Saying you’ve lived here for nine years (or 29 years, or—jackpot!—since birth) isn’t just about putting yourself and your interests in context. It’s an implicit argument about who has the right to exist in this city and who doesn’t. It’s about nativism. It’s about authenticity. It’s about who got here first.
So yes, I say that paying for coke is equivalent to donating to the Nazi party. The unspoken thing here is that the reason Americans aren’t more outraged or guilt-ridden is that the people dying are poor brown people—many of them in a tragic irony are classified as narcos so governments can claim it’s just gang-on-gang violence.
My problem with Google Glass is primarily not about the basic concept of eyewear with a built-in HUD, or even the camera, but with the actual design and execution of Glass. It is ugly and clunky and ridiculously expensive for what it does. To me, that’s everything. Same thing with all existing smartwatches — the problem isn’t the idea, it’s the actual execution.
The ocean is great, right? It’s big and wavy and wonderful and smells delightfully briny. Let’s all go jump in it on New Year’s Day.
On January 1, at 12 noon, let’s all go jump in the Pacific Ocean at San Francisco’s Ocean Beach.
Where and when
We can meet up at 11:45 on the beach, at the Judah intersection. Afterwards, we can head up to Judah for hot beverages and camaraderie. I’ll bring whiskey.
Who is invited?
You. Also other people.
What should I bring?
Yourself. Something to warm you up afterwards. A Towel. A sense of humor. The ability to swim. (Seriously, the ability to swim. Last year the water was pretty rough. Ocean Beach in winter is not forgiving.) Maybe whiskey.
Can we have a campfire on the beach?
Can I wear a wetsuit?
You can do whatever you want. But no.
I mean, sure. Of course. Wear a wetsuit. Do what you gotta do.
Will there be T-shirts?
There should be T-shirts. Let’s make T-shirts! Who can make T-shirts? We never made T-Shirts last time. Or the time before that. Won’t someone make a T-shirt?
Isn’t There Another Polar Bear Club at Ocean Beach?
Apparently! In fact I think there may be several of them. The Riptide did one last year at Taraval, and I think there may be another at The Park Chalet. But, whatever, whiskey and friends, yo. Whiskey and friends.
Dhong grabbed a black-and-tan backpack holding his shaving kit, a single change of clothes, two Bibles (one in Nepalese, one in English), and three family photos. He said goodbye to his crying wife and daughter, then jumped onto a microbus on a loud and dusty Kathmandu road. As promised, the third agent was at the airport, holding Dhong’s passport. He demanded money, but Dhong had nothing left to give. So the broker told Dhong to sign a debenture agreement promising to pay $400 more. If Dhong didn’t sign and if he didn’t quickly pay, he would lose the job. He had yet to start work, and already he was $1,000 in debt.
The history of Twitter, as it’s been told so far, doesn’t offer a moment where various youngish men rise up from their desks and run naked through San Francisco yelling “Eureka!” It was created, like most things, in meetings. Somewhere in those meetings, Twitter uncovered a latent aspect of human life that had never before been so clearly articulated and turned it into a product that has altered, to various degrees, hundreds of millions of lives. That much of what is tweeted is trivial or silly is an obvious truth—but that’s not Twitter’s fault. That’s on us.
In Heart of Darkness, the protagonist, Charles Marlow, is driven by his desire to visit the few remaining blank spaces on the map. That is, more or less, how many of us plan our vacations today. Of course, the rivers and valleys and borders were long ago mapped; our blank spaces are the few remaining holes in the global communications network. We go where it’s impossible to connect, no matter what. But quite soon those gaps will all be filled. Before much longer, the entire planet will be smothered in signal, and we won’t be able to find places that are off the grid.
I wrote this thing about getting away from the Internet while I was away from the Internet. Happy to finally be able to post it to the Internet.
Perhaps the worst of the batch, “Perfect Day” is a soft lilter about spending a wonderful day drinking Sangria in the park with his girlfriend, about how it made him feel so normal, so good.
He should forget this artsyfartsy kind of homo stuff and just go in there with a bad hangover and start blaring out his visions of lunar assfuck. That’d be really nice.