America, our shining city on a hill, is afflicted. The sickness is a malignant cancer spreading through the nation at an alarming pace and its immune system has crumbled. It has targeted liberty and exploited civic lethargy.

Supposed benevolent elected tyrants have failed us, shirking their responsibilities to American ideals. The ailment is a shift in a delicately constructed  balance between despotism and popular sovereignty during the Bush administration.

It’s not my intention, however, to write about the malevolence of recent administrations. Others have condemned corruption and power exceedingly well, albeit after the fact.

No, my concern is with the failure of the press. It function, as an implied check on our three branch system — the fourth estate.

Journalists walk a blurry tightrope, constantly subject to interpretation. We serve our country by opposing it, and unbridled cynicism is a requirement. The fourth estate’s failure is conducive to our current situation: an economy combusted, civil liberties a memory and American elitism the benchmark of foreign policy. How well will this republic function without the fourth estate? How well has it functioned since the press forgot its mission?

Daily newspapers are dying all over the country. It should make me reconsider my goal of becoming a professional soldier in the ranks, defending The Bill of Rights. It doesn’t though, because the old guard failed. They intentionally neglected, or forgot, their cause. They bought blindly and sold faithlessly an illegal war, failed to defend natural principles like habeas corpus, and chose false job security over their duty to inform.

Manipulating the commerce of the news, media corporations and the government with which they are irrevocably intertwined transformed our previously functioning noble check into a cheerleader for war mongers, murderers and thieves.
A four year hiatus in serious questioning of the tyrants, from post Sept. 11 to Hurricane Katrina, left the American people blind and sickened by the sweet fawning laxity of the news.

So I shed no tears for dying dailies. Their disintegration is fair punishment for dereliction of duty. Let the rotten house burn to the ground. On its foundation we can rebuild a system independent of the Scripps and Hearst stock prices and the press can again serve its readers — the American public — and not investors in media conglomerates whose only concern is profit margin.

Dave Krieger wrote in the final edition of the Rocky Mountain News, “I still don’t get how a newspaper with 200,000 paying subscribers and hundreds of thousands more readers on the Web cannot make a go of it… ‘Not our fault,’ the suits say. ‘[It's the] business model’s fault’ So who came up with the business model?”

A combination of stockholder greed and society’s frivolity finds the fourth estate in shambles. Society was more attracted to screaming, red-faced propaganda than to factual reporting, and the republic suffers. Consumers, as much as investors, define the business model of the news.

If we are to revive our republic, then we, as citizens, must realize again our responsibility to vigilance against those who would trample liberty. Or, as Thomas Paine wrote in The American Crisis, “Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.”

Paine’s eloquence applies both to the press and to American citizenry as a whole. True patriots of a republic realize that constant cynicism and opposition to power fuels the machinery of freedom. I hope to do this professionally but I realize my work is only as effective as those who might take the time to read it. Let us never again forget our responsibilities and hope we’re not too late.

I pose a simple question to President Barack Obama, how many innocent lives are you willing to waste in Pakistan?

During his 2008 Presidential campaign, Obama responded to inquiries about expanding the war in Afghanistan to include attacks across the Pakistani border. He stated, if Osama bin Laden was discovered in Pakistan, American forces wouldn’t hesitate to attack.

CIA drone — unmanned aircraft — attacks have continued since Obama took office, but bin Laden hasn’t been seen. The CIA claims these attacks are killing high-level al-Qaida members, who use Pakistan’s  Federally Administered Tribal Areas as a staging point for launching insurgent attacks into Afghanistan.

While this may be true, the unsanctioned expansion of America’s war in the Middle East to include yet another sovereign country carries a gruesome cost.

It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly how many Pakistani civilians have been killed in CIA drone strikes since Obama took office. If the US military’s estimates are accurate, nearly half of those killed are not al-Qaida insurgents. Al-Qaida fighters in the FATA hide amongst the poor, nomadic Pashtun who populate the region.

The Pakistani government voices two legitimate complaints. The first: Pakistan is a sovereign nation that doesn’t need United State’s help to kill its civilians. Secondly, Pakistani officials argue these actions strengthen al-Qaida’s numbers — dead children are a powerful recruiting tool in areas like the FATA, where the population is historically sympathetic to the Taliban.

I’d like to believe my generation has a more global perspective than generations past. This means, I’m less likely to see any difference between a dead American child and a dead Pakistani one. Both are abhorrent; both unacceptable.

It was largely my generation who elected Barack Obama, partially because we hoped he shared our point of view when it came to foreign policy.

It’s an old and tired idea that the president of the United States must be willing to inflict such unjust collateral damage.

Does the office make the man or does the man make the office? My hope for Obama’s presidency was that he could change some of these outdated notions, such as the necessity of civilian deaths overseas to protect my sheltered existence. So far, if the wars in the Middle East are the measurement, we were duped.

