Say Anything

Read this story in today's New York Magazine. No new information here but old NY pal Clay Shirky makes some lethal metaphors, and the window into some 9 and 17 year olds' POVs is priceless.

When I was in high school, you’d have to be a megalomaniac or the most popular kid around to think of yourself as having a fan base. But people 25 and under are just being realistic when they think of themselves that way, says media researcher Danah Boyd, who calls the phenomenon “invisible audiences.” Since their early adolescence, they’ve learned to modulate their voice to address a set of listeners that may shrink or expand at any time: talking to one friend via instant message (who could cut-and-paste the transcript), addressing an e-mail distribution list (archived and accessible years later), arguing with someone on a posting board (anonymous, semi-anonymous, then linked to by a snarky blog). It’s a form of communication that requires a person to be constantly aware that anything you say can and will be used against you, but somehow not to mind.

This is an entirely new set of negotiations for an adolescent. But it does also have strong psychological similarities to two particular demographics: celebrities and politicians, people who have always had to learn to parse each sentence they form, unsure whether it will be ignored or redound into sudden notoriety (Macaca!). In essence, every young person in America has become, in the literal sense, a public figure. And so they have adopted the skills that celebrities learn in order not to go crazy: enjoying the attention instead of fighting it—and doing their own publicity before somebody does it for them.

I am somewhat caught between the older generation and the younger one here. I see it both ways.

How cities die

Yesterday, I was over at Jamey's apartment while he held an open house to rent it out...he's moving in with Tamara, his new fiancee. (Gratz, guys!!) They were thrilled to have met several great possible tenants, and were leaning towards giving the place to a family with two small children - a toddler and an 18 month old. The apartment is in Noe Valley - stroller heaven! Seemed like a great match.

While I was in the bedroom dissembling a particularly pesky piece of Ikea furniture (ah, the spoils of other people's cohabitation), I overheard Tamara talking to one of the neighbors in the building. They live in a TIC, so the neighbors are even more "interested" in what you're planning with your unit than when you're renting.

Anyway, Tamara and the neighbor are pleasantly chit chatting about the ups and downs of rental and how hard it can be. I hear Tamara telling her, "We're so excited, we met several great potential tenants, and we're leaning towards this really nice German family with an 18 month old and a toddler."

The woman gets very critical all of a sudden, "Well who else came to see it?" Tamara describes the other folks, some gay couples, some straight couples, some young single friends, etc. Next thing you know the woman is rather bluntly telling Tamara that she sure hopes they don't select the family with kids because "there are enough kids in the building, and it's so difficult when Johnny's friends all come over to play or when Suzy is bouncing that damned ball all the time, up and down."

I listen with incredulity as Tamara and Jamey start equivocating and trying to please the neighbor...oh we're so glad you mentioned it, oh we see your point of view, oh do you think you'd prefer the gay couple or some singles?

I don't blame this woman for not wanting kids living in her building. And I don't blame Jamey and Tamara for not wanting to piss off their TIC partner. But I was pretty enraged, feeling like I'd just listened to another nail being driven into the coffin that San Francisco's becoming.

The median house price here is about $700,000, and we have the lowest percentage of people under 18 of any large city in the nation, 14.5 percent, compared with 25.7 percent nationwide. (2000 census)

If this is a city that only welcomes singles, and DINKs, and gay couples without kids...then as much as I love singles, and DINKs and gay people without kids, then I can't live here anymore. God willing I will have kids in the near future, and unfortunately, I can't afford to buy a house. And since it looks like I'll be at the tender mercies of neighbors who'd rather not hear bouncing balls or Johnny's play dates, then I guess I'll have to move somewhere that is a more welcoming place for the rug rats. Like Phoenix or Portland or Seattle or any of the other cities that are drawing young San Franciscan families away like magnets.

If a family with a baby and toddler can't rent in Noe Valley of all places - at $2700 a month - where can they expect to do so?

