San Francisco News Blog

No, we have not sped up or in any way enhanced this footage.

In the world of mind-numbingly boring jobs, swinging a sign to advertise mattress sales or open houses along Bay Area roadways ranks pretty high. The sign dudes usually look completely dejected, drugged, or like they're desperately trying to pretend they're somewhere else. Who wouldn't? 

So as I walked down Fourth Street by Moscone Center this morning, you can imagine my excitement to see this dude, who had taken his sign job to a higher realm -- a freakin' signage samurai. Talk about flair! We weren't alone in our amazement. Motorists waiting at the stoplight took him in with their mouths hanging open; commuters passing with iPod buds in their ears smiled at the completely unexpected skills of this maven. Spinning the sign like a basketball on his finger, slashing it around him back like a mad baton twirler, stopping it in mid-air to head-bang for a bit.

Taking his headphones off to talk with us for a second, the sign samurai handed us a card out of his wallet: "Matthew Kermode -- AArrow Sign Spinner, Spinstructor." (Yes, "AArrow.") He said he's been doing this for 10 years now, translating his martial arts work to a more marketable skill. Kermode mostly works in the East Bay for the Martinez-based AArrow, spinning signs for housing developers. As far as who today's client Jigsaw is, "I'm not 100-percent sure."

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"Honey, do we still want these Christmas lights? Only half of them work."

"Nah, we'll buy new ones."

"What about the No Pigs sign?"

"I don't know, we might use it again."

"You say that every year."

"Oh, okay, fine. Just toss it."

Judging from the model's expression, maybe it should have been called the Smuggie?

​There's been much ado about the Slanket and the Snuggie, wearable blankets that look like backwards bathrobes, the most iconic of which come in Smurf blue and make the wearer look like a lazy wizard. Even the Weekly got into the craze.

Now the inevitable has come to pass. Hipster clothing purveyor, Urban Outfitters, has re-interpreted the Slanket/Snuggie to appeal to their shoppers. How do you get a jaded twenty-something marketing demographic into a throw with armholes? You decorate it with a giant Southwestern print and and slap on a hood, duh! And then you give it an awesome name: The Booty Buddy. We're not sure what The Booty Buddy does for your booty, other than keep it warm and obscure it, but we think this name was probably the result of a conversation in a board room that went something like this:

The best part of Halloween is not the actual merry-making, but observing the aftermath of a night of booze-soaked costumed revelry. On Nov. 1, the streets of San Francisco were strewn with cardboard scythes and axes, as if an epic battle had taken place and quickly dispersed. (And in a way, it had.) There were some who never made it home, completing their morning walk of shame dressed as slightly deflated sexy bumblebees. The guy we spotted pushing an IV and bag of fluids down the street may have been in costume, or he may have been an escapee from nearby General Hospital. And then there were those who, despite their fervent efforts, eluded the arms of another. Their disappointment is our afternoon entertainment, in the form of Craigslist Missed Connections.

This plea seeks to reunite not only two people but person and costume.

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A "creepy" mime. That narrows things down.

What do you think the reward is?

​This flier was pilfered from Thee Parkside bar at 17th and Wisconsin, where it was jammed in the mirror of the women's bathroom. Haven't you been looking for an excuse to explore warm, dark places? 

Appearing alongside an article by Guardian reporters Rebecca Bowe and Sarah Phelan about the "media machine behind the assault on progressive ideas" is a spiderweb conspiracy chart that puts John Nash's scribblings in A Beautiful Mind to shame. The idea, as far as we can tell, is that a vast array of nefarious entities worldwide -- more than 80 are listed -- are connected to Rupert Murdoch's News Corporation and the right-wing bloviators at Fox News. (The print version of the chart is pictured below; click here for a crisper PDF from the Guardian Web site.)

Et tu, DIRECTV?

​We have to admit that the conspiratorial wickedness of some of the parties named here had previously been unknown to us. Were you aware, for instance, that an entire sovereign nation -- "Spain," as the Guardian simply notes -- is linked to "British newspapers" via "Satellite TV" and "Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and George H.W. Bush"? Or that "Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, and Bill O'Reilly" are secretly colluding with "J. Rothschild Capital Management Limited (London)" and the "U.S. Department of Justice"?

Maybe it's something in the food?