As I sit on my reclining couch flipping through the sports channels, I think to myself, “Are we really in a recession?”

If you’re defensive tackle Albert Haynesworth, you probably don’t even know how to spell recession. Big Albert is the first ever defensive player in the NFL to sign a contract that could be worth up to $115 million. The Washington Redskins have guaranteed Haynesworth at least $43 million; all for a man who hasn’t played a full season since his rookie year.

Recently, the Niners sent a private jet to pick up free agent quarterback Kurt Warner. They wined and dined him in an attempt to guide him toward the 49ers. Warner said he “heard a voice from God” that told him he should remain in Arizona and two days later re-signed a deal to stay a Cardinal.

The Niners want to implement a power running game, acquiring a quarterback who wants to throw the ball 40 times a game would have made no sense. Thank God.

One player I want the Niners to bring on is wide receiver Terrell Owens. Yeah, that’s right, I said it.

Niners head coach Mike Singletary is a coach who takes no bull and demands focus. He has command of his locker room and I bet he’d be able to get T.O. to put all his energy into football and stop acting like a kid. He has already humbled one loose cannon Vernon Davis.

Can you imagine Frank Gore, Vernon Davis, and Owens on the field all at once? No defensive coordinator in the NFL would look forward to playing against that trio; not on any given Sunday. (As of press time Terrell Owens signed a one year deal with the Buffalo Bills. There goes my fantasy!)

Just as money won’t buy a football championship, not scoring runs in baseball won’t win games. Will the San Francisco Giants have a player who can hit 20 home runs this season? Giants fans: get ready for a third place finish. The Giants should have spent money on Manny Ramirez — even in a recession that would have been a smart gamble.

While I am happy to be making $10 an hour at a coffee shop during our so-called “recession,” your boy Man-Ram, slugger Manny Ramirez, recently accepted a two-year $45 million offer from the Los Angeles Dodgers and actually felt disrespected by it.

Hell, I don’t blame him! I feel underpaid too — I write articles for the Guardsman, pour cups of coffee in the darkest morning hours, and I can still make my editor-in-chief smile on a bad day.

Tell me that’s not worth some millions. Perhaps “recession” is relative.

Every time I go to explore San Francisco,  I discover the city is full of unique things in the most unusual places. And Sydney G. Walton Square is just that — unique in an unusual place.

‘The Fountain of Four Seasons’ sits in the center of Sydney G. Walton Square. JESSICA LUTHI / THE GUARDSMAN

This square, named after San Francisco businessman Sydney G. Walton, is located only a few blocks away from The Embarcadero and downtown. It is surrounded by Front Street on the west, Jackson Street on the south and Davis Street on the east and  Pacific Avenue at the north end.

What makes this 2-acre square so special are the numerous pieces of art displayed there.  The little park houses several sculptures, including “Penguins” by Beniamino Bufano, who also has his sculpture “Saint Francis of the Guns” at City College’s Ocean campus at the base of the stairs leading up to Science Hall from Phelan Avenue. Other sculptures include the “Fountain of Four Seasons” by Francois Stahly near the center of the square and the beautiful heart-shaped  bronze sculpture “Big Heart on the Rock” by Jim Dine.

‘Pine Tree Obelisk’ by Joan Brown sits at the edge of the square near Front and Jackson Streets. JESSICA LUTHI / THE GUARDSMAN

If you’re an art lover, like I am, you can take a free self-guided walking tour of the park. The guide briefly explains each creation, gives you information about the artist, when the piece was completed, and talks about the significance of it.

The square is also the home of the Colombo Market Arch, which was originally a part of the old Colombo Market that thrived here in the early 1900’s. It was popular among Italian workers, farmers and immigrants, who went there to buy produce and common goods.

During lunch time, Sydney G. Walton Square becomes a popular lunch spot for people who work in the financial district. But during the morning and late afternoon hours, the park is perfect for laying the sun, studying or catching some z’s. It’s quiet and peaceful..

Portrait of Georgia O’Keefe sits near the fountain. JESSICA LUTHI / THE GUARDSMAN

Whether you’re walking in the financial district and need a place to rest, want to relax or have a picnic, Sydney Walton Square is a perfect choice.

For information about the self-guided walking tour, browse to The Barbary Coast News‘ article on Sydney G. Walton Square.

Mount Sutro sits in the center of the city with UCSF on the eastern side and Victorian homes lining the western side. PHOTO COURTESY OF NIELS VAN ECK

My adventures into  San Francisco have been fun so far and the weather lately has made my excursions only more enjoyable.
Two weekends ago, I went up to Mount Sutro, the third highest peak in the city, located above the University of California San Francisco. I didn’t go all the way to the top, just being there in the sweet smelling eucalyptus forest was enough.
Perhaps the most interesting thing about Mount Sutro is its history.

Before it was renamed, Mount Sutro was known as Mount Parnassus. Like Mount