherent geographic superiority. To those of us who have increasingly found ourselves in this state, Oakland, where rents are cheap (by Bay Area standards), and possessing many relatively unknown delights, as well as demographics that are more reflective of New York City than the relative homogeneity of San Francisco, has become an increasingly desirable option. This, despite the fact that it remains one of the most violent cities in the most violent first-world country on Earth. Is it any wonder people are hesitant to raise their children here? (If you're rich, and have no qualms about self-segregation, go for it).
Despite these flaws, it is still regarded as one of the most desirable places to live in the entire country, and it is likely that an extended stay in most other metropolitan areas would leave me begging to return. Although I am a college graduate from a highly-regarded college (by those who have heard of it), finding steady work has been a long and fruitless endeavor. This could suddenly change, and I have several interviews in the woodwork (as I have had at many other times), yet uncertainty pervades these times.
It is hard to see a future in this country.
Last night my girlfriend and I went out to a favorite taqueria of ours. It's situated on a somewhat seedy strip, near the Mission and 16th Bart station, which, on weekends, spills over the mainly white, affluent crowd from the adjacent, now totally gentrified, Valencia street. After a certain time on weeknights, it assumes a pallor, which is to say, its regularly askew and slightly menacing character. The main characters to be found are panhandlers, a permanent underclass of Mexicans, and the occasional gang banger.
As we were waiting for our food, an apparently drunk man began aggressively encouraging several patrons to rip off part of his pants. I never quite figured out what that part was. At first I thought he was asking to have his pants pulled down. Then it seemed as though he was merely asking to have a patch on his pants pulled off. After a dedicated and patient session by one conscript, it seemed as though it was a take on that classic clown trick, in which the underpants are pulled right out from one's pants. Yet, I'm not entirely convinced this took place. In any case, he was loud, and we were tired and sick. I half expected the owner, who has a bald head and an incongruous manner, to do something, but he didn't. He just stood there, momentarily, like an overburdened teacher.
As we dug into our otherwise well-prepared meal, a massively obese black woman suddenly entered with a cadre of vacuous-looking, much smaller caucasian girls, who emitted comparatively little noise, in their defense. The obese woman yelled and screamed with much aplomb, demanding "a cookie with sprinkles." For some reason, like many things at this restaurant, the simplest thing--a glass of water, a cookie with sprinkles--took aeons to materialize, as if opening a plastic door, or turning on a faucet, somehow required the same energy or expertise as making a chicken mole tamale (which, as far as I can tell, has increased in price, and diminished in size, as of late, although it is still a pretty good deal).
Like one of those inhuman tyrants one reads about only in stories, this caused the woman to yell and twirl only further. The drunk/insane man, spurred on by his takers, meanwhile alternated this performance with his own yelps and whistles. The owner patted the black woman on the shoulder, gently reassuring her the cookie was coming, and smirked at the antics of the man.
To break up the monotony, an incomprehensible beggar entered and made his way to our table.
This is all pretty par for the course in Old Gold Mountain (named by Chinese immigrants around the time of the gold rush, which brought them here in droves). Unsurprisingly, there are some of us who have become sick of the homelessness and open drug use that pervades the city, incredibly high prices, and the smugness of many of those who inhabit it in a perpetually self-satisfied state, long-since convinced of their inherent geographic superiority. To those of us who have increasingly found ourselves in this state, Oakland, where rents are cheap (by Bay Area standards), and possessing many relatively unknown delights, as well as demographics that are more reflective of New York City than the relative homogeneity of San Francisco, has become an increasingly desirable option. This, despite the fact that it remains one of the most violent cities in the most violent first-world country on Earth. Is it any wonder people are hesitant to raise their children here? (If you're rich, and have no qualms about self-segregation, go for it).
Despite these flaws, it is still regarded as one of the most desirable places to live in the entire country, and it is likely that an extended stay in most other metropolitan areas would leave me begging to return. Although I am a college graduate from a highly-regarded college (by those who have heard of it), finding steady work has been a long and fruitless endeavor. This could suddenly change, and I have several interviews in the woodwork (as I have had at many other times), yet uncertainty pervades these times.
It is hard to see a future in this country.