We dodge a bullet
We didn’t make James Lileks’ Wish List. We are so sad:
April 7 update So where wouldnâ€™t I live? San Francisco, for so many reasons. I know, I know, itâ€™s a lovely town. Or was. I was never that impressed â€“ the downtown architecture had its moments, but the parts of the city I visited were inordinately bum-choked, compressed and pretentious, and it struck me as another city gnawing the rind left over by the joyless hard-working citizens who preceded the brie -eaters. (I know, I know â€“ brie is such a lame signifier for the sort of shallow, trend-addled quasi-intellectual person. What works better? â€œParasiteâ€ is too harsh, “Wifi-suckers” too broad.) I loved San Diego, but it didnâ€™t speak to me.
There is a reason for that. For all of it’s conservativism, San Diego isn’t a town for boobs (not to be confused with real boobs which are in abundance at the beach) particularly midwestern boobs who stick out like George Bush at a Mensa barbeque. As a rule we are quite polite to the tourists because we want their money. Since I live at the beach instead of the ‘burbs, I come in contact with tourists almost everyday. I like them, I just don’t want them to move here. There are few days when I’m out walking the dogs when someone in a rental car doesn’t pull over and ask me how to get to La Jolla (and it’s pronounced La Hoy-ya) or back to the 5. I’ll even tell them what restaurants to go to and where the good surf shops are (Mitch’s on Pearl in La Hoy-Ya) Sea World? You can walk from my house. The San Diego Zoo? Five minutes away. The Gaslamp Quarter? Ten minutes tops including finding parking. Somewhere to live? Go home. No room at the inn.
Particularly for some goofy big-foreheaded middle-class goober in a minivan looking for Target.