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This poster was hanging up inside a pet supply store on Valencia and 18th Street. The 14-year-old boy in me thought this was hilarious. Also, did I just trot out a Friends reference? Oh, yes. Yes I did.

The Katherine Hepburn Pet Bed costs $1,200

​Save up those unemployment checks, because as of yesterday, a new San Francisco-based high-end pet furniture company, Neko Habitat LLC, is open for business. The company's line of snazzy pet beds run $230 to $250, and the business owner, Hitomi Yasuda of Marin County, says her beds give pets the experience akin to "sleeping on a gentle cloud."

"When I tried to find modern, contemporary pet furniture that expressed just how much I love [my cats] while still staying true to our home's inner decor, I discovered that the pet product landscape was almost entirely barren," Yasuda said.  

Of course, the landscape isn't exactly barren. In fact, there doesn't appear to be any dearth of items with which to spoil a pet during a recession. Design Within Reach offers the Crypton dog bed for $240, and Chic Paw Beds in Sausalito sells the Katharine Hepburn pet bed for a whopping $1,200. There are plenty of Web sites and stores offering luxury pet scents, outfits, furniture, collars, toys and everything else. There's fucking caviar for dogs.

We recently received the latest DVD from our friends at the Church of Scientology, How to Use Dianetics. Naturally, we were eager to put Dianetics to work for the Weekly office. You can use Dianetics, too! We've helpfully chronicled the various ways in which Dianetics can make your life easier.

1. Coaster

It spills on Dianetics, not your table!

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Whatever you say, comrade

​Where in the world, you may wonder, do people still avow unqualified love of Mao Zedong, the late Chinese dictator? Even the current leaders of the communist state he founded have come to revile policies -- among them government-created famines and political purges -- which today are blamed for the death of more than 40 million Chinese over the last two decades of Mao's reign.

The answer -- and believe us when we say we wish devoutly for a world in which this came as more of a surprise -- is San Francisco. Today, to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the People's Republic of China, a group of self-described Bay Area revolutionaries gathered with a table chock full o' Maoist propaganda at Portsmouth Square, on the outskirts of Chinatown. There they sought to explain to passersby that things REALLY went wrong in Chinese history when Mao died and his, er, revolution ended.

"The terrible situation that exists today is that China is no longer revolutionary," said Reiko Redmonde of Berkeley's Revolution Books, an organizer of the gathering. "There's a whole new generation that knows nothing about revolution or communism." (In case you're wondering, Redmonde is not related to the executive editor of San Francisco's left-wing political organ, Tim Redmond of the San Francisco Bay Guardian. But she said he has spoken at her bookstore.)

'So, then I came to at a gas station.' ... 'And then?'

​Around 2:45 a.m. on Friday, a too-drunk woman hanging on Sutter Street was in need of a place to crash. Her friend, a local barkeep, gave her the keys to his car so she could pass out in the back seat. Later on, the bartender walked outside and observed that his car was gone. Very un-Dude! He called the cops.

Now, we know what you're thinking. Drunk lady cruised off for a little action. Or her own bed. Or Some french fries. Nope. Just when it seemed things couldn't have gotten much worse for this lady -- after all, she was drunk and passed out in the back of somebody's car -- she was unknowingly kidnapped by an oblivious car thief.

Apparently some 50-year-old guy saw the keys in the car, got in, and headed for a gas station. That's where the inebriated passenger came to and spooked the thief, who took off sprinting down Lombard Street, according to a police report

To die for?

​ A jaw-dropping lawsuit filed last week in San Francisco Superior Court alleges an emergency room doctor abandoned his attempts to resuscitate a patient from cardiac arrest to instead pocket the dead man's valuable Rolex wristwatch.

The suit, filed by the adult children of Jerry Keith Kubena, Sr., alleges that Dr. Cleveland James Enmon on June 1 "formed the intent" to swipe the Rolex from Kubena's wrist while treating the man at St. Joseph's Medical Center in Stockton (as this is a subsidiary of San Francisco-based Catholic Healthcare West, the lawsuit was filed here).

After Kubena went into cardiac arrest, "Defendant Enmon assumed responsibility for resuscitating descendant [Kubena]," reads the suit. "Once defendant Enmon formed the intent to steal decedent's watch, he abandoned his efforts to resuscitate decedent, leaving decedent to die so that he would not be around to reclaim his watch."

