Clinamenic
Binary & Tweed
Already some noteworthy happenings, and I've just been at this place for a couple days.
A georgian mansion in San Francisco, part of a network of co-living properties called Embassy Network. I'm here with 8-10 other people (still not sure who exactly among those I've encountered are actually living here), and I'm in the Ada Lovelace Suite which has three bunk beds (i.e. six beds) and a turret window overlooking Lower Haight.
It is costing me $900 for the bed, and there is a $600 communal fee which includes food (fully stocked pantry and fridge, regularly delivered produce), toiletries/supplies, a cleaning service, a communal car, and probably some of it goes toward the admin work done by those facilitating the house and its bookings. There is a sauna, a courtyard, and a gym in the basement, alongside a defunct bowling alley, the end of which has been repurposed into a living quarters. So $1500 a month.
The day I show up, there is a team prepping for a political fundraiser for George Whitesides, apparently the former CEO of Virgin Galactic or something. So he and his nimble campaign team show up, and I think one of the owners of this property is friends with him. They contracted an event planner who had good taste in beer (Fort Point kolschs and Italian pilsners, one of the leftovers of the latter of which I am presently enjoying).
Today, a few of my Swedish housemates are organizing an event for a technology institute they operate, The Foresight Institute. Another of my close colleagues was previously a fellow there, and today the present fellows are gathered downstairs for a reception for some subsequent conference elsewhere. More alcohol procured for this, alongside what is already an admirably stocked liquor cabinet (that's coming from me, mind you). Later tonight, another housemate is DJing in the basement for a party which 100 people have RSVPed for.
There is a cat named Pico who resides in the Ada Lovelace Suite and who has some affliction warranting a head cone, and a dog named Friday who gracefully roams the house and who has a different walker show up every day to walk her.
I've been joking with some colleagues that I ran away to SF to join a polycule, and with my family that I'm fulfilling my Mansonion destiny by becoming a sex cult leader. So far, no trace of polycular or cultish goings-on.
A georgian mansion in San Francisco, part of a network of co-living properties called Embassy Network. I'm here with 8-10 other people (still not sure who exactly among those I've encountered are actually living here), and I'm in the Ada Lovelace Suite which has three bunk beds (i.e. six beds) and a turret window overlooking Lower Haight.
It is costing me $900 for the bed, and there is a $600 communal fee which includes food (fully stocked pantry and fridge, regularly delivered produce), toiletries/supplies, a cleaning service, a communal car, and probably some of it goes toward the admin work done by those facilitating the house and its bookings. There is a sauna, a courtyard, and a gym in the basement, alongside a defunct bowling alley, the end of which has been repurposed into a living quarters. So $1500 a month.
The day I show up, there is a team prepping for a political fundraiser for George Whitesides, apparently the former CEO of Virgin Galactic or something. So he and his nimble campaign team show up, and I think one of the owners of this property is friends with him. They contracted an event planner who had good taste in beer (Fort Point kolschs and Italian pilsners, one of the leftovers of the latter of which I am presently enjoying).
Today, a few of my Swedish housemates are organizing an event for a technology institute they operate, The Foresight Institute. Another of my close colleagues was previously a fellow there, and today the present fellows are gathered downstairs for a reception for some subsequent conference elsewhere. More alcohol procured for this, alongside what is already an admirably stocked liquor cabinet (that's coming from me, mind you). Later tonight, another housemate is DJing in the basement for a party which 100 people have RSVPed for.
There is a cat named Pico who resides in the Ada Lovelace Suite and who has some affliction warranting a head cone, and a dog named Friday who gracefully roams the house and who has a different walker show up every day to walk her.
I've been joking with some colleagues that I ran away to SF to join a polycule, and with my family that I'm fulfilling my Mansonion destiny by becoming a sex cult leader. So far, no trace of polycular or cultish goings-on.
