I am looking out at the view through our back window here on Walter. The morning sun reflects very brightly off of the white wood panelled wall of the apartment left of ours, prompting me to squint my eyes. The inter web claims that today will be the warmest day of the week, so I have decided to take advantage of this warmth and make four rounds of country sourdough bread. I mixed the leaven late last night, and and now wait for it to rise and increase in bulk by twenty percent. This process was supposed to happen overnight, but sadly, it did not. I know not why. Every time I try and make the leaven overnight, I encounter the same situation, and so I invariably have to coax rising by setting it out in direct morning sunlight, or by warming it in a proof box. Once the ambient temperature reaches eighty degrees, the leaven suddenly comes to life and does its thing. From the look of things, I may have to resort to this method once again. According to the book, the leaven should rise with the room temperature at sixty five degrees. I'm quite sure this room was at least that, but still, no activity. The problem with having to manually encourage the leaven is that it takes time, usually several hours. A delay in the baking process typically means postponing or pushing back other activities planned for the afternoon. It also results in a late evening baking period. Swimming, for instance, may be pushed into tomorrow. Shopping for a camera to replace Julie's Nikon dSLR, which was so rudely stolen from our apartment early Monday afternoon.
I left the apartment at about one in the afternoon to buy produce at Rainbow market, a co-op about ten minutes away by bicycle. The main need was unbleached and whole wheat bread flour. I also picked up Stumptown coffee, walnuts, raisins, bananas, a red pepper, salsa, Good Belly juice, butter, milk, and eggs. As is my modus when in Rainbow, I freely wandered about the market, investigating kitchen wares, snack foods, kombucha. I was in no rush. Fair trade coffee beans sold in bulk attracted my interest. I did not know they sold these beans. I nuzzled the dark espresso roast bin, dragging deeply. The smell filled my nose with its strong, earthy, coffeehouse richness. My mind pondered the decision to change beans, a very weighty and serious decision in San Francisco. Riddled with political landmines indeed. I had already passed over Sightglass for Stumptown. An actual double passover would have set a coffee buying precedent and raised many a brow. Ultimately, I skipped it. Instead, I grabbed several post cards and headed for the register. Popcorn. I forgot popcorn, I informed the cashier. She responded with words that I had trouble understanding, as she spoke so softly. I believe she said that she'd wait while I run to grab the popcorn, but i didn't want to gum up the works and decided to pay for the popcorn separately. This took more time. I was taking my time that afternoon because I knew that my backpack would be burdensome and was not looking forward to the ride back to the apartment. The minor graded hills become tiresome when weighed down by twenty to thirty pounds of bulky foodstuff.
I rode back to Walter Street, and after setting my backpack on the sidewalk I stored my bike down in the basement corridor. At the front door, I noticed something peculiar: a corner of my black Adidas windbreaker was wedged between the door and the door jamb, right below the top lock. I also saw a crack on the door edge several inches below the top lock. This was peculiar. I don't remember closing the door on the jacket when I left. And what is the deal with that crack, was that always there? Never noticed this before. Unusual. I proceeded to unlock the door, starting with the bottom door knob first, followed by the top key lock. Typically, when I turn the key to the top lock, the door opens with a slight push of the foot below. But now the door refused to open and seemed wedged shut. I tried once more before putting my shoulder into the effort. With the added force, the door opened. That was very strange, I thought to myself. I feel like I just broke into my own apartment.
Looking down at the door as I entered, I saw that the wood around the bottom lock was split and splintering away. Now that is Alarming. Once I stepped inside the apartment, I saw that the two top drawers of the built in hutch on the right wall were pulled out. Did I leave those open? Nish, nish. I turned into the living room and entered our bedroom. I discovered of Julie's makeup pouches on the floor with its contents spilled out. Top drawers were pulled out with contents disturbed. My hats thrown to the floor, along with an empty leather wallet that I had just bought. I looked and saw that the forty six dollars that was on my bedside table was gone. It can't be. Turning back toward the living room, I saw that the Nikon camera bag was sitting on the couch, open and empty. But camera was on the kitchen table, I knew, and I quickly stepped over to the hallway entrance to have a clear view down the hall. I saw what I already knew. The camera was gone. Stolen. The truth hit me. We've been burgled.
