Yep. This looks about right.
Yep. This looks about right.
I may be generalizing here, but SF’s more self-entitled twentysomethings appear to have one of two income streams: a trust fund or a tech job. Blame for the trustafarians can be placed on the parents. But the high-techies? They’re being coddled into self-absorption and an overwhelming sense of entitlement by their employers. The bosses drive them to and from work, pacify them with three squares a day and unlimited snacks, do their laundry, provide recreation, and pay them a hefty allowance. They’ve traded their helicopter mom for a tech mom.
But it’s the shuttle buses that are really messing things up. The most prestigious tech mommies are based in boring Peninsula suburbs. What future tech mogul would want to live there? So the companies pick them up from the urban playground and drop them at work. They’re free to spend their outsize paychecks on SF rent without having to do battle on the 101.
So if this guy thinks the Mission is a hotbed of douchebaggery, he has only the shuttle buses to blame.
Home sweet home. This is by far he biggest lifestyle upgrade gained by moving to San Francisco. I won’t show you the massive amounts of closet space for fear of making any New Yorkers reading this weep with envy. But there are three of them, and they are HUGE.
For those of you playing along at home, this is what it looked like before I moved in.
It took me almost two years to get this place the way I wanted it. (And by now, of course, there are some things I’d like to change.) My design scheme was to buy what I liked and assume it would all make sense together later. This worked out just fine, as far as I’m concerned. And I don’t think I paid full price for anything in here.
As if I needed another reason not to take BART. This is some serious crazy. And it violates any sane person’s dearly held belief that if you just ignore the lunatics, they won’t bother you. I can honestly say this would never happen in NY, where there are actual police officers out maintaining order and even little old ladies are willing to take the law into their own hands should the need arise.
On this, my third SanFranniversary, I share with you this elegant portrait, taken by my father upon my first visit to SF. The year is 1986. I am 11, and already pondering my future life in this great city.
I can’t believe it took me so long to get here. Though I’m glad I waited until I had a better haircut, a good conditioner and some better-fitting clothes.
It only took me 38 years to discover that there’s little about turning another year older that can’t be made better by a fuzzy pink tiara and an adhesive mustache—and a few glasses of wine with good people. The glow-in-the-dark necklace is just icing on this birthday cake.
My building doesn’t allow dogs. But if it did, I’d want this one. Too bad I’d have to kidnap him from my parents’ house in Kansas City first. This is Duncan. Adorable, isn’t he? Mom and Dad adopted him less than a week after their previous Scottie, Dilbert, was put down. I hope they wouldn’t be so quick to replace me.
Look what I helped produce at work. Turtle power!
This, my friends, is the true measure of a city’s character: How trick-or-treat friendly is it? And it’s no surprise that San Francisco—a city where costumes are as common as yoga pants—topped Zillow’s annual list of the 20 best cities for Halloween loot.
Really, why would you want to live anywhere else?