Here are my hot new apps. Give me $10 million in funding.

App #1: BumRush

The next time you hear "Space some change?" your answer could be "How about some change ... IN YOUR LIFE?"  When you encounter a pleading supplicant, simply point your mobile device at it and select from your preset Funding Levels.  When you hit "Cha-Ching," $1, $5, or any amount you choose will be sent to the unfortunate's BumRush BumBucks account, where he (or she, if it's one of those) can later retrieve it and exchange it for valuable goods, like other apps.  If your poor isn't yet BumRush-enabled, simply hand him one of our RFID chips and tell him to hang onto it like it's the last bottle of Taaka and the corner store is closed!  You'll be handing out change, all right.  CHANGE FOR THE BETTER!


App #2: Openr

How many times has this happened to you?  You're on the road, checked into your hotel the night before your TED talk or your panel at South by Southwest.  You picked up a six-pack of an obscure, far-too-hoppy local brew, but oh no!  No bottle opener.  What do you do?  Not a problem.  Simply open Openr and press the "Open" button!  Your phone's GPS will tell us where you're staying and we sync with your Preferred Hotels and will automatically know your room number.  Minutes later, a bottle opener will appear at your door.  Magic? No! Openr!

App #3: Skreed

Eesh!  Another rough day sidestepping the dirty masses on the way to an important founders meeting.  Why are there so many poor people everywhere?  And why do people insist on giving you a hard time when you’re rich because you found a new way to help society!  You’d love to write a detailed, angry essay about why the bottom 25% needs to learn to code or why you should respect us as your betters, but who has the time? Let Skreed do the work!  Simply type in a few key phrases, like “no teeth man asked me for money,” “ugh I think it touched me,” “get out of the way disruptor coming through,” or “Kristallnacht” and Skreed will produce a 500 to 1500 word essay suitable for immediate posting on Medium.  Out of the way, world!  You’ve got ideas to share!

App #4: SeatGorilla

My dumb company got a big tax break and its HQ is now in San Francisco so I don't even get to ride a sleek Techie bus down the peninsula.  Ugh, I have to take Muni instead.  It used to be a drag standing the whole way until SeatGorilla came along.  Every morning, SeatGorilla dispatches our team of MuniMonkeys to occupy seats on the most desired lines.  Then, you simply pull up the line and time on the app, choose from currently occupied seats, and enter what you're willing to pay.  When the lightning-fast auction is over, if you had the winning bid, BOOM, the seat is yours.  Simply board the bus, show your confirmation code to our brightly dressed MuniMonkey, and enjoy the rest of the ride in seated comfort!

OK, time to pick a Premier League team

Hello! Ugly American over here.  Every 4 years I watch World Cup matches and announce to (1) my now-jaded Wife, and (2) no one in particular "OK! THIS is the year I'm finally getting into soccer."  So this is it.  I'm finally getting into soccer.

Now, I could get into MS or MSA or whatever the American soccer league is called but that's both boring and not nearly pretentious enough.  No, the only answer for Coastal Elites such as myself is to get into the English Premier League, which accomplishes the twin goals of being inaccessible and foreign.  It's kind of like being a fan of New Zealand new wave or Icelandic food.

SO THAT BEING SAID now I need to pick a team.  I was vaguely following Chelsea the last time I had this impulse, because I wanted my team to always sort of be in the running, and Chelsea always seem to do OK.  I gather that they're universally loathed by supporters* of other teams and they have an owner everyone hates so I guess they're the Cowboys of soccer.  That's a strike against them.  But I like the color blue, so that's a for. Plus, look at this adorable baby soccer hoodlum hooligan tracksuit I could get for Beyonce!

[* You call soccer fans "supporters," not "fans." Also, you don't call it "soccer," you call it "football."  Also, they sell liquor in vending machines.]

Then  there's Manchester United.  They win all the time!  They won in 2013, 2011, 2009, 2008, 2007, and on and on and on.  That's boring.

Arsenal would be a good choice because I happen to know they have a violently active local fan base that gets up at 3 a.m. or something to watch matches at a bar in North Beach.  Morning drinking is always welcome but I just can't even with that.

What about Everton!  Everton is appealing because of the presence of Tim Howard, the amazing American goalkeeper who almost singlehandedly beat Belarus or Belgium or whoever.

But Everton never wins anything.  That would be no fun, to follow a team all season (or whatever they call a season) knowing you're not going to win.  (They won the FA Cup in 1995 but that's a long time ago. Also who cares.)