According to the suit, Enmon's alleged theft was as clumsily executed as it was heartless:

I have a weird relationship with the mail. Sometimes it sends me chocolate. Sometimes it sends me champagne. Sometimes it sends me sexy calendars. And sometimes it sends me nothing. And I cry and cry, and beat my fists on my cubicle desk and pull my hair, all to no avail. Well, the tides have turned and there is so much mail flooding into the Weekly that I could build a fort with all the books based on blogs; I could stock an armory with all the samples of crappy candy and sub-par soda pops. Here is some of the strangest schwag to float my way recently.

A totally acceptable use of plastic and styrofoam.

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Oh, hello, weirdly shaped package. You are smushy, rotund. What is in you? Something strange I bet. Yes! It's a a foam heart. Wrapped up in cellophane and placed on a Styrofoam tray. It DARES the recipient to attend a theme park Halloween event. The total cost of this parody meat is billed as "priceless." If they mean the only cost to us was the valuable time it took to open it and wonder how many pieces of Styrofoam were simultaneously tossed into the trash in media joints all across California, they are right.

Oddly, the heart was not the wierdest thing to fall out of a bubble mailer and into my lap. That award would go to the straitjacket shipped to us by the company promoting the latest Batman video game. Yes, a straitjacket. The best part? It was shipped to our managing editor, Will Harper, and was neatly stenciled with "W HARPER" down the sleeve. I, of course, immediately popped the straitjacket in to his mailbox with a note attached that read "Obviously, you need this." Basically, this straitjacket-mailing company was banking on the fact that sassy editorial assistants everywhere would be unable to avoid making an obvious joke and that this is how their piece of advertising ephemera would find its way to editors' inboxes. This company is actually pretty smart.

Is there a syndrome for thinking your dad committed famous murders?

​As if police didn't already have their hands full with loonies and conspiracy theorists calling in tips about who the Zodiac Killer is, they can now add a freakin' ex-cop to their list.

"Steve Hodel is not just anybody claiming his father is the Zodiac," announced a recent press release from Hodel's publicist. "He spent 24 years as a homicide detective with the L.A.P.D. with one of the highest 'solve rates' in the department."

If that's true, we humbly suggest that the LAPD check back over those cases and make sure Hodel didn't simply blame his father for all of them. He seems to enjoy doing that. 

Hodel claims that his surgeon and Chronicle reporter father, Dr. George Hodel, sliced the Black Dahlia in half in 1947 (he's written another book arguing as much), and in 1946 dismembered six-year-old Suzanne Degnan in Chicago. Oh yeah, Hodel also thinks his father was the Lipstick Killer.

onemanonebikeonefight.com

Andrew Marinelli during more mobile days

​After cycling for six months and covering 6,255 miles in a 14-state quest to spread awareness about global hunger across the nation, Andrew Marinelli finally arrived in sunny San Francisco on Saturday -- only to be greeted with what's becoming known as the "San Francisco Hello."  His bike was stolen.

The 26-year-old South Carolina native was cycling to raise money for the United Nations Food Program after a two-year stint in the Peace Corps. As he noted in a Tuesday phone interview with SF Weekly, prior to this jaunt his national traveling was limited to east of Mississippi. He added that he had expected there to be some petty theft in most big cities, but didn't have any trouble until he hit this one. "At least I made it to my destination," he said. (Though apparently, no one warned him about our calling card.)

Marinelli said the bike was yanked while he was enjoying a workout at the 24-Hour Fitness on Montgomery and Sutter yesterday evening around 6p.m.. The bike had been locked by cable across the street from the gym (Marinelli admitted he probably should have used a better lock). The cyclist returned from his workout to find both bike and lock had vanished. "The first time they got on [the bike] they probably fell off, because the thing is so frikkin tall," Marinelli said, adding that he's around 6-foot-9.

​Just when you think you've had a tough week, something like this shows up. And you realize it's all worthwhile.

*

To: The Editor, Editorial Board & Ashley Harrell

From: Grateful Citizen

Subject: Thank You! Your Sept. 9 - 15, 2009 issue: "Gavin Newsom: The Wrong Stuff" ["United We Stand" Sticker affixed]

Thank you to have the credible critics together to expose GN & his god father, Willy the Witch, destroyuctive acts.