This is how cities die. When NIMBY literally means "Not in My Backyard, you irritating kids," then we are truly building a shameful culture.

god help me, i'm a *real* blogger

Here’s the first entry in my new weekly column for the SF Chronicle’s Culture blog, Underground Dilettante, which is supposed to be a “genre fuck of the society column.” They’re paying me (not much, granted) to go to parties and shower attention on under-recognized geeks, artists and whatnot. (Why didn’t this happen to me 10 years ago when I liked going to parties?)

Seriously, though, I'm thrilled to have a new outlet for writing. Please come party with me somewhere underground soon. I can't do this without some drinking buddies.

Seaweed City

It was odd that it happened, but this week I had dinner at TWO vegan Japanese restaurants. Now, normally, I wouldn't eat at vegan restaurant one...but these were special circumstances. My old friend Zach, vegetarian though he is, seemed worth connecting with over something steamed and covered in hijiki. Then Eve popped up wanting to eat something healthy. So Wednesday night it was Cha Ya in the Mission, and Thursday found me at Medicine Eatstation in Union Square.

Look, I still don't really know what an Eatstation is (can you play Katamari on it?) but this place won the vegan Japanese food battle Buddha's hands down. We are not simply talking about its hokey-yet-alluring-anyway zen spa aesthetic versus Cha Ya's more sterile white-box-with-schlep-through-kitchen-to-the-bathroom vibe. Those of you who go out to eat with me know that I actually prefer holes in the wall to tarted up temples to marketing. But the food was just no contest.

Cha Ya's food was tasty enough but wildly overpriced. I popped for a $5 pot of tea, because I got to select from a menu of exciting options - sencha, genmaicha, etc. Then when the tiny little porcelain pot comes out - we're talking ugly, we're talking $2 pink Chinatown teapot - it's got a freaking TEA BAG dangling from it. I could have bought a whole tin of loose leaf green tea for that $5 thank you very much.

The food was fine, well prepared and brightly flavored, but the portions were small. I had a "sushi bowl" of rice mixed with hijiki seaweed (sigh) and topped with steamed vegetables of great variety...plus (!) tofu pouch. (Tofu pouch means inari sushi wrapper.) I actually really liked this bowl, but I could have used a side of pickles, and...I could have used two more bowls.

Perhaps I ordered badly, but the 500 page menu didn't do much to ease my experience. We steered well clear of the dessert menu (terrifying!) and went out for some real tea elsewhere.

Medicine was in stark contrast. Despite its weird mall setting, the experience was definitely relaxing and, I dare say, rejuvenating. I ordered a set menu. I was served up a creamy and sort of darkly complex shiro miso soup, a tangy and light "cole slaw," and an ephemeral little plate of maitake mushrooms piled on bitter broccoli rabe, set beside a classic grilled yakimochi (rice cake) and a tiny snow red peach that tasted like gummi and felt like a lychee in my mouth. Oh, plus there was a side - a little ceramic cup of "artisanal tofu." (In San Francisco, if your toilet paper isn't artisanal, no one will take you seriously.) In all seriousness this little cup of artistry was profoundly satisfying, light and silky - so I applaud the artistry.

I left happy, surprisingly full and glowing with that special self-satisfied contentment that only comes from eating at vegan establishments. Lucky me that I didn't have to put up with the usual self-righteous wait staff, flax seed shakers and lectures about paper towels in the bathroom. (I get to make nasty comments like that, by the way, because I worked in a vegetarian restaurant for years.)

I don't know if there are more vegan Japanese places in town that I ought to visit, but I'm starting to feel prepared for the journey. Bring on your tiny peaches, San Francisco.

Matchmaking

I met Miriam Libicki at the Alternative Press Expo (APECon) here in SF last year. Her little table, wedged in amongst plenty of gothic, superhero, perverse and otherwise wacky entries was plenty weird as well - offering multiple issues of Jobnik!, a series about life in the Israeli army for an American orthodox teenage girl. What really caught my eye was a standalone piece called "Towards a Hot Jew: The Israeli Soldier as a Fetish Object."

I chatted her up, bought one of her sexy tank tops emblazoned with a barbed-wire-esque design made out of fighter jets and stars of David, and promised to introduce her to my friends at Zeek magazine. I'm happy to report that her work features prominently in the new issue. I wish Miriam the best of luck with her evolving art (and business) and encourage you all to read up on her!