Critical Mass On a Mission

The city of San Francisco has an inordinate tolerance for all manner of street celebrations. In the spirit of revelling, revolutionizing, and reviling in the street, this town's inhabitants display an uncanny level of respect for progressive culture and politics. Since my arrival here, I've participated in more demonstrations, festivals, and gatherings than perhaps I had in the whole rest of my life. Well, that might be a stretch, but either way, I want to promote a vision of this place as being ground zero for blunt expressions and manifestations of the urban will to power. SF makes me proud to rep a wide array of causes celebres, social reforms, and illogical idiosyncratic illin' at all hours.

The fervor with which last night's Critical Mass rally barreled through the streets turned me gleeful. I was thoroughly humored by the massive outpouring of support for the cause of bicycle riding. Critical Mass started controversially in this city 14 years ago. Having expanded to countless cities across the globe, the gatherings on the last Friday of every month continue to pit bicylists against motor vehicles. The monthly battles seek to gain momentum for politics that de-prioritize the health and wellbeing of the dominant culture of the pernicious motor vehicle. Critical Mass rallies block the flow of traffic in the hopes of generating enough attention to foment some real change in how our cities are set up. Bikes not building bombs. Bikes not financing SUV boors. Bikes not buying morbid machines.
Over a thousand bike peoples riding.
Riding
Riding
Riding
Riding
Riding
Riding
Cars be gone.
Gone
Gone
Gone



2
wheels
are
better
than
4.
halt
traffic
now.
Ride
or
die.

Frisco in the Fall

Youngsters at the SMART program know how to get HYPHY with the authentic Bay Area juice concoction. Meanwhile, the political season has shifted into high gear, with the local Democratic machine trying to boost support for a national electorally-based party that no longer has my support. Blue Angels soar, tumble, and roll in the skies just above San Francisco on October 7th. The thunderous booms with which the jets shoot through the air above caused a great deal of ire in this town. The Burning Man Decompression party (October 8th) featured some angry Black Rock City Department of Public Works volunteers, who are no doubt facing some difficulties readjusting to non-Burner civilization. Where can I get one of those Playa Restoration tshirts? Gooferman tore up the set with their renditions of circus funkified vibe. Speaking of tshirts at this juncture, Disarm Bush hit the campaign trail on October 5th at a high-octane World Can't Wait rally. Frank Chu, of 12 Galaxies sign infamy, rocked the Disarm Bush creation with gusto.

Zijamaicakilla

zijamaicakilla
Originally uploaded by whodisan215.

Hamsa Lila Nikila balances the light of the universe on her dome piece.

On a Mission

What's up blogreaders worldwide? As I sit here in this neighborhood coffeeshop equipped with the finest hi-fi around, I'm reminded that this city probably has more mocha-sipping, iBook-rocking spaces than any other. I attempt to ingratiate myself into this cafe culture, but as of yet, I lack the accoutrements. First, I currently don't possess a machine with which to compute. I used to be a diehard desktop abuser, but it looks like I might go mobile and stop being a laptop virgin. Second, I'm pressed to find some black-rimmed spectacles that fit the part. Having only occasionally sported the glasses I procured 6 years ago upon my initial acquisition of vision enhancement devices (this pair has been known to bestow misfortune upon thee, and by thee, I mean, me), I sense the impulse to snatch up a fresh pair that replaces the merely "studious" type that I currently bear.

I'm perched at this borrowed laptop fiending for the words that could shed light on my current mindset. Fellow cafe-dwellers browse through philosophical treatises by French pointyheads and await a bluegrass mandolin recital. I quickly slurp down what is apparently known as a Mexican mocha. Though I'm not yet a regular consumer of such beverages, I could become more and more habituated to such things since every third establishment in my cultivated hood serves up coffee in an ambiance of sumptuous Argentine neo-folk and post-rhythmic singer-songwriter cacophonies.

Today is a grey day. Not the sort of day I could take pictures of my new abode. When the light strikes it right, I'll snap some shots of my pad in all its glory. In addition to being the oldest neigborhood in San Francisco, the Mission is also one of the sunniest, due to the hilly peaks to the south and west that block cloud movement into the the area. Unfortunately, the sunshine didn't roll in today.

I'm not feeling particularly garrulous at the moment. Perhaps the weather is cramping my blogsteez. The players toting mandolins begin to enter, and the show promises more amusement than the Oscar drama this evening. "Ya'll ni$%as be scramblin, gamblin/ up in restaurants with mandolins and violins..."