Thank you for speaking up for all the good citizens, victims, under their reign of terror. That witch has established his grass roots e-networking up to the minute, while sabotage other's communication systems. Please watch out, also their spys.

We should organize to have victims/witnesses to testify their evil plots, with evidences, & expose them in front of the media.

Please stop that witch training & promoting his GN & his next mayor of SF -- BD/District 10 (with his root connection). Please reach out to all fractions for our common candidates: AG JB for Governor & ?Quintin M for Mayor.

God bless SF Weekly -- together with other media save San Francisco

Save California!

Sept. 16, 2009

 

But we've still got plenty here

​Notwithstanding a barrage of intemperate comments on our recent post discussing the comparative claims to insanity of the "birther" and "truther" movements, we here at The Snitch had thought that adherents of these conspiracy theories were comfortably removed from the Bay Area. In backwater patches of states like Arizona or New Hampshire, both home to birther outbursts this summer, it seems plausible that anti-Obama paranoia would gain a foothold.

But the shadows lengthen in our evening land. Yesterday, my mother snapped the above photo of a birther's car window in Modesto, just 90 miles east of San Francisco. Like most of California, Modesto is significantly more conservative, both politically and socially, than this city; then again, it's hardly deep-red Republican territory. Its congressman, Dennis Cardoza, is a leading member of the "blue dog" coalition of moderate Democrats.

The birther theory, for those of you lucky enough to have remained ignorant of it so far, is that Obama is ineligible to be president because he was not born in the U.S., as is required by the Constitution. In a gracious effort to combat this claim, Obama has even released copies of his birth certificate from his home state of Hawaii (pictured below), but the birthers have not been sated. Now, it appears, these cretins are within spitting distance of our ultra-liberal city on a hill.

Our future looms overhead ...

​San Franciscans lucky enough to be enjoying our lunch outside today were interrupted by the less-than-appetizing sight of a gargantuan pair of chromosomes looming over our heads. This zeppelin, which belongs to Airship Ventures, currently features advertising from the Mountain View-based direct-to-consumer personal genetics company, 23andMe, which -- for a mere $99 and a couple ounces of spit -- promises to tell you who you're related to and what genetic diseases you may develop (or already have).

For a company that has been known to push the advertising envelope (trendy spit parties in NYC anyone?), a zeppelin doesn't actually seem that far-fetched. In a recent phone conversation with Airship Ventures CEO Alex Hall, SF Weekly learned that the Eureka is the only zeppelin in the Bay Area, and 23andMe paid anywhere between $100,000 and $750,000 for the coveted ad spot starting at the beginning of July (Hall wouldn't specify the exact amount the company paid). Guess now we know where all of that Google money is going. Check out this cool stop-motion transition video to see how the latest 23andMe branding went up.

Prior to 23andMe, the zeppelin featured advertisements for Disney's latest Pixar flick, Up. Some might argue that the sight of a Disney movie advertisement on the side of a giant zeppelin in the sky is somewhat less disconcerting than the sight of an advertisement for a company that still has a ways to go in the regulations department. Still others seem to think, awesome new technology aside, the zeppelin thing is just plain creepy. Lemurs and chimps at the San Francisco zoo don't care what the heck is written on the side -- they just generally hate zeppelins.

​Burning man is over. But some people just can't let go. Enter Craigslist Missed Connections, where Burners who bumped up against each other during a fleeting moment on the Playa reach out to one another.

This girl, in a Yellow Hat, is seeking a man in a Black Hat:

I met you at the Hug Deli on Friday about noon and you gave me the best bear hug of my life, stole a kiss, and lingered a little. Then I walked away, and I'm kicking myself for ever doing so, because I never found you again.

We do not know what a "hug deli" is, but we're guessing it's like a regular deli, but worse, because instead of getting delicious sandwiches, you get a hug from a man in a furry diaper.

Another man seeks his "soulmate":

I was a little out of it (typical for Playa) but you were so nice! We talked about Shantaram and Goa and I wanted to talk more but had to rush off to spin fire in front of the man. I would love to see you again and promise not to be so flakey this time!!

Raise your hand if you think that it is within this person's capacity to not be flakey.

​One of the only nice things about losing a cell phone is that these devices are somewhat easier to track than other misplaced belongings: All you have to do is make a call and see if some good Samaritan, kleptomaniac, or watchful barkeep picks up. Heck, most of us have been there.

