Forget the dead you’ve left

Music – The Band – The Weight

Hang your heads and bear witness to the Death of Fun.

I’ve always felt that people were, underneath it all, essentially vile and petty.  That altruistic deeds are  failed attempts at greed and selfishness, that goodness is more often than not an unintended side-effect of vanity.

There is so much to loathe about people.  Daily life offers such a rich variety of reasons to despise one’s peers.  Most people are such fucks that you can hate them for months on end, focusing on a new despicable thing about them each day, and never have to repeat.

And if you ever, by some miracle or gross oversight, find yourself feeling warmly or even vaguely apathetic about your fellow man, there is a sure-fire fucking silver bullet cure:

Attend your neighborhood Home-Owner’s Association meeting.

Nothing outside of a Spanish Inquisition torture chamber or the Republican national convention gives one a more pure and authentic picture of humanity’s limitless capacity for suck.  Self-important scumbags screaming, literally screaming at each other about uncut lawns and non-approved paint colors and noise pollution.  Passionately accusing each other as if playing your radio after 8pm on a Saturday is the kind of atrocity one should be drawn and quartered for.  Every meeting is like the predictable denouement from some low-budget scifi movie where all the “people” remove their human masks and are actually tentacled, three-eyed aliens.  The difference being that at the HOA meeting, people remove their masks and turn out to be pathetic selfish assholes who should go die.

Fuck every one of the upstart cockmonger vermin from the Western Addition, Panhandle and Hayes Valley whateverthefuck resident associations.

Fuck you for dicking up Bay to Breakers.

I’ve met these assholes before. In person.  I know their faces.  I’ve witnessed their malevolence first-hand, last year at this grant-distribution / awards ceremony thing at City Hall.

The Resident’s Association members got up on stage and verbally blew each other for an hour about what a good job they’d done cleaning up the Panhandle and getting the free concert series cancelled and having some ridiculous mural painted.  Great work battling the societal menace that is free live music.  Great work getting the police to round up the poor and bus them to the TL.  Your courage shines like gold.

SFist, SFCitizen and various other intertube blogosites rightly refer to these fuckwits as NIMBYs (Not In My Back Yard-ers). Yes, Bay to Breakers is the kind of amazing and singularly beautiful cultural phenomenon we want in our City. The kind of pure and cool event that separates our City from soulless black holes of despair like Cleveland and Tampa and Beirut.

But oh, it’s so darn NOISY. They start so EARLY.  Saturday is my day to sleep in and read the New Yorker and walk down to Whole Foods with my toe-headed little brats in a stroller.

And, wow, the MESS.  Beercans and trash everywhere.  And costumed people peeing!  On trees!  The wake of devastation left by B2B rivals that of Katrina, or the Rodney King riots!  I’m sure of it!  Granted I was off playing golf in Napa during the riots, and I’ve never been to New Orleans because my wife is scared of the many dangerous minorities down there, but I’m sure the destruction must be equivalent.

The neighborhood is literally WRECKED.  For HOURS. Until the street-sweeper comes by at 1pm and cleans all the trash up, and the cops come by and chase out the stragglers, and the army of old Chinese recycling scavengers comes and cleans up every single last beercan by nightfall.

I’ve worked SO HARD to buy a house on Fell St., which granted is as loud as a fucking freeway every single day, and I deserve to stop a HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE from having the time of their lives just so nobody throws a couple red solo cups on my lawn.


How do you jackal-faced hateful bastards look your fellow citizens in the eye?  How do you not constantly vomit all over yourselves, consumed utterly with shame at the epic awfulness you’ve wrought?

You know why people are pissing on your lawn?  BECAUSE THERE ARE 5 PORT-O-POTTIES PER MILE for A HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE!  If I drink a twelve-pack of Coors Light and somebody tells me the next bathroom is a fifteen minute jog away, you better believe I’m gonna piss on your lawn or your Audi or your labradoodle or any other thing I can find.

You know why people leave trash everywhere?


It’s not like ING, our sponsor, can’t afford another five thousand chemical toilets.  We the Taxpayers (and the Dutch Government, ironically) just gave those assholes billions of bailout dollars and, assuming they have’t squandered it all on private jets and oriental massages and executive retreats, there should be enough left over to pay for ONE FUCKING PARTY A YEAR.


Bay to Breakers is a one of a kind event.  There is nothing else in the world that rivals it.

Think about that for a second.

It’s fun, it’s safe, and, as far as large-scale public events go, it’s unbelievably low-impact.

A couple people get hurt, a couple people get arrested, a couple people pass out in the bushes.  Any time you get a hundred thousand humans together, that stuff is gonna happen.  Compare B2B to something like Carnaval in Rio?  I don’t know the exact statistics, but approximately 47 people are murdered for their cameras and wallets EVERY SECOND during Carnaval.  Approximately.

And the cleanup… Parts of Germany look like the fucking Alamo-Gordo nuclear test site for months after the Love Parade.  A few cups and discarded shopping carts are a microscopic goddamn pittance compared to that.

Hell, compare B2B to Halloween in the Castro.  Nine people hurt in a gun battle?  Gangfights?  Hundreds of arrests?  That shit is unacceptable.  Yes, it needed to be shut down.  The City did right by that.

Bay to Breakers?  Percentage-wise, literally more people get hurt and arrested at fucking Disneyland.  I’m statistically more likely to get eaten by a boa constrictor than I am to get hurt at Bay to Breakers.  The only person who died at B2B last year was some old guy who didn’t drink a drop, he ran the actual race and kicked off right after he crossed the finish line.  How about you ban the athletic portion of the race?  Maybe that old dude would still be alive today if he’d stopped running so hard and stopped for a beer with the rest of us.


Bay to Breakers deserves to be saved.

This truly unique thing, this eighth wonder of the world, exists only here, only now.

This one perfect, exotic flower has bloomed in San Francisco for decades and you twats spray it with Round-Up and roll out sod over its withered and tragic remains.  For the most trivial of reasons.

B2B is San Francisco at its finest.  I look around at everyone dancing and drinking and running and I see a goodness that is wholly absent the rest of the year.   People run up, unbidden, to help you push a cart full of kegs up a hill.  People give and share without a thought.  People smile and applaud and shriek joyfully at random.

It’s what I imagine Woodstock was like, minus all the filthy hippies.

I hate this fucking City so much every day.  It stinks and is wretched and the people are pretentious.  Hipsterism and vegetarianism and trend-worship run rampant, and there are crackheads everywhere.

Bay to Breakers redeems us.  In the face of all of that crap, B2B keeps us in the black.  It offsets 364 days of bad parking and wild-eyed MUNI drivers running over pedestrians and whores and fixies and endless shitty weather.

San Francisco without B2B is like the new testament without the resurrection.

It is that fucking cool.

Fuck you haters for killing the dream.



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