The Wife likes Tottenham Hotspur mostly because she likes to say "Tottenham Hotspur." She grew up in Ireland, so she was more into rugby and hurling, which I've still never figured out but involves a ball and some sticks and is apparently extremely dangerous.

Liverpool would be nice because the Beatles are from Liverpool.

There's a bunch of others but I'm already tired of this.  I'm sticking with Chelsea.  It's like being stuck in a dead-end job at a gas station: I'm not particularly in love with it, but I already have the jacket.

Have you looked at the list of highest grossing films of all time lately? It's depressing.

Used to be when I was a kid the list of highest grossing films was pretty respectable.  You had your classics like Gone With the Wind and your new blockbusters like Jaws.  Both of those are pretty highly regarded today.  I'm sure there was some embarrassing shit on there, but have you looked at the list lately?  It's horrifying.  I was just looking this weekend for some reason and boy was it a surprise.

Here's the top 19 1/2 (#20, partially cut off, is Harry Potter and the Laundromat of Time or something, who even cares).  Of the Top 10 Highest Grossing Movies of All Time as of Today,

3 are based on comic books

7 are sequels, in some form or another (I'm counting Skyfall here)

1 is based on a fucking child's toy

1 is based on a historical event

1 has only been out a few months and has driven parents nationwide mad

Only 1 is an "original" film, in that it originated with its own script and isn't based on a Viewmaster slide, a Burger King food item, or a trading card.  That one original film is one of the worst movies ever made.

In an alternate universe, this list could just as easily contain two Garbage Pail Kids live-action films, a movie based on the adventures of a superhero who can control humidity, and a dramatic retelling of a balloon crash.  It's depressing but also reflective of a larger truth, which is that most people are fucking idiots.

Don't even go look at the Top 50.  It's pretty much the same.  Transformers movie, Harry Potter movie, Comic Book movie, Star Wars movie, Pirates of the Caribbean movie.  Ugh.

The Adjusted for Inflation list is somewhat better.

Ahhhhhh that's better.  There's our old pal GWTW, back in its semi-rightful place on top.  Meanwhile, The Sound of Music, The Ten Commandments, Doctor Zhivago, and Snow White are having a drink by the bar and trying to pretend Avatar isn't in the room.  E.T. and Jaws are fine.  Titanic is just going to be there.

(In case you're wondering, the greatest film of all time, Cannonball Run II, is at #2,377 with a total domestic gross of $28,078,073.)

Sometimes missing out is for the best, SFGate

OK!  Hopefully no one else dies for a while so we can get back to doing what we do best: SPOUTING ILL-INFORMED SNARK ABOUT THINGS WE HAVE ONLY SUPERFICIAL KNOWLEDGE ABOUT!

Let's start with this SFGate article by Heather Knight entitled "Is S.F.'s too-cool attitude a turnoff?"  The gist of the article is that San Francisco is missing out on all kinds of cool stuff because, I think, we make it too hard to build things or make things or host things or whatever here.  Here are the things the article says we were too cool for:

1. Another America's Cup
2. A new 49ers stadium
3. George Lucas' "art" museum

To be fair, Heather has a point with the 49ers stadium.  The City - and by The City I mean Gavin Fucking Newsom - did not do enough to try and keep the 49ers in San Francisco.  I will totally grant you that.  The rest, however, is pretty much bullshit.

ANOTHER AMERICA'S CUP?  ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND HEATHER KNIGHT.  Do you even remember the last one?  THE CITY LOST MONEY ON IT.  This is an event so few people give a shit about that THEY HAD TO PAY TO PUT IT ON TV.  The way I understand it, with other sports, thee TV people actually pay the sports people for the right to broadcast the sport.  Not the America's Cup!  I guess the 0.000001% of America that has any interest in sailboat racing is used to buying TV networks though.

Anyway, point being, if you think SF really lost out on something by losing the privilege of hosting a bunch of Scrooge McDucks' boat race and taking a bath on it in the process, we'll have to disagree.

Then there's the George Lucas Ego Monument.  I'm no Star Wars geek or anything but I get the impression that all those nerds think George Lucas really fucked up the franchise with the later movies.  Basically he wanted to take some of his huge wet gobs of money and plop down a museum wherever the fuck he wanted it, in this case Crissy Field, a beautiful open space that was lovingly restored just a few years ago.

I wasn't crazy about the renderings for the museum either

So when the Presidio Trust said he couldn't put his museum there the City offered him another PRIME FUCKING SPOT on the waterfront but had the UNMITIGATED GALL to ask George Lucas, who has the net worth of $unlimited and could buy Chile on a whim, to kick in a little for the fucking site.  So George Lucas got Chicago drunk on Fireball shots and Chicago giggled and gave George Lucas a prime waterfront spot for $1 a year.

OH SHOOT.  What did we miss out on?

You have got to be shitting me.  We've already got a Maxfield Parrish, and it's located exactly where it belongs, in a bar.  The Vargas is nice if you're decorating an L.A. porn producer's house in 1988.  And hey!  It's a DVD cover!  I get the strong feeling that the gift shop at the Lucas Museum of Narrative Art will be larger than the galleries.  The point is, we hardly need a tourist trap museum with a questionable collection to be considered a world-class city.  I just can't work up a lot of grief over losing this thing.

[STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Of course there's all kinds of stuff SF could do differently, it's probably too hard to get things done in this town, blah blah blah, we all know that.  I'm just talking about these two things in particular.]

R.I.P. Dog

Leland was a cream-colored chihuahua-terrier mix.  That's what it said on his Rocket Dog Rescue info sheet, anyway.  I guess he could just be "white" but "cream" sounds nicer, doesn't it?  Rocket Dog got him from a shelter in Los Banos and then gave him to us.  The first time he came to our house for an audition he promptly pooped in the hallway, twice.  I think he was just nervous.  We still took him.

Leland loved the beach a lot.  He also loved Bernal Hill and Stern Grove and McLaren Park and a good sunny spot.

He would throw back his head and howl along with you if you got close to him and went "WOOOOOOO."  He also flipped the fuck out if anyone rang the doorbell.  The first time the doorbell rings and I don't hear maniacal barking is going to be tough.

Leland slept in bed, under the covers, on his back or on his side, pressed up against The Wife like a hot water bottle.  He would chase toys and bring them back to you, but only inside.  Chasing toys is a private activity.

Leland got lymphoma and we have to put him to sleep today.  He's been a part of our life for so long it's hard to imagine it without him.  No more dog-shaped indentations in the pillows on the bed.  No more dog hovering by the baby's high chair, waiting for her to drop food to him.  No more lying in the sun.  No more trips to the beach.

We love you, little guy.  Thanks for always being there for us.  Thanks for being such a good dog.

Drama at 30,000 feet! Also at 30 feet.

Thanks again to everyone for the kind words on my Dad's passing.  We were just coming home from the funeral yesterday when Frontier flight 663 from Denver to SFO EXPLODED WITH DRAMA which in turn cheered me up a lot.

We were in row 2 so a lot of this happened behind us.  We first became aware that there was a Situation when a middle-aged white lady and a tween Middle Eastern-appearing boy with a wispy mustache and socks with sandals approached the two flight attendants standing in the galley at the front and started talking excitedly.  Naturally I RIPPED my earbuds out and tried to hear what was going on but couldn't really make it out except for the FAs telling them they'd take care of it.  They left and went somewhere, back to their seats I guess.

Then he was up front.  The Troublemaker, who I'll call "Brad" because he looked like a Brad, was maybe late 30's, wearing flip flops and a bead bracelet and about three days of stubble.  He didn't look very good.  He stood motionless facing the galley until one of the FAs asked what he wanted and I guess he said the bathroom because she pointed out the door, DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF HIS FACE.  He went in and didn't lock it, natch, so then the FA had to tell the HUGE guy who came up next not to go in.

OK.  HERE WE GO WITH THE EXCITING PART.  Brad comes out of the lavatory and starts talking to the FA.  He has sort of a vacant look and I know RIGHT AWAY he's asking for another drink.  I can't hear what FA is saying but I can tell she's saying no.  It goes back and forth for a while.  Then he starts talking about how he doesn't like people stealing from him!  I guess he thinks he already paid for drinks and didn't get them?  She tells him over and over to go back to his seat.  At this point I'm looking around to see who else is nearby in case there's a rumble.

OK.  Huge Dude comes out and is behind him.  Argument is escalating.  BOOM, now the guy in 1D is up.  He looks like a cross between Sam Elliott and Nick Cave and appears to be about 60 but has full sleeve tattoos that he either got in a biker gang or in prison.  I noticed him quietly radiating menace earlier.  I am pretty sure Brad is about to die.  But wait!  Sam Elliott has a solution.  His female companion has pulled $10 from her purse and Sam Elliott gives it to Brad.  "You want money?  Here's your money.  Now go back to your seat."  You have to imagine this in the Sam Elliott voice.

At this point, Brad is standing between a Human Retaining Wall and probably the former president of the Hells Angels.  He squeaks out some more protests but you can tell he knows he's beat.

"Go back.  To your seat," Sam Elliott says.  I'm scared of him and I'm in my seat and haven't done anything wrong.  Brad slowly walks away in that shitfaced look-at-me-balancing-aren't-I-doing-great way.

Everybody sits down.  Sam Elliott is talking to the guy in 1C, across the aisle.  "It's no big deal. He just drank too much," Sam Elliott says.

Not everyone agreed with Sam Elliott's take.  The FA told us all not to get up when we land.  For most airline passengers, this is akin to asking them not to breathe.  There is NOTHING airline passengers like more than LEAPING into the aisle the nanosecond the plane's discernible movement stops.  But they do it!  On come about 5 SFPD officers.  Brad leaves with them sans protest.  Wife and Beyonce and I all get off the plane.  Sam Elliott goes off to drink an entire bottle of tequila in one gulp and intimidate some rattlesnakes.  Human Retaining Wall eats a KFC franchise.  Brad spends the night in jail.  Life goes on.

R.I.P. Dad

My father passed away yesterday in his own bed at home, the way he wanted to.  In the end, it was cancer that got him, but after 87 years, the cause of death doesn't mean much.  I like to think he lived a life that was so full it's hard to imagine fitting it all into 87 years.

He was born in 1926 in rural Virginia, a place and time so far removed from my life that it might as well be another planet.  I've looked at the Census Records and suddenly there on the 1930 Census there's a boy, Robert, age 3.  Hiding behind the cramped, crabby handwriting on that form is a little boy who grew up with cows and chickens and rode his family's mule.  They ate organic, free-range food way before those labels were even invented.  They just called it "dinner."

Dad was the youngest of his siblings and has told me that being the youngest probably motivated him to work harder and do more.  What he wanted to do was fly airplanes, so when he was 17 he enlisted in the Army Air Corps, the precursor to today's Air Force.  Sure enough, they taught him how to fly.  Then they sent him to Japan to occupy the country.

He stayed in the Army even after the Air Force split off and they sent him all over the world.  Least Favorite Place: Greenland.  Most Favorite: Australia.  In fact, later in life, he badly wanted to return to Australia one day.  Never made it, though.  Along the way, he got married and had a couple of kids, my half-brother and half-sister.

After he got out of the Army, he flew for Continental Airlines, but instead of the Chicago-New York route, he went to Southeast Asia at the height of the Vietnam War and flew the Saigon-Bangkok route.  He was living in an apartment in Bangkok and riding a motorcycle to work at the airport.  I would have LOVED to have a drink with him at some bar in Saigon back then.  God knows, the man liked to take a drink.  It looked like it might be a problem until, as he told me, he got sick of waking up feeling like shit every day and suddenly stopped one day when I was a kid, no AA or anything.

He met my Mom in Bimini in the Bahamas and they got married and I was born and to say that things didn't work out between them would be putting it mildly.  After my sister was born, things deteriorated rapidly and they got divorced.  Things also didn't work out between Mom and me, and I moved in with Dad.  During that time, I think I started to figure out how to live and act and be in the world.  Dad's lessons were old-school and basic - take responsibility for your actions; everything you do has consequences; actions speak louder than words; give respect to get it - but those lessons are also sometimes the hardest to learn.  I learned them from Dad and although I'll never completely live up to them, he gave me something to shoot for.

Dad & Me: The Early Years

As you can imagine, Dad was a staunch conservative, but he never sweated me about any of the crazy shit I did like moving to San Francisco with no job and no contacts when I was 22 years old or majoring in English or whatever.  He always said he'd support me no matter what and he always did.

It's not like his death was some sudden, devastating surprise.  He's been sick for a while, and given his age, I've been thinking about the Post-Dad Era of my life since my 30's.  You know what?  It's not at all like I imagined.  I sort of pictured being consumed by grief, but instead I feel kind of calm and relieved that he isn't hurting any more.  Of course, as The Wife, who's lost both of her parents, one just a few months ago, told me, "Grief isn't linear."  I'm sure I'll grieve in a lot of little ways for years, like every Friday around 3 when we used to talk on the phone, instead of in one big grief tsunami.  Which is fine.

This is sort of long and rambling and not quite as artful as I wanted it to be.  But here's to you, Dad.  If there is an afterlife, I hope you're up there now, flying a Beechcraft Baron, with a bourbon in one hand and a Winston in the other.  Thanks for everything, Dad.  I never could have got here without you.  Love you.