But most of probably don't get the kind of answer that a resident of the Outer Mission District did yesterday. According to a report from the Ingleside Police Station, a man returned to his home on Florentine Street to find that his spare house key had been moved. He went on to discover that $2,500 was missing.

We'll leave it to the resident poets of the Ingleside cops' PR apparatus to tell the rest of the story: "The victim called his cell phone which was answered by his ex-girlfriend who claimed to have taken both the phone and the money." (Ouch. Ouch.) "The victim did not know where the suspect was."

​You'd be smiling too if you were holding a walrus penis bone, a.k.a. an oosik. We caught sight of this incredible dickstick and other smaller ones on a recent Thursday evening at the California Academy of Sciences.

On the same day, we read this story about zoophilia as a sexual orientation (rather than a unspeakable perversion) in our sister paper, New Times Broward-Palm Beach.

Coincidence? Probably. Draw your own conclusions.

As it turns out, though, a lot of animals have these penis bones, which scientists generally refer to as baculum. Raccoons, moles, shrews, hedgehogs, cats, dogs, weasels, sea lions, and great apes -- and that's just for starters.

​We've seen men on Trikkes. We've seen men in floral-print jumpsuits. But rarely does a man swivel through Mission Bay both on a trikke and in a floral-print jumpsuit. Even more rarely does that man wear a Darth Vader-esque helmet and allow an SF Weekly reporter to take his Trikke for a spin. Recently, the stars aligned to turn this dream scenario into a reality.

What the hell is a Trikke, you ask? Says all-knowing Wikipedia: a human-powered three-wheeled carving vehicle that utilizes conservations of angular momentum to allow a rider to propel forward. It's like a swervy, pervy, scooter, invented by Brazilians in 1988 and raced for the first time by Germans in 2004.

Our Trikkeman said he purchased his Trikke in Tampa, Florida, and that it has become his preferred form of transportation. After this reporter agreed not to hold Trikkeman responsible for any bodily injuries, he allowed that his Trikke be taken for what can only be described as a wiggle around the block. Let's just say the reporter didn't get very far.

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​This poster popped up not too far from the Weekly offices (and also not too far from a pile of perfectly good, unused condoms. A coincidence? We think not.)

What's up with Ill Eagle? Ironic nerd glasses are so 2008, but bangin' chains are always in, so we guess he's pretty ill.

A quick Google of Ill Eagle turns up one Ohio rapper, one Canadian punk band, and this rather vitriolic Urban Dictionary entry:

The plan was simple enough. Quoc Doan and Aaron Sanchez, the two guys from Miami Ad School pictured below, wanted to create some bubble madness on BART.

They would film the spectacle and the widespread mirth it inspired among the rush-hour commuters for their video storytelling class at their oddly named San Francisco school.

They had some major expectations for this event on the invite posted online: "Massive (and I mean MASSIVE) bubble blowing session on a BART trip through the city. Even better, it's when people are getting off work and ready for a big three-day weekend. Ya baby. Let's put smiles on faces."

The guys had done some test runs throughout the week, figuring out the best BART to catch commuter traffic. Other classmates would be stationed at various stops throughout the city to film the bubble action when the train pulled up. As Quoc saw it, there should be so many bubbles on the train, that when the doors open it would recall the aftermath of putting dish soap in the washing machine: "Imagine a train pulling up and just bubbles coming out," he mused in his fedora with a paper reading "Director" stapled to the side.

They even did some direct recruiting at the place where you're guaranteed to find some (unemployed) people lounging around with nothing better to do at 4 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon -- Dolores Park. The first 40 people there would get free bubbles.

The first cracks on the lads' facade were revealed when only about 10 people not associated with the school showed. But, no matter, once at the 24th Street BART platform, expectations were high, and these girls warmed up their bubble-blowing skills for the ride ahead of them.   

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Single and ready to mingle.

​Sex sells. Everything. Cars. Cosmetics. Hamburgers. Seahorses.

Ads touting a new seahorse exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium started cropping up some time ago (the exhibit opened on April 6 and will run until 2012.) But it wasn't until a friend who was traveling on BART spotted one of the ads that I realized how bizarre they are. "Have you seen these?" She asked. "They're creepy. They made personal ads for the seahorses."

