Get off my porch...

Know what this is?



It's a mural on the side of the Revolution Cafe, at 22nd and Bartlett Street, approximately 32 steps from my current residence, in San Francisco's Mission district.

It's also my war cry. I'm about to call upon the spirit of this neighborhood -- the bohemians and the intellectuals and the activists...

To get the freaks off my porch.

Seriously. I know there are some people living in this neighborhood cooking up some pretty grand schemes for how to save this country and the world. They spout some pretty grand rhetoric about what's wrong with us all and what we should feel bad about and what we need to do differently.

How about we start with our own damn 'hood?

Since I moved to San Francisco, every time I tell people I'm from Detroit, I get the "I'm sorry" response.

Really? Why?

I can honestly say that in ALL the time I lived in Detroit, my car never got broken into.

I can honestly say that in ALL the time I lived in Detroit, I never found a creepy dude MASTURBATING ON MY FRONT PORCH.

I can honestly say that in ALL the time I lived in Detroit, I was never attacked by a drunk, creepy dude lurking in my driveway when I went out to buy soup at 7:30 on a Thursday, while 50 people were seated 32 steps away from me on the sidewalk at the Revolution Cafe, talking about how to make the world a better place.

Wake up, San Francisco. Like Michael Jackson said, "I'm starting with the man in the mirror."

Ow!

The becoming...

In the spirit of "every cloud has a silver lining," I decided to start blogging for real today.

Because I'm sick.

I'm going to go pick up some spicy soup from the Chinese place on the corner that I can never remember the name of, curl up in my bed, and play on the internet. Chief among my tasks in cyberspace will be getting this blog in some sort of presentable state. I'm going to take advantage of my body screaming at me to lay low and do something I've been meaning to do for a while. I need an outlet for all the gobbeldygook in my head.

And believe me -- there's a lot of it.

After that, I think I'll put on Elizabeth: The Golden Age and try not to fall asleep this time. Man, I guess it's true what they say: the "becoming" always makes a better story than the "being."

Or is it the other way around?

Either way, I was somehow far more entertained by her becoming queen than actually being queen.

Except don't worry, Obama, baby. I'm sure that won't be the case for you...

And I'm sure that won't be the case for this blog, either. I promise this half-ass starter post is not a sign of things to come.