The first time I had ever been robbed, I was in junior high school. I had worked a paper route for the San Gabriel Valley Tribune delivering newspapers to front doors with backhand and forehand paper throws. I dragged myself out of bed before sunrise on week-ends and after school on weekdays. I braved inclement weather, a vicious black dog, and several mean German shepherds that would chase me down the block and make me scream for my mother on numerous occasions. With time and routine, I had managed to save enough money to make the first major individual purchase of my teenage life: A bright blue Schwinn beach cruiser. My dream was to have foot pegs on the front axle and impress the local girls so they'd take rides on my handlebars over to the Thrifty on the corner for thirty five cent double cylindrical scoops of ice cream. That was the dream. So I bought the bike, and felt very proud of myself.
I was also excited about the newfound mobility I would be enjoying, and one week-end my brother and I decided to bike to watch a double feature at the local cinema a few miles away. We didn't have a proper lock and improvised with our dog's chain leash. This will be strong enough to keep our bikes safe. My brother had just bought a bmx bike as well. The movies were Excalibur and Clash of the Titans, summer popcorn flicks we were both thrilled about seeing. We rode to the theater and locked our bikes to a nearby pole, catching sight of a few local boys our age admiring our new rides. We felt like knights. We saw the movies. Chain mail, armor, swordplay, wizardry, flying horses. All made lasting impressions on our boyhood imaginations. After the movie, we walked out into bright sunlight and to our utter dismay found a snipped dog chain on the ground where our shiny new bikes once were locked. I don't remember how we got home. I do remember my father being astonishingly furious that I had lost a bike that he did not even pay for. I was so hurt that I decided to run away. I stormed out and walked and walked, for hours and hours, until my thoughts and my hunger forced me to turn back.
There have been other times since then where I've been victimized by thieves, be it due to my own folly or not. I had my wallet stolen from a locker at Twenty Four Hour fitness center on Van Ness and Post a few years back. I was confident that the inexpensive, low security combination lock that was essentially begging to be broken into was strong enough to safeguard my things. I had bought that wallet in Barcelona ten years ago. It was well made, black leather with brown on the edges-the perfect size. Nine dollars in it. A pity. I miss that wallet. On another occasion, I lost a bike at the same fitness center. It was locked right outside the front entrance one evening, and I found my U lock in shards after a long three hour workout. The bike was bought used on Craigslist, and wasn't the greatest. It still sucked to lose it, to be victimized by a crook that you never see and have no way of capturing red handed. When I lived on Funston in the Richmond district, I lost two mountain bikes at once. Both were Craigslist purchases, one a low model Specialized, the other a beautiful blue high end Trek 6000 that a fellow sold for a song at $185.
I rushed out like a madman when it appeared on the list, and when I bought it felt that I had somehow beat the System, stuck it to the Man. In truth, I was just buying a used bike from a dude who needed quick cash, his back somehow up against it. Not my business. I cherished that bike, however, and rode it all over Marin headlands on warm summer days, feeling happy and strong. So when I woke up one morning to learn that the garage door had malfunctioned and opened in the night, resulting in the loss of another blue bike, I understandably did not feel happy of myself. I felt sad and disheartened mainly because I believed that loss could have been avoided. I knew that the garage door had been acting up beforehand, so if I had been more prudent, I would have at least locked my bikes to a garage beam or post. Even so, to this day, I still do not lock my bike to an immovable part of the structure here at Walter. It sits down in the corridor below me, my unbreakable Kryptonite NY U-lock dangling heavily from it's handlebar.
The most physically traumatic theft happened back during my five year east coast sojourn when I was living in a sketchy part of Washington, DC. I was on my way back from a show at the Corcoran art school where my photographer friend David Estes had pictures up. I had had more than a few free glasses of wine, and was still quite a bit tipsy when I stepped off the bus and began walking the four or five blocks to the apartment. Night had already fallen, and so the street was shadowy and dimly lit. I was also oblivious to the sounds in my immediate surroundings due to the Walkman headphones I had decided to listen to while walking. If I had not been wearing those headphones, I may have heard the sneaky mugger who crept up behind me, grabbed me by the neck and yanked me backward into an alley. The sudden backward force made me lose my balance, which was already impaired due to the wine, making it easy for my assailant to drag me into the alley. Just give me your wallet, he quietly said into my ear, his forearms locking more tightly around my neck. I gave him my blue nylon Velcro surfer wallet. Nine dollars and a California driver's license. I did not know what else he was carrying and did not want to take a chance on my life. He released me, and vanished down the alley. My headphones hung jankily from my head. I stood up, straightened out the earpieces, and walked the rest of the way home. I remember the song playing in my head when I was mugged that night. Against All Odds, by Phil Collins. Whenever I hear that song, however, it does not evoke memories of the mugging, oddly enough. Senior Prom. Memories of being seventeen and wearing a tuxedo with tails for the first time ever.