A visit to the aquarium's Web site confirms this observation. Different species of the animals have been granted human names and drafted appeals for mates. Ken Kuda, is "eternally single" and "looking for love." Eartha Excises thinks that "Men should not only be pregnant, they should clean my house." Wade Witei thinks that "Men should be pregnant. Constantly."  

Erm. Okay. We get it. Kind of. The girl seahorses put their eggs in the boy seahorses who fertilize them, carry them, and spew them out. Nature! It will do what it wants!

Joseph Moore is K-onfused

​ A few weeks back, San Francisco resident Joseph Moore got so fed up with Muni that he decided to express his disdain via custom-made clothing. The resultant T-shirts utilize various San Francisco Metropolitian Transportation Agency line names, which appear in black block letters surrounded by a circle of color, and then use that lettering to make a sarcastic critique -- for example, the "N" symbol becomes "N-one"; the "L" becomes "L-ate," the "J," "J-acked," the "T," "T-ardy." Like so many things, it's all fun and games, until you get sued.

Moore hasn't been sued yet, but he says he received a letter from Cafe Press, the Web site where he was originally selling the shirts, informing him that they would no longer hawk his wares because the logos infringed upon rights of a mysterious third party. When Moore wrote back  to inquire exactly why his shirts were pulled, Cafe Press sent him word on behalf of a lawyer for the New York City Metropolitan Transportation Authority stating: "Your use of the subway route symbols and/or other subway imagery infringes upon [MTA's] intellectual property rights (trademark)."

In short, the New York City subway system has -- successfully -- made the claim that no one is entitled to make money off of logos featuring letters within colored circles but them. But in a recent phone interview, a spokesman for the agency, Aaron Donovan, seemed to backtrack: "We have no claim on Muni's icons, we would need to look into the specifics of this case in greater detail to determine why the letter may have been sent," he said. "The images on Mr. Moore's blog did not appear to show anything that would represent a trademark violation against the New York MTA." 

Have San Franciscans lost touch with the earth, the soil, the roots of our agrarian past? I ask because three whole days after Brock Keeling at SFist.com alerted the city to the dozens of bright, orange, stuffed fabric penises hanging from a tree in the Panhandle where Fell meets Cole, the mysterious phalluses were still unplucked today.

​Mr.Burbuja's Laundromat, located on the corner of 24th Street and Florida, is home to one of the weirdest and most unexpected pieces of artwork on the popular shopping corridor. The building's side boasts a painting of the business's namesake, an anthropomorphic washing machine who is way stoked on getting his basket of clothes clean. (This publication granted the painting "Best Laundromat Mural" in the 2009 Best Of issue.) But recently Mr.Burbujas isn't half the "man" he used to be. Literally. Half the mural, which is painted on wooden boards and affixed to the wall, has been pulled down. The remaining half of the mural has been defaced by a tagger.

This isn't the first time Mr.Burbuja's sunny visage has been marred by spray paint, but taggers had previously limited themselves to filling in the white tiles of the checkerboard patterned floor in his fantasy-mat filled with laundro-people. This time someone has scrawled a big, ugly mess over his arm and beloved basket of laundry. Seriously, people-- is this necessary? And what's up with the rash of taggers disrespecting spaces that are already occupied with art? (You may take issue with my extending the label of "art" to Mr.Burbujas. Let me assure you, you are wrong.)

Don't get between me and that pole, lady

​A little after midnight on Saturday evening, beneath the florescent lights of North Beach clubs along Broadway's 400 block, an unusual and vicious fight broke out.

San Francisco police spotted the mass of flailing bodies and wild hair, and eventually separated what turned out to be a group of all-female combatants. One had a large gash leaking blood out of her forehead.

​Female actors, rejoice! Finally, an opportunity to play a victim! Trauma needs extras. Specifically, "young looking Chinese women 18 years old - 20s." Up to 10 women will be chosen to:

"portray women that have been forced into prostitution, found trapped in Chinatown building. Women will have more of an innocent and unfortunate portrayal, wearing tube tops, or tank tops, short shorts or mini skirts, flip flops. etc., NOT scantily clad in lingerie!"

Don't worry! You won't look slutty, just "unfortunate." The posting promises that chosen parties will be compensated with "cash money," homes! (We suspect that the indelicate wording is the result of the call being re-posted to the Web site Model Mayhem, and not the work of whoever penned the original missive.)