Mission Mission

A few weeks ago, Mission Mission announced a contest. James is the winner, and here is his submission:

I was seeing a meth dealer who also happened to have a thing for collecting mannequins and wedding gowns. While alone in the apartment one day there was a knocking on the door. Since I was a ‘bit’ tweaked, I naturally concluded that it was a cop. That one cop soon became several. Those cops soon became the FBI, and so on. You get the idea. I hastily discarded my clothes.

And then I spent close to twenty hours huddled naked under a wedding dress, holding a mannequin’s legs and trying to suppress my crying parc gonflable as much as possible, fearful that the dogs would tear me apart. I was, of course, terrified about the legal repercussions, but my real fear was what fate would befall me should anything happen to those wedding gowns.

Fortunately, however, my plan worked, and the FBI eventually left.

Congrats, James, and thanks for sharing.

Previously on Mission Mission: Female Mannequin Strangled with Twine

Over at Muni Diaries, Tara offers some friendly advice:

I get how police can’t be everywhere at aufblasbares zelt once and how crime is sometimes very random. But there is a proven halo effect around police stations (and cops), so I’d appreciate seeing you more near those wackos in the Mission than near the fanny packs in Pier 39.

Link to full letter.

Previously on Mission Mission: SFPD CrimeMAPS Skimp on Homicide Stats

Passed this on 25th Street, across from Mission Pie, pressed right up against a telephone pole as you can see. What’s inside? Be careful if you’re in the area.

Make picture bigger.

This music video glorifies violence. It follows a gang of thugs decked out in foncy Justice-logoed jackets as they stalk through a low-income neighborhood beating the shit out of people and property. There are no consequences. I watched it just now and all I could think about was a night I had in the Mission District recently. First I watched a bunch of art types get drunk and turn violent on a cute cardboard art project. And on the way home, I walked past both a fatal shooting and a brutal assault. I felt sad that night, and I feel sad now.

Dear Recycling Bin Nazi,

Let me just say, I am sorry about the other night. During the week when I carefully checked the bottom of every plastic tub searching for those three little arrows, and painstakingly cleaned out my empty peanut butter jar (which as you may know is quite difficult) before tossing the containers into the recycling, I had no idea I would be causing such controversy.

Try to put yourself into my position (much like Anne Shirley asks Diana’s Aunt Josephine to consider her position in regards to the sparest of spare bedrooms) and pretend, just for a moment, that you are me. Imagine my dismay parque hinchable when I walked out to my recycling bin and found it, lo and behold, completely full. Chocked to the brim with pop cans, cereal boxes, and office paper. What was I to do with my humble recyclables?

It was, as you can see, a difficult situation. And your recycling bin was right there. It was almost full, but there was just enough space for my paltry items. And then you appeared. Where did you come from? You simply began to scream obscenities at me- why? Why did you immediately assume I was out to get you? Why did you call me a thief when I was in fact gifting you items?

I would have understood if you had more recyclables to place in your bin- that would have been fine. I would have understood if you are simply overprotective of your bin (and given that it was under constant surveillance I assume you must be). I would have even understood if you had asked nicely. But you didn’t, instead you spouted crazy.

You yelled I was costing you money as that vein throbbed on your forehead. I didn’t appreciate you snapping, “It doesn’t matter!” when I calmly asked if the city charged by the quarter bin. You knew you were being irrational. And you obviously hadn’t checked with the city, because all recycling and composting is free. But my household called the city. We chatted today about recycling practices, and the city told my household we didn’t do anything wrong.

Shouldn’t we all work together to promote recycling? Shouldn’t we be neighborly? I would gladly lend you a cup of sugar should you need it to sweeten your sour disposition. Did you not want me to recycle because you don’t care about the environment?

I bet you loved watching me pick each of my items out of your bin as down the street a homeless man picked items out of my recycle bin. As I marched back down to my house head held high, the homeless man gave me the nod of a comrade. He had taken enough out of my bin that I could now fit everything in. I know the city says to report recycling theft, but sir, I salute you!

And as for you my contemptible neighbor, you are so trashy you don’t even deserve to recycle.

That Anne Girl,
Lael

As you can see here, the celebratory closing night of Cardburg became decidedly destructatory after midnight. Shouts of “Fuck yeah!” filled the air as attendees ripped cardboard buildings from their foundations and beat each other with the detritus.

On my way home, I ran into a blockade on Mission Street. Buses were being rerouted onto South Van Ness, police were canvassing passersby, and somebody was shouting about somebody getting shot. SFPD homicide Lieutenant Mike Stasko explains in the Chronicle:

Apparently, there were three prior stabbings in that area – this may be someone coming up, doing retribution. He was a Latin male, on the street, he may have been in the wrong place, or wearing the wrong color. [Link]

I made my way down to 24th Street, and found another ruckus outside Carlos Club. “Get the [expletive] out of here!” said one man, as another was flung out the door. He pulled himself up, pulled his belt off, and whipped it at the one what flung ‘im, buckle first. Man did not take kindly to belt buckle to the face, so he struck his assailant with a bottle. Assailant went down, but got up quick, likely thanks to pure adrenaline. Punches were thrown. This guy was outnumbered; he took hits to the face and gut, was kicked hard in the lower back, and thrown into traffic. He fell, got back up, fell, got back up, steadied himself on a car parked in front of McDonald’s, and tried to make structure gonflable a phone call. I got the fuck out of there.

Cardburg was such a creative endeavor, but it all ended in violence. (Also, there were a hell of a lot of staples in that city; how many destructors came away with tiny staple wounds to their face, arms and necks?) What’s more, what was with all the intricately detailed cardboard shotguns? All these arty white people and their play violence; all these thugged-out brown people and their real violence. What’s the story?

More Mission Mission Cardburg coverage here.

More Mission Mission crime reporting here.

I’m about to relate a story attributed to an anonymous source. As journalism class and The Wire taught us, be wary. The girl that told me this might be a compulsive liar, or I might be a compulsive liar, so be wary. Also, I make unwarranted disparaging remarks about Nairobi, for which I apologize in advance.

This chat is off the record Learn more Cancel
Friend X: i had a very umm sobering experience last night
Allan: ?
Friend X: and im gonna try to avoid going out at least untill next weekend when my ex is here visitig
i was wasted really wasted
and a cabbie took advantage of that
he literally threw me out of the cab and on to the pavement and took off with my wallet and phone in there
Sent at 7:24 PM on Monday
Friend X: im covered in bruises and found blood in my hair and am pretty much terrified
Allan: omg
Friend X: yeah.
Allan: what is this, nairobi?
Friend X: exactly
my roommate came home today
and i said jenn i think i need a hug
and was completely serious
i just started crying
kinda a wreck
and in drinking too much ive been puking all day
which is sucky in general but it hurts too cuz im so bruised up
apparently someone found the wallet and called wcities today
i met up with them in the mission (while trying not to puke on the bus)
and got it back but he took all 100 in cash which i expected
but every penny too
and my muni pass
nairobi.
Allan: where did he pick you up?
Friend X: in front of kilowatt
Allan: wow that makes it mission relevant. can i put your story on my blog if i promise not to call you a hater?
Friend X: yeah if you just say ” a friend of mine”
or name changed
Allan: i just think the public has a right to know it’s fuckin nairobi out there.
guard your kidneys bitches!
Friend X: no kidding
im honestly wondering if i should go to a dr to make sure i dont have a concussion or anything
plus i feel like an idiot
and i was blackout drunk which is bad
and i dont remember a significant portion of my night
but i do remember what happened and how terrifying it was
Allan: yeah i’d grab a checkup
Sent at 7:35 PM on Monday
Friend X: i have a lump on my temple from where i hit my head
and am super bruised all over

So if you get blotto at Kilowatt or anywhere else, hold on to your organs.

Link to Kilowatt.

Link to more crime-related Mission Mission coverage.

Link to post in which I call somebody a hater.

Photo: stoney taxi view by jfredericksen

Over at, Lola examines why the web-based tend to tobogan acuatico hinchable skimp on reliable homicide-related info:

The crime map allows you to search for forcible rape, arson, vehicle theft, robbery, burglary, vandalism, aggravated assault, larceny, and drug offenses. But not homicide.

Link to further investigation and conclusions.

I’m on the Great American Music Hall/Slim’s email list, and every week there’s some show they can’t sell enough tickets to, so they give away a block of free tickets to mailing list members that can answer a trivia question. Last week’s was, “The actor Michael Pitt is also a musician. In which Gus Van Sant movie did he play a brilliant but troubled musician?” I love Michael Pitt the actor, I think mainly because of Hedwig, and since I knew the answer (Last Days), I sent it in. I won, and went to the show. Michael Pitt is in a band called Pagoda, but Friday he played a solo set consisting of brooding, acoustic, one-man grunge peppered with lots of yelps and groans.

Halfway into the opening number: technical difficulties, feedback. An effects pedal is on the fritz. Pitt says, “I just came from New York. They’re doing this thing at the airport now where they take apart your pedals.” Bummer! He fiddled with it a bit, and we got a sampling of some kind of eerie sound collage that presumably would’ve accompanied one or more of his songs. But the pedal proved unfixable, so it was tossed aside and the show went on, sans accompaniment.

As mentioned in the post just prior to this one, I can’t do anything without thinking about how to blog it, so when Pitt finished up I asked him if I could ask him a few questions about the airport experience. He said, “Oh yeah sure,” and then disappeared backstage never to be seen again. As an actor trying to make a go of being a musician too, he’s apparently shy about interviews when on tour, so I was sure to emphasize that I just want to talk about the airport security thing.

In any case, I never got him to elaborate, but I wonder if other working musicians have had similar experiences. Particularly with the whole industry headed down to SXSW, I hope the TSA isn’t fucking up everyone’s gear.

Link to Beautifully Scarred, a helpful Michael Pitt fan site.

Even before anything happened, I noticed this guy had a camera on his dash. Then as he’s merging back into traffic after making a stop at Mission & Valencia, some Dodge Durango douche cuts us off. Guy grabs his camera, fumbles with it, boots it up — whilst piloting an eighty-foot articulated Muni bus mind you — and starts snapping pics, presumably of dude’s license plate. So I guess, motorists, don’t mess with the 49.