Blue colored things seem to be stolen from me a fair amount of the time in my life. Two blue bikes, a blue wallet. Well, three things isn't exactly much. I'm fairly certain I've lost more than three. Blue jeans, perhaps. Blue pens, blue socks. A blue hat, blue keys. We didn't lose anything blue last Monday. We lost something blue green, though, and made of silk. My Japanese robe was stolen. That's as personal as they got with me. Julie, on the other hand, lost her Macbook pro laptop filled with music and memories from university. This loss left her in tears. For obvious reasons, it was much more upsetting than losing the Nikon, which can always be replaced. The laptop was invaluable, and a great loss. My robe, though not so invaluable, was in its own way an acute loss. I had felt lucky when I bought it in Kyoto at a flea market beside a Buddhist shrine. I remember seeing it on a table piled high with silk robes, and when I held it up, I gazed at its color and design. It was a beautiful robe, one that stood out among the rest. I asked for the price, and couldn't believe my ears. European tourists hovered behind my shoulder, hoping that I'd set it back into the pile. I didn't. I should have worn this robe more regularly, instead of hiding it away so much in my closet, a dragon hoarding his golden treasure. Japanese robe, laptop, forty six dollars, Nikon camera, Forever stamps. I just remembered that I've lost a camera in the past, my father's Canon AE1. It was not actually stolen, though. I forgot it on a seat riding the metro subway in DC. As the train rolled away from the station, I realized my mistake.
Our thief had pushed this big computer monitor forward and downward in order to get to the rear compartments of this desk. That's where they found the stamps. Why stamps? It's troubling to think that a criminal had either stood or sat right here where I now sit, that they had walked into our bedroom, our living room, down our hallway to get back here. The thief snatched the camera from atop the dining table behind me, the laptop from the leather satchel under the desk on my left. An utterly unwanted visitor, one whose physical features and even gender I will never know. I catch myself saying "he" or "him." The thief is in fact an un-gendered wraith, a kind of "It" person, a wicked succubus. It was shadow that violently forced its way into our world, picking and choosing from our possessions what it coveted. A silk robe, a camera, a Macbook, cash, Forever stamps.
We don't even know if the thief was alone or with an accomplice. We don't know if the thief had watched me depart for the market, hiding stealthily behind a wall or tree or car until I had rolled away before storming the door with three hard and forceful shoves. We were foolishly under the impression that there was nothing to worry about in this neighborhood. We did not even question it, or wonder about the strength of the door locks, the vulnerability of the front windows, the back windows. The fact that our door is concealed from the street by a set of stairs, making attempts at forced entry difficult to witness from the street sidewalks. We chose a quiet, quaint single block street in centrally located Duboce triangle, a hub within striking range of downtown, the Haights, NOPA, the Mission, and the Castro. The attraction of regular sunlight, pretty apartment buildings, pedestrian friendly tree lined streets, and a dog park. San Francisco style romance, in other words. Safety was the furthest thing from my mind.
I wonder what would have happened if I had been home. I wonder what would have happened if the robber had still been in the apartment when I returned. The thought did not occur to me until ten minutes after I had realized we had been robbed, until I started hearing unusual noises. He may still be here. I did not check either the closet or the bathroom. It never occurred to me. That's when I grabbed the cast iron frying pan. It is funny, in hindsight, seeing me lurking about my own apartment, heavy cast iron held aloft, not without difficulty, ready to ring a crook's bell, clean the succubus' clock. Laughable. At the moment, I was hella freaking out. It was most likely my freaked out nerves that interpreted normal sounds as acutely suspicious. Those first few moments after discovering the burglary injected I don't know how much adrenaline into my system, undoubtedly. I was on nerves until after the police left, most certainly. If the burglar had still be in the apartment, I don't know what I would have done.
My body would have gone instantly into crisis mode, and for fear of the unknown element of whether a gun or even a knife was present, would have tried escape, then dialed nine one one as soon as humanly possible. Several of Julie's friends have actually been in their apartment, encountering crooks face to face. One friend was in Madrid when a thief stole his way in. Thinking quickly, she scared him off by speaking in a gruff, husky male voice and demanding he leave immediately. It worked. Another entered and caught a glimpse of the thief fleeing through the back door. A third friend engaged in a conversation with the crook, for I have no idea how long. What does one discuss with the crook out to take your possessions? Is there a negotiation? Persuasive language in an attempt to dissuade criminal activity? It's unimaginable to me. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with that situation, and hope to never have to.
