Dog Bites

Love Is In the Air

It's not spring, but even the perpetually disgruntled Mrs. Rose M. Skytta, who usually sends us hate mail, seems to like us at the moment. And several readers have actually taken the time to fill out Residential Validity Applications, including one David D. Davidson, who feels he should get credit for adding to the city's culture and livability because he bought a shirt at the new Old Navy, and adds that the San Francisco couple most deserving of each other is "Me & D.B. [heart] x [heart] x [heart]."

Well, sorry, David, but Dog Bites' heart is already spoken for. (And before everyone starts up with that tiresome speculation again, no, it's not Gavin Newsom -- we're just close friends.) Actually, Dog Bites is infatuated with the New Mission News' Silicon Satan, that masked advocate of free market values and libertarian reform whose monthly column praises progress in the Mission District, as long as it takes the form of live-work lofts and swanky restaurants.

There's something so, so -- masculine about a man with a total lack of empathy. Why, when Silicon Satan bashes the poor, Dog Bites' little heart goes pitter-pat, and we can't help but speculate as to the identity of the mysterious correspondent. Does he work at Draper Fisher Jurvetson? Or, perhaps, Robertson Stephens? Does his home office contain an Aeron chair and his framed M.B.A. from the Harvard (or Stanford) business school? Does it also feature his personal heuristics statement engraved on a block of Lucite? Well, even if it doesn't, we just know Satan drives a Land Rover, and we can bet he doesn't care if he scrapes other people's bumpers when he parks it on his way to Friday night drinks at Gordon's, especially if the other people are driving something cheap like a Corolla.

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RELATED LINKS

Protest Silicon Satan's Attack on Burning Man


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Satan's latest screed, titled "Breaking the Cycle of Poverty: A Common Sense Approach," features this stirring passage:

Nothing has done more to blight the inner city poor than Big Government's insistence that parents entrust their children to schoolteachers. Could we possibly force worse role models on our urban youth? Anybody who enters such a low-paying profession has to be completely lacking in initiative. ... Does anybody seriously believe that inner city children will acquire the killer instincts and cutting-edge values they need to be players in the new global economy by sitting at the feet of these shabbily-dressed, inky-fingered, chalk-dust-coughing losers?

Oooh, Satan!You bad boy. Dog Bites hasn't enjoyed a newspaper article so much since we reread our last column. And though we would, of course, never be so forward as to invite you out to dinner, we wish to convey that, were you to invite us out to dinner, we would be delighted to accept.

Till then, we can only say: Dog Bites & Silicon Satan [heart] x [heart] x [heart].

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Sometimes, when you've done all your errands, you're completely at one with the world. So we found ourselves with nothing much to do on our way back from the gym late on a warm Saturday afternoon except drift over to the always-chic Sarah Shaw boutique, where we were edified to find a $275 jean jacket -- and a private security guard who seemed to be uncomfortable in both his chair and his shoes.

Farther toward the back, past racks full of leopard-print trousers and adorable faux-fur capelets, we discovered the reason for the guard's presence: Jerry Seinfeld's former girlfriend Shoshanna Lonstein, making an in-store appearance with her fall and holiday collections, aimed, as always, at the woman of generous endowment otherwise neglected by manufacturers of strapless -- or strappy -- tops. Dog Bites wasn't especially impressed with Shoshanna's sherbet-colored, back-lacing, heavily boned bustiers -- a little too Gaultier 1990 -- but for $196, we suppose they're festive enough, in a limiting kind of way; let's face it, you're never going to want to see the thing again after Jan. 1, 2000. But that problem is easily dealt with: just take the top to the dry cleaner and forget to pick it up. It's like, in six months are you going to be able to bear the sight of pashmina anything, let alone three-quarter-sleeve tops, jeans with gold brocade trim on the hems, or powder-blue suede Pumas? Hello.

Conversation in the boutique was lively and air quality was the topic, San Francisco's being strikingly good that day. "I know! I lived in L.A.," a fervent Lonstein was telling one admirer. "And I would be like, where do I live?"

Good lord. Dog Bites drifted home, where we were about to try an, um, experiment involving milk chocolate jack-o'-lantern candies and a 1997 Handley Late Harvest sauvignon blanc when the Nob Hill Gazette thwacked onto our doorstep. "The Bay Area's leading social and philanthropic newspaper" looked a little fatter than usual, holiday advertising having begun, and we quickly skimmed the photographs to see if we'd made its pages this month. No luck. We were momentarily distraught at a snap of Gavin looking extremely friendly with socialite Meredith Giddings, but then we compared our upper arms with hers and decided we had nothing to worry about.

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