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July 2009

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  • The opinions and commentary expressed on this blog are mine and mine alone, except where readers have left comments.

Copyright 2009

  • Gary G. Sassaman. All Rights Reserved.

May 24, 2009

Late last night...

I got up about 2:00 am last night to make my first trip of the evening to the bathroom, something I've become increasingly good at (no stubbed toes, no disorientation, no missing the bowl, thank you very much). I peeked at the clock on my way back into bed and noticed it was 1:59am. Seeing as how there was a one-day jazz festival downtown on Saturday, the joint was still hoppin' as the bars closed and everyone made their drunken way to their cars to head home.

And then I heard it: BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM. It sounded like 5 gunshots.

And today I found out it was. A young woman was gunned down ONE BLOCK from where I live. She was out celebrating her 21st birthday and someone shot her and two men, killing her and wounding the guys.

I was pretty sure once I heard it that it was really a gun making the noise. It was followed by the sounds of pure pandemonium: people yelling, screaming, running. I got up and looked out through my blinds (note to self: not a great idea during an earthquake, probably not a good one when you hear gunshots, either), and saw people looking up the street, towards E Street. In a matter of moments, the requisite sirens started, lots of them.

I didn't find out until this evening that what I thought to be true was. The local news covered the story (the shooter got away...so far). And it all brings home the harsh reality that I live in an intense urban area, one where innocent bystanders (no joke meant whatsoever) do come into contact with crime. I feel safe here, in reasonable areas around where I live at reasonable times, but it is a large city, it is sometimes "party town" and shit happens. It's a shame when someone dies because of it.

April 18, 2009

You know the economy is bad when a porn store closes down...

I went out for a little walk today--a beautiful summer-like, sunny day here in San Diego--Just over to the bookstore and to get some lunch, so nothing major or even remotely feeling like (ugh) exercise. I walked up 5th Avenue, and lo and behold, the porno store has closed down! It was one of a chain here in San Diego, named with the '80s band-sounding "Romantix." It sits forlorn and vacant, its purple paint job standing out amongst the restaurants with a hand-written sign in the window urging the reader to go to one of its other locations in the SD area.

Perhaps it's the economy, perhaps the new neighbor that done in Romantix. American Apparel--with their ads that resemble porn with waifish models wearing tight clothing, leggings, short-shorts, etc.-- has moved into the former San Diego Hardware location. Then again, we're all cutting back on non-essential things, and perhaps porn can be considered that way, what with this new-fangled "Internet" thing finally catching on. (I hear there's free porn on here. I've never seen it. Oh, no...not me.) However I did pay Romantix a quick visit one night with a number of drunken friends. Ah, memories...

As my walk continued, I came across an even stranger sight: an old couple pan-handling. Yes, I know that's an antiquated term. We prefer the use of the word "homeless" these days, and certainly a couple of any age asking for money is not unusual. However, this pair was. The man, dressed in a sports coat and playing a guitar, looked like the illegitmate son of Gabby Hayes--you know, the whole "grizzled prospecter" look with no teeth and a shaggy white beard, his wispy hair blowing around his head. His companion, a woman wearing white sunglasses straight out of The Jetsons or Devo, was in a wheelchair and in her lap was an exceedingly creepy ventriloquist's dummy, a female dummy, no less. Propped up against the wheelchair was a companion male dummy, making this bizarre little family complete. (I hate to even consider the sleeping arrangements.) I walked by them twice, but neither time did they engage me in any kind of spiel for money.

But it made me think: at least they were offering a little music and a ventriloquist act for change. Maybe if Romantix threw in a strip show, they'd still be open.

November 25, 2008

The strange case of the dog who barked at everything...

A year or two ago, the building in which I live started allowing dogs. It had always kind of turned a blind eye to cats (partially because the building manager has one herself), but didn't allow the other four-legged pet persuasion. I was grateful to this. While neither a dog-lover or hater I be, the sound of a barking dog is not something I miss. I had enough of that where I lived in Pittsburgh.

But, so the story goes, a young couple moved into the building. He was in the military and deployed around the world a lot, and she lived alone while he was gone and wanted to have her dog, a Jack Russell terrier, with her. Supposedly if you have a paper signed by a doctor that states that you need your dog for health reasons, including state of mind, our building would allow it. But like everything else in this world, once we had one dog, the gates were open to more. And more. And, of course, more.

That first dog always tried to take a piece out of me every time I saw him, which turned out to be often. He lived on my floor and I had the uncanny knack for heading for the elevator around the same time he was going out for a walk or returning from one. He would always lunge at me, and although a relatively little dog, I still really didn't want to be bitten. I'm funny like that.

I think that couple and the dog moved away. At least I don't see them very often. It doesn't matter, because now I have a new dog to contend with. My neighbors a few doors down have one, and it's an older dog. This dog seems to bark at EVERYTHING. People, cars, parking meters, curbs...everything. On the days when I'm home and they're out, I can hear the dog barking, two doors down, with everything closed up. I suppose heit could be honing his karaoke skills or calling into talk radio (undoubtedly Rush Limbaugh...he looks like a Republican dog), but I doubt it.

I think older dogs are a bit like older humans. They're cranky and volatile and there's almost always a "hey you kids get off my lawn" kind of mentality, only not just reserved for those pesky children playing football in the street. This dog is like that. I do feel a bit sorry for it, but the barking is a bit much. I've gotten to the point where I refuse to ride the elevator with it, since it barks the entire time. I can tell every time they take it for a walk, because I can hear it barking in the hall when it leaves, on the street when they get outside, and again when they walk past my place.

If anything, there's a bit of a silver lining in the whole dog in the building policy, at least for the building owners. They get to charge more if you have one. There is a weight limit (I think it's less than 35 pounds), but there's also a monthly fee, like doggy rent, if you will. All I can say is if I had a dog and they charged me more for rent each month, the dog would be responsible for paying that increase. He'd have to get a job. Something simple, like delivering papers each morning, or dish-washing, or, in the case of a dog, more than likely dish-licking.

The silver lining for us tenants? Well, some people really like their doggies, so that's nice. I myself have come across a couple of dainty little piles of poop, in both the hall and elevator, but only once or twice. It's not exactly what I'd call "silver," but I am grateful there's a weight limit to how big a dog they'll allow in the building, if you know what I'm saying...

November 22, 2008

Drive-by panhandling...

It's probably a sign of the crappy economy that people are becoming more and more creative in how they try to get money.

I've lived in San Diego for almost 10 years now and have been subjected to all kinds of...let's just call it panhandling. From the grinning, toothless guy at the end of the freeway downtown who holds up a flip-down sign that first reads, "Ain't gonna lie..." to reveal "just want a beer!" when he flips the cardboard open, to the frazzled man who asked me--twice in one day--to lend him money for a locksmith because he was from Vancouver and he had locked his keys and wallet in his car and he had to get back to Canada because of a family emergency and it was a matter of life and death, and... Dude, you tried this on me a half-hour ago. At least have the necessary cells left in your brain for some short term memory.

The other day I was walking in the teeny town I work in and a woman pulls up in a late model car. She winds down the window and motions for me to come over to the car. I'm thinking she's going to ask me for directions. Instead she says, "do you speak English?" And I say, "yeah..." And she says, "well, these days you just can't tell, know what I mean?"

Already I don't like where this is going. "Can I help you?" I ask. She comes back with, "I'm not going to lie...I'm just going to come right out and say it." Uh-oh, I think, she wants a beer, too. "Can you get me a sandwich?" she asks.

My mind is reeling. Does she mean give her money for a sandwich or go get her one? We're near the main drag in town, am I supposed to go get her something, and what exactly does she want? Turkey? Meatball sub? A burger? I look at her blankly. The car isn't brand-new, but it's no beater. I'm tempted to say, "lady, if you can afford to buy gas and drive around to do your panhandling, maybe you should be buying me a sandwich." But I don't.

I politely decline to give her any money and she drives off. I walk back to my office and start telling the story and the new guy pops up with "she stopped me the other day! And she asked me the same thing about speaking English!" But it seems she added a new wrinkle for him, pointing out that she had her leg in a cast and may have to have her foot cut off.

If she had told me that part, I would have offered her a foot-long sandwich. I'm just that kind of guy.

November 17, 2008

Reading the Reader...

Like many major cities, San Diego has a couple of newspapers that fall into the category of  "alternative weeklies." The dominant one is the San Diego Reader, and it's clearly an insult to any of the other papers famous for being among the above-mentioned category (such as The Village Voice and LA Weekly) to call the Reader one of them. At its best, the Reader is little more than a thick advertising circular, filled with ads.

I stopped looking at the Reader a while ago. Ten years ago, when I first moved to San Diego, I picked it up religiously, each and every week. But even then I noticed something was lacking. The editorial material seemed to be the filler around the ads. Now I know what you're thinking: isn't that the case in every newspaper--alternative or mainstream--in the country? Yes, it is. Newspapers are a business. But the Reader's ads are a disturbing collection of graphics trolling for test guinea pigs and offering such "much-needed" medical procedures as Botox, breast augmentation, and hair implants.

The latest issue, out since last Wednesday, appears to bite the hand that feeds them, at least a little bit. I was intrigued to pick up this issue because the author of the cover story was on Fox 5 News in the Morning, discussing how this article appears in a paper known for the very type of ads she's writing about. The current cover story deals with being a test subject for some of the numerous  clinical trials the paper advertises on a weekly and basis, and includes people who are basically "human lab rats." The article trails across 18 pages, hovering over and between ad after ad for "do you have Type 2 diabetes?" and "Overactive bladder have you on the run?" But the 18-page length is less of a testament to exhaustive research and writing style than it is to simply filling space.

I thought that this was, perhaps, the San Diego Reader biting the proverbial hand, or at the very least being ironic. But it's neither. It's just business as usual. The Reader is a paper that doesn't take ads for phone sex lines or strip clubs, but doesn't hesitate for a second to run the soft-core porn of American Apparel in color on their first page (this week: "The New Disco Pant"). This is just another long article serving the necessary role of filler to give the reader of the Reader some kind of excuse--the cover story, the concert and club listings, the movie ads--to justify picking up this overstuffed weekly catalog of plastic surgery, contact lenses, and clinical trials ads. As the cop said at the scene of the crime, "move along...there's nothing to see (or read) here." There never is.

November 12, 2008

The sky, last night...

11-11-08Sky

Even with the blinds partially closed in my apartment, I could tell last night's sunset was unusual. The photo is facing due east, so I can only imagine what the sky over the ocean looked like...it must have been beautiful.

November 02, 2008

San Diego voters: Please don't vote for Mike Aguirre...

On this night before the night before Election Day, I'd like to take the time to make this brief--and rare--political announcement. It's rare because I'm pretty much a live and let live kind of guy. I normally wouldn't even consider telling anyone who they should vote for. For the most part, I won't even discuss politics, not even with friends. Like views on religion, abortion, and gender issues, they're personal, and no one's business but your own.

But this time I'm making an exception, because there's a blight in local San Diego government, and that blight has a name. It's City Attorney Mike Aguirre.

The city attorney's job--at least the way I understand it--is to offer legal advice to the city government. Aguirre has done none of that in his 4 years in office, in fact, taking the opposite tact most of the time, fighting the present administration tooth and nail. Admittedly, the city is still not in great terms when it comes to who's running it, although I think it's better now than it was under the previous lifeless mayor. You can depend on only one constant with Aguirre, though: He'll always do the one thing that will guarantee him the most face time on television. In all my years living in two cities--Pittsburgh and San Diego--which have had their own individual shares of idiosyncratic politicians, Aguirre is by far the absolute worst local official I've ever seen. He's a self-aggrandizing camera hog who has only his own self-interest at heart, and cares nothing about either his appointed job duties nor the people who elected him.