I have been thinking about the robbery of our Walter Street apartment all week. Although I've been told by the cops that this street never experiences much criminal activity, it has permanently altered the way I see and understand the neighborhood. Duboce triangle is indeed a lovely and romantic part of town, centrally located and in its essence iconic of San Francisco. It is also part of a big American city, complete with a very real and often violent criminal underbelly. It was a mistake to be so naive, and with my track record I should have known better and peppered my wonder with the prudence of past misfortune. That does not in any way nullify the heinousness of the crime or the culpability of the wicked succubus who committed it. The law is the law, and protects private property in this country. It is a sad fact that certain people in this world covet the possessions of others, and will break through front doors in broad daylight to steal them away. And it is discouraging to think that covetousness is as old as history itself. Cameras, laptops, silk robes, Jeffersons, Forever stamps. We all have our stories, every one of us. We've all been victimized, violated, taken from. It doesn't happen only over there, in that part of the city, to that person, as the cops claim. It can happen under my feet, where we stand, where we sit, writing blogs. Right. Here.
I rode back to Walter Street, and after setting my backpack on the sidewalk I stored my bike down in the basement corridor. At the front door, I noticed something peculiar: a corner of my black Adidas windbreaker was wedged between the door and the door jamb, right below the top lock. I also saw a crack on the door edge several inches below the top lock. This was peculiar. I don't remember closing the door on the jacket when I left. And what is the deal with that crack, was that always there? Never noticed this before. Unusual. I proceeded to unlock the door, starting with the bottom door knob first, followed by the top key lock. Typically, when I turn the key to the top lock, the door opens with a slight push of the foot below. But now the door refused to open and seemed wedged shut. I tried once more before putting my shoulder into the effort. With the added force, the door opened. That was very strange, I thought to myself. I feel like I just broke into my own apartment.
Looking down at the door as I entered, I saw that the wood around the bottom lock was split and splintering away. Now that is Alarming. Once I stepped inside the apartment, I saw that the two top drawers of the built in hutch on the right wall were pulled out. Did I leave those open? Nish, nish. I turned into the living room and entered our bedroom. I discovered of Julie's makeup pouches on the floor with its contents spilled out. Top drawers were pulled out with contents disturbed. My hats thrown to the floor, along with an empty leather wallet that I had just bought. I looked and saw that the forty six dollars that was on my bedside table was gone. It can't be. Turning back toward the living room, I saw that the Nikon camera bag was sitting on the couch, open and empty. But camera was on the kitchen table, I knew, and I quickly stepped over to the hallway entrance to have a clear view down the hall. I saw what I already knew. The camera was gone. Stolen. The truth hit me. We've been burgled.
The first time I had ever been robbed, I was in junior high school. I had worked a paper route for the San Gabriel Valley Tribune delivering newspapers to front doors with backhand and forehand paper throws. I dragged myself out of bed before sunrise on week-ends and after school on weekdays. I braved inclement weather, a vicious black dog, and several mean German shepherds that would chase me down the block and make me scream for my mother on numerous occasions. With time and routine, I had managed to save enough money to make the first major individual purchase of my teenage life: A bright blue Schwinn beach cruiser. My dream was to have foot pegs on the front axle and impress the local girls so they'd take rides on my handlebars over to the Thrifty on the corner for thirty five cent double cylindrical scoops of ice cream. That was the dream. So I bought the bike, and felt very proud of myself.
I was also excited about the newfound mobility I would be enjoying, and one week-end my brother and I decided to bike to watch a double feature at the local cinema a few miles away. We didn't have a proper lock and improvised with our dog's chain leash. This will be strong enough to keep our bikes safe. My brother had just bought a bmx bike as well. The movies were Excalibur and Clash of the Titans, summer popcorn flicks we were both thrilled about seeing. We rode to the theater and locked our bikes to a nearby pole, catching sight of a few local boys our age admiring our new rides. We felt like knights. We saw the movies. Chain mail, armor, swordplay, wizardry, flying horses. All made lasting impressions on our boyhood imaginations. After the movie, we walked out into bright sunlight and to our utter dismay found a snipped dog chain on the ground where our shiny new bikes once were locked. I don't remember how we got home. I do remember my father being astonishingly furious that I had lost a bike that he did not even pay for. I was so hurt that I decided to run away. I stormed out and walked and walked, for hours and hours, until my thoughts and my hunger forced me to turn back.
