A recent suggestion to rename the financial district to cloud corridor is a pure organic food for my hate. As someone who can’t even say the words “fidi” and “cloud” without an extremely cynical smirk on his face, I really hope that this beyond-lame term doesn’t catch, as I still harbor a little bit of hope that there is more to San Francisco than mobile apps, online advertising, and social media.
At the very least, we should consider a few alternate names for FiDi, such as “Douche/Poser Central” or “Nerd-Beta Hub.”
This just looks way too simple, natural, fresh, nutritious and most importantly – way too non-greasy to be served anywhere near FiDi.
One sultry lady I know, whose personality is as distinguished as her curvy physique, came up with a brilliant term that was inspired by her layoff – Fidi Detox. After holding a run-of-the-mill recruiter position at a start-up with highly questionable future, and feeling like a miserable interviewing machine telling me all about how she has been ready to quit ever since she start working there, she was really shocked and upset for about a day or so after being laid off. However, just a two-three days later the difference in her demeanor and energy is incredible. Every day she doesn’t work downtown she looks much happier, and after a week of not having to commute on Bus 1 for over 30 minutes each way, she is glowing from happiness. She no longer has to carry two cellphones or check her e-mail every 2 minutes, as if she had some kind of OCD.
She calls her current life a Fidi Detox. She is committed to not stepping her foot into a financial district for a while, unless absolutely necessary. This should help her rejuvenate her mind and soul, and take a break from finance/law posers, start-up geeks, bland, overpriced lunches, and mediocre looking, overdressed corporate women glued to their cellphones with white headphones and sunglasses.
She recognized that this is a temporary blessing and that soon she will have to return to corporate slavery, which makes present time all the more special.
It seems that the city that prides itself on being so unique and special in so many ways has become home to more and more people who are as unoriginal as their cliche lifestyle and day-to-day life.
Consider a very typical schedule of your average “young professional” which represents a signature San Francisco cliche lifestyle:
Waking up around 7 am, taking one of the annoying slow buses that stop every block to FiDi while texting/listening to mainstream music or book on tape on their I-phone, arriving to work at the one of the many “exciting start-ups”, standing 20 minutes in line during lunch to pay $12 for soup and salad, getting off work around 5-6 pm, going for “happy” hour to have small talk about nothing with one of their not so loyal and punctual friends or co-workers over beer and/or mediocre, fatty bar food, then going to the gym/yoga/TRX/Zumba/Thai Boxing class, having overpriced, greasy dinner at one of the all-glass-and-steel sterile looking restaurants.
There is no better way to end the day than by checking Facebook/Match/OkCupid – not because you want to or need to, but because you are so chronically bored and unfulfilled, but are not sure why.
Oops, I forgot to mention the 6 cups of coffee we consume throughout the day to keep us awake at work and while socializing with people who we try to pretend we want to get to know.
It should not come as a surprise to anyone that one of the douchier lunch chains is expanding so rapidly and is opening yet another store on 100 California Street in September. It’s a perfect location and a match made in heaven: flavor free food for flavor free people in a location that leaves a lot of space for imagination when it comes to character.
If you are granola, hopelessly lame and you know it, but you act like you are all that, now you can bounce between yet another Mix Greens and The Plant to maintain your perfect health and physique, or at least until it’s time for fasting and juicing.
Not sure why these shoe shining stands in the FiDi bother me so much, and probably as much as animal cruelty and alike repugnant behaviors. I supposed it’s a combination of what this reminds me of our not-so-distant past, the fact that the guys who sit in the chair are almost always white and the person who shines shows below is black, and the fact that someone’s feet and shoes are in other person’s face. Nothing else says so overtly “I am above you” as this situation.
I understand – this is not slavery. The guys who shine shows do so voluntarily and get compensated. This is their business and they happy to run it. And yet it looks and feels so wrong. I would not mind at all, if our city government mad this kind of activity illegal.
With its general ethnic diversity, you may be pleasantly surprised to find out San Francisco is home to a diverse group of douchebags, and not just white, North Eastern type, Cornell bred douches. For example, here is a classic middle-eastern douche prototype. Gel, tailored suit, the attitude and the sly smirk – he has got it all. He is clearly ready for a happy hour in FiDi.
Today I ran into my former classmate who just moved to San Francisco from Oregon and who now works downtown. I asked him what his initial impressions were from the area and from the general vibe downtown. He told me that “it seemed to be intertwined with the finance people much more than he expected it to be.” I then chuckled and followed up by enlightening him with a much more brief and compelling description of what he was referring too: “it is much more douched out than you expected it to be, isn’t it?” He nodded while laughing hysterically.
Not all white trash was created equal, driving mustangs, wearing overalls, and living in one-story refugee-camp like housing in suburbia. Some hide their white trashiness quite well with high-end clothing, corporate jobs, and an attitude to match. Luckily, on days like St. Patrick’s day, their true nature comes out – congregating for the sheer purpose of drinking bad beer, listening to bad music, and having meaningless conversations till the street which they are pushed into like cattle starts smelling like a distinct blend of puke and stale urine.
Today’s scene near the Embarcadero was just another reminder that you can take the girl out of the trailer, give her a Banana Republic / Ann Taylor skirt, i-phone, a pound of make-up, a Gucci bag, a Burberry scarf and even get her boyfriend to let her drive his 325i, but even a thousand martinis will not take the her out of the trialer, as she will necessarily revert to her default taste for all things mediocre during such “meaningful” holidays at St. Patrick’s day.