I know nothing about Jan Goldsmith, his opponent, save for two things: I voted for him, and he has the worst toupee ever. (My apologies if this isn't a toupee, Mr. Goldsmith...whatever it is, it doesn't suit you.) I'd like to say something flippant and witty and tell you to write in someone's--ANYONE'S--name, because quite frankly, anyone would be better for this city (which has enough political problems to begin with) than Mike Aguirre. But that would be a waste of your vote and may actually aid Aguirre in his quest for re-election. Please vote for Jan Goldsmith for San Diego City Attorney, and send Aguirre back to private practice where he can be as big an asshole as he wants to be, and not at the expense of this fair city.

September 17, 2008

Music to my sneers...

The bad saxophone player who frequents my street has been replaced tonight with a bad trumpet player.

I love the sax. It's a mellow, fluid sound. The trumpet, on the other hand, sounds abrupt and jangly to me. I guess there's a reason why they use it to wake up soldiers.

I am almost convinced--sight unseen--that the bad sax player has just changed instruments. There's the same reliance on parts of songs, the same repeated refrains. Different songs, though. I have yet to hear the parts of the "Bewitched" theme or the "Woody Woodpecker Show" theme that BadSax knows. So maybe it is a new person.

Right now he's trying to riff his way through "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Imagine someone playing it on the trumpet, sounding it out word-for-word, and syllable-by-syllable for each word, and you'll get an idea of the small, private hell I've been in for about 2 and a half hours now. Yes, downtown noise--including lameass street "musicians"--are part of the "charm" of agreeing to live in an urban area. In the past 10 years, I have learned to tune out blaring car alarms, fast-moving sirens, and the post-adolescent wailings of rampant herds of twenty-somethings after last call on Friday and Saturday nights. Music is more difficult to not pay attention to, especially when it's bad music.

No, I won't call the cops on him, no matter how loud and annoying he gets. He's just trying to make a buck. For all I know on Monday he was working for Lehman Brothers.

May 31, 2008

Invasion of the bike-riding, Krishna Sexanistas..

Last night seemed weirder than most Friday nights in the Gaslamp.

Looking out my window early on, around 6-ish, it seemed the streets were filled with hot women of a certain age dressed to the nines (I may have even known one or two of them). This is a common enough occurrence on a Friday night in downtown San Diego, but it was compounded last night by the opening of the Sex and the City movie. It kind of looked more like Sex IN the City, if you catch my drift. (And if you do, give it back to me please. I need my drift. Desperately.)

Then, around 8:30 or so, the street was filled with whooping and hollering. This is a common enough occurrence on a Friday night in downtown San Diego, but it was compounded last night by hundreds (seriously!) of bike-riding fanatics cruising down the street in wave after wave. It went on so long, I peeked through my blinds THREE separate times, each minutes apart! It went on forever.

And then, like clockwork, around 9:15 or so, the usual dancing, drumming, chanting Hare Krishnas moved through, like some bright orange weather front. This is a common enough occurrence on a Friday night in downtown San Diego, but combined with last night's Sexanistas and bike-riding demons, it seemed like Act III of some weird new form of performance art.

I hate performance art.

April 02, 2008

Hey, JACK...wise up!

I've pretty much gotten used to JACK, the almost DJ-less radio station here in San Diego (they still have a morning show with a "personality" who sounds like Peppermint Patty with a 5-pack a day habit, but I never listen to morning radio shows...who needs all that agita?)

A few months back, JACK introduced a late day drive-time traffic reporter who sounds like your worst nightmare of a wannabe comedian on open mic night. This guy cracks wise about traffic, but for anyone who has sat in California rush hours (which are about 6 hours long), there's absolutely NOTHING funny about it. You'd think someone at the station would realize the simple common sense factor that would seem to dictate that accidents and death and dismemberment are inherently UNFUNNY, but evidently not. Torturing people with the idea of someone sitting in an air-conditioned studio, instead of a hot, sweaty car, and making fun of the situations us poor commuting schlubs are in is, at best, reprehensible, if not punishable by death and/or dismemberment. Not to mention the fact that the guy isn't funny. He just thinks he is.

Hey, JACK...wise up!

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