There have been other times since then where I've been victimized by thieves, be it due to my own folly or not. I had my wallet stolen from a locker at Twenty Four Hour fitness center on Van Ness and Post a few years back. I was confident that the inexpensive, low security combination lock that was essentially begging to be broken into was strong enough to safeguard my things. I had bought that wallet in Barcelona ten years ago. It was well made, black leather with brown on the edges-the perfect size. Nine dollars in it. A pity. I miss that wallet. On another occasion, I lost a bike at the same fitness center. It was locked right outside the front entrance one evening, and I found my U lock in shards after a long three hour workout. The bike was bought used on Craigslist, and wasn't the greatest. It still sucked to lose it, to be victimized by a crook that you never see and have no way of capturing red handed. When I lived on Funston in the Richmond district, I lost two mountain bikes at once. Both were Craigslist purchases, one a low model Specialized, the other a beautiful blue high end Trek 6000 that a fellow sold for a song at $185.
I rushed out like a madman when it appeared on the list, and when I bought it felt that I had somehow beat the System, stuck it to the Man. In truth, I was just buying a used bike from a dude who needed quick cash, his back somehow up against it. Not my business. I cherished that bike, however, and rode it all over Marin headlands on warm summer days, feeling happy and strong. So when I woke up one morning to learn that the garage door had malfunctioned and opened in the night, resulting in the loss of another blue bike, I understandably did not feel happy of myself. I felt sad and disheartened mainly because I believed that loss could have been avoided. I knew that the garage door had been acting up beforehand, so if I had been more prudent, I would have at least locked my bikes to a garage beam or post. Even so, to this day, I still do not lock my bike to an immovable part of the structure here at Walter. It sits down in the corridor below me, my unbreakable Kryptonite NY U-lock dangling heavily from it's handlebar.
The most physically traumatic theft happened back during my five year east coast sojourn when I was living in a sketchy part of Washington, DC. I was on my way back from a show at the Corcoran art school where my photographer friend David Estes had pictures up. I had had more than a few free glasses of wine, and was still quite a bit tipsy when I stepped off the bus and began walking the four or five blocks to the apartment. Night had already fallen, and so the street was shadowy and dimly lit. I was also oblivious to the sounds in my immediate surroundings due to the Walkman headphones I had decided to listen to while walking. If I had not been wearing those headphones, I may have heard the sneaky mugger who crept up behind me, grabbed me by the neck and yanked me backward into an alley. The sudden backward force made me lose my balance, which was already impaired due to the wine, making it easy for my assailant to drag me into the alley. Just give me your wallet, he quietly said into my ear, his forearms locking more tightly around my neck. I gave him my blue nylon Velcro surfer wallet. Nine dollars and a California driver's license. I did not know what else he was carrying and did not want to take a chance on my life. He released me, and vanished down the alley. My headphones hung jankily from my head. I stood up, straightened out the earpieces, and walked the rest of the way home. I remember the song playing in my head when I was mugged that night. Against All Odds, by Phil Collins. Whenever I hear that song, however, it does not evoke memories of the mugging, oddly enough. Senior Prom. Memories of being seventeen and wearing a tuxedo with tails for the first time ever.
Blue colored things seem to be stolen from me a fair amount of the time in my life. Two blue bikes, a blue wallet. Well, three things isn't exactly much. I'm fairly certain I've lost more than three. Blue jeans, perhaps. Blue pens, blue socks. A blue hat, blue keys. We didn't lose anything blue last Monday. We lost something blue green, though, and made of silk. My Japanese robe was stolen. That's as personal as they got with me. Julie, on the other hand, lost her Macbook pro laptop filled with music and memories from university. This loss left her in tears. For obvious reasons, it was much more upsetting than losing the Nikon, which can always be replaced. The laptop was invaluable, and a great loss. My robe, though not so invaluable, was in its own way an acute loss. I had felt lucky when I bought it in Kyoto at a flea market beside a Buddhist shrine. I remember seeing it on a table piled high with silk robes, and when I held it up, I gazed at its color and design. It was a beautiful robe, one that stood out among the rest. I asked for the price, and couldn't believe my ears. European tourists hovered behind my shoulder, hoping that I'd set it back into the pile. I didn't. I should have worn this robe more regularly, instead of hiding it away so much in my closet, a dragon hoarding his golden treasure. Japanese robe, laptop, forty six dollars, Nikon camera, Forever stamps. I just remembered that I've lost a camera in the past, my father's Canon AE1. It was not actually stolen, though. I forgot it on a seat riding the metro subway in DC. As the train rolled away from the station, I realized my mistake.
