Thanks for the snap, Missy!

I once was having myself a tea in Philz and overheard a social media professional declare “I like MySpace because it hasn't been gentrified yet.”  After I cleaned up the vomit and tears on my face, I actually thought about what that idiot said and it made a whole lot of sense.  MySpace's slogan is “a place for friends” and I'm fairly certain Facebook's is “I have autism.”  MySpace is where you discover grimy punk rock from Oklahoma and Facebook is where your aunt uses four exclamation points to help describe how cute one of her seventeen cats is.  Like the rest of us, MySpace showed a bunch of promise while it was young but never went anywhere.  It's the underdog in life; how could you not kinda like it?

So there I was outside of Three Twins the other day, stuffing my face with Lemon Cookie ice cream (which, btdubs, tastes insane) when I saw this Google tag smack on the sidewalk.  I couldn't help but recall that afternoon in Philz and MySpace.  Is repping Google really what people want to be known for?  Why not throw support behind someone a little less fortunate?  Poor Billy G. could use a win one of these days, even if that win comes in the form of a Bing tag outside of an organic ice cream shop.  Plus, Bill Gates is the Bono of technology—namely, everyone hates what he's selling but kinda respects him for helping charities.  On the flip, Google just whores out your privacy and makes products you actually want to use.

So, Lower Haighters, next time you have the urge to pick up a rattle can and rep a search engine, why not show Bing a little love?  Do it for MySpace.  Do it for the underdog.  Do it for poor Billy G.

Emilie Ridley is South African by way of Cape Cod. He attended Evergreen college in the late 70s, where he experimented with acid in a polygamist tribe before moving to San Francisco to open a biodegradable dog kennel business. He has been here ever since. This is his story…

I've entered a wretched period of my life in which I am a drooling narcoleptic, and it is not the consequence of my senesence. It's the Klonopin I've been prescribed so that I may stroll past this grotesque neighbourhood mural:

My physchiatrist doctor (she later found these digital images here) dubbed it “The Sum of All Fear,” ignoring my suffering as I recounted its details to her— if I were a Commonwealth solider narrating the Battle of Okinawa, would she have been kinder?

Regardless, I was forced to dictate my daily run-ins with McGangBangers in my rotting neighbourhood, the monstrous food creatures haunting my mind's eye in flashbacks from psychonautic days past, and the humiliation and guilt from catsup packet wielding hooligans who splattered my Mercedes windshield with murderous tomato artillery, causing me to strike and break the leg of Brontë, my poor, over-excited Pomeranian.

Brontë in better days

My panic attacks have been quelled, but until canine Klonopin is availble, I dare not bring Brontë on jaunts past this monstrosity. The Hamburglar has robbed me of something far greater than ham. This ham man has beaten my sanity to a pulp, and stolen my peace of mind.

Lookin' good!

And let's check out a close-up taken with my friend's mega-sketch creeper zoom lens 5000: