Moving on
I'm not going to be a jerk or a scofflaw, and I don't want to increase anyone's anxiety, but so far there isn't any solid evidence that cloth face coverings actually help reduce outdoor virus transmission. I'll do it, of course; local regulations require them, and per public opinion it's become a marker of being a public-spirited, considerate person, "pro-science", &c; but according to the friendly local MD/microbiology-PhD/former hospital director, it's pointless. Till the situation changes, I'm not inclined to spend any more time than I have to in SF proper where you now have to bung one on any time you're within 30 feet of anyone else.
In other recent events, as
bintblue puts it, "lots of white Americans are fucking terrifying, but I've known that nugget of info for nearly my whole life now". Meanwhile, up on Macarthur here in our East Oakland neighborhood, opportunistic thieves with vans and crowbars have taken advantage of the protests to loot small local businesses. Luckily our friends at the World Ground cafe were spared. But the bike shop, the hardware shop, and Sequoia all got hit. Sunday into Monday was particularly wretched with helicopters overhead all night.
I guess that leads neatly into the news that this isn't going to be our neighborhood for much longer. We've signed the documents and will soon be transferring money for a move to Alameda. That's not far, just a fifteen-minute drive from here. We spend a lot of time in Alameda anyway; our default grocery and hardware stores are there. Jon will be able to bike to work, if work ever starts being in a geographic location again.
I'm anxious about it: it's a lot of money, and I'll miss the sheer beauty and light and elegance of this place.
No more glorious golden arts-and-crafts sunlight through the redwoods, no more urban farming.
But it's idiosyncratic, solidly built in the late 30s by a guy whose particular aesthetic and self-reliance suggests that he must have been friends with Scott Curtis's dad. It has mature native oaks in front, a lot of brickwork, window seats, built-in bookcases and cabinets, two (!) fireplaces. It's roughly H-shaped with courtyards between the wings. There's a big ugly garage door out front that will need to be dealt with eventually. In the back corner there is enough room, albeit barely, for the three hens. The neighborhood is north of the lagoons, full of huge Victorian mansions. Our place and the two next to it are the plainest and most unprepossessing houses there. A hardware store and a good Middle Eastern grocery are a ten-minute walk away. So is the Fireside Lounge, where I read a ghost story back in 2012. And it's about a fifteen-minute walk to Crown Beach.
It took a ton of inspections and research to discover that the house is in fact solid and safe. Californians are justifiably squeamish about masonry; it's like the anti-Three Little Pigs here. An architect we knew cautioned us to be suspicious. We had to chase down blueprints that were described anecdotally in an old engineer's report to determine that there was adequate vertical and horizontal steel reinforcement in the walls. The house has an enormous, terrifying FURNACE the size of a nuclear reactor. It doesn't work. It, along with a lot of asbestos ducting, will be coming out as soon as we legally own the place.
The bathrooms are weird pastel tile: one is pink, the other is yellow with Swiss peasants dancing along it. The floors are put together with pegs instead of nails. They're deep, wide planks, stained dark. The dining room has a ghastly chandelier and a porn-set bronzed mirror wall. A little research into wtf were they thinking led me to a delightful book by a dreadful designer called Dorothy Draper, who apparently invented interior design as a profession. I'm reading it with amusement, pleasure, and a touch of horror.
I'm getting almost no writing done, outside the paper notebook and rotating text file equivalent. I guess I mean that over the last few months I haven't been making things for other people to read. Ideas keep coming, but when am I actually supposed to be getting them down? Crossposted from https://loosestrife.dreamwidth.org/194608.html. If you have comments, please either post them there or send email.
In other recent events, as
bintblue puts it, "lots of white Americans are fucking terrifying, but I've known that nugget of info for nearly my whole life now". Meanwhile, up on Macarthur here in our East Oakland neighborhood, opportunistic thieves with vans and crowbars have taken advantage of the protests to loot small local businesses. Luckily our friends at the World Ground cafe were spared. But the bike shop, the hardware shop, and Sequoia all got hit. Sunday into Monday was particularly wretched with helicopters overhead all night.
I guess that leads neatly into the news that this isn't going to be our neighborhood for much longer. We've signed the documents and will soon be transferring money for a move to Alameda. That's not far, just a fifteen-minute drive from here. We spend a lot of time in Alameda anyway; our default grocery and hardware stores are there. Jon will be able to bike to work, if work ever starts being in a geographic location again.
I'm anxious about it: it's a lot of money, and I'll miss the sheer beauty and light and elegance of this place.
No more glorious golden arts-and-crafts sunlight through the redwoods, no more urban farming.
But it's idiosyncratic, solidly built in the late 30s by a guy whose particular aesthetic and self-reliance suggests that he must have been friends with Scott Curtis's dad. It has mature native oaks in front, a lot of brickwork, window seats, built-in bookcases and cabinets, two (!) fireplaces. It's roughly H-shaped with courtyards between the wings. There's a big ugly garage door out front that will need to be dealt with eventually. In the back corner there is enough room, albeit barely, for the three hens. The neighborhood is north of the lagoons, full of huge Victorian mansions. Our place and the two next to it are the plainest and most unprepossessing houses there. A hardware store and a good Middle Eastern grocery are a ten-minute walk away. So is the Fireside Lounge, where I read a ghost story back in 2012. And it's about a fifteen-minute walk to Crown Beach.
It took a ton of inspections and research to discover that the house is in fact solid and safe. Californians are justifiably squeamish about masonry; it's like the anti-Three Little Pigs here. An architect we knew cautioned us to be suspicious. We had to chase down blueprints that were described anecdotally in an old engineer's report to determine that there was adequate vertical and horizontal steel reinforcement in the walls. The house has an enormous, terrifying FURNACE the size of a nuclear reactor. It doesn't work. It, along with a lot of asbestos ducting, will be coming out as soon as we legally own the place.
The bathrooms are weird pastel tile: one is pink, the other is yellow with Swiss peasants dancing along it. The floors are put together with pegs instead of nails. They're deep, wide planks, stained dark. The dining room has a ghastly chandelier and a porn-set bronzed mirror wall. A little research into wtf were they thinking led me to a delightful book by a dreadful designer called Dorothy Draper, who apparently invented interior design as a profession. I'm reading it with amusement, pleasure, and a touch of horror.
I'm getting almost no writing done, outside the paper notebook and rotating text file equivalent. I guess I mean that over the last few months I haven't been making things for other people to read. Ideas keep coming, but when am I actually supposed to be getting them down? Crossposted from https://loosestrife.dreamwidth.org/194608.html. If you have comments, please either post them there or send email.