Our thief had pushed this big computer monitor forward and downward in order to get to the rear compartments of this desk. That's where they found the stamps. Why stamps? It's troubling to think that a criminal had either stood or sat right here where I now sit, that they had walked into our bedroom, our living room, down our hallway to get back here. The thief snatched the camera from atop the dining table behind me, the laptop from the leather satchel under the desk on my left. An utterly unwanted visitor, one whose physical features and even gender I will never know. I catch myself saying "he" or "him." The thief is in fact an un-gendered wraith, a kind of "It" person, a wicked succubus. It was shadow that violently forced its way into our world, picking and choosing from our possessions what it coveted. A silk robe, a camera, a Macbook, cash, Forever stamps.
We don't even know if the thief was alone or with an accomplice. We don't know if the thief had watched me depart for the market, hiding stealthily behind a wall or tree or car until I had rolled away before storming the door with three hard and forceful shoves. We were foolishly under the impression that there was nothing to worry about in this neighborhood. We did not even question it, or wonder about the strength of the door locks, the vulnerability of the front windows, the back windows. The fact that our door is concealed from the street by a set of stairs, making attempts at forced entry difficult to witness from the street sidewalks. We chose a quiet, quaint single block street in centrally located Duboce triangle, a hub within striking range of downtown, the Haights, NOPA, the Mission, and the Castro. The attraction of regular sunlight, pretty apartment buildings, pedestrian friendly tree lined streets, and a dog park. San Francisco style romance, in other words. Safety was the furthest thing from my mind.
I wonder what would have happened if I had been home. I wonder what would have happened if the robber had still been in the apartment when I returned. The thought did not occur to me until ten minutes after I had realized we had been robbed, until I started hearing unusual noises. He may still be here. I did not check either the closet or the bathroom. It never occurred to me. That's when I grabbed the cast iron frying pan. It is funny, in hindsight, seeing me lurking about my own apartment, heavy cast iron held aloft, not without difficulty, ready to ring a crook's bell, clean the succubus' clock. Laughable. At the moment, I was hella freaking out. It was most likely my freaked out nerves that interpreted normal sounds as acutely suspicious. Those first few moments after discovering the burglary injected I don't know how much adrenaline into my system, undoubtedly. I was on nerves until after the police left, most certainly. If the burglar had still be in the apartment, I don't know what I would have done.
My body would have gone instantly into crisis mode, and for fear of the unknown element of whether a gun or even a knife was present, would have tried escape, then dialed nine one one as soon as humanly possible. Several of Julie's friends have actually been in their apartment, encountering crooks face to face. One friend was in Madrid when a thief stole his way in. Thinking quickly, she scared him off by speaking in a gruff, husky male voice and demanding he leave immediately. It worked. Another entered and caught a glimpse of the thief fleeing through the back door. A third friend engaged in a conversation with the crook, for I have no idea how long. What does one discuss with the crook out to take your possessions? Is there a negotiation? Persuasive language in an attempt to dissuade criminal activity? It's unimaginable to me. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with that situation, and hope to never have to.
I have been thinking about the robbery of our Walter Street apartment all week. Although I've been told by the cops that this street never experiences much criminal activity, it has permanently altered the way I see and understand the neighborhood. Duboce triangle is indeed a lovely and romantic part of town, centrally located and in its essence iconic of San Francisco. It is also part of a big American city, complete with a very real and often violent criminal underbelly. It was a mistake to be so naive, and with my track record I should have known better and peppered my wonder with the prudence of past misfortune. That does not in any way nullify the heinousness of the crime or the culpability of the wicked succubus who committed it. The law is the law, and protects private property in this country. It is a sad fact that certain people in this world covet the possessions of others, and will break through front doors in broad daylight to steal them away. And it is discouraging to think that covetousness is as old as history itself. Cameras, laptops, silk robes, Jeffersons, Forever stamps. We all have our stories, every one of us. We've all been victimized, violated, taken from. It doesn't happen only over there, in that part of the city, to that person, as the cops claim. It can happen under my feet, where we stand, where we sit, writing blogs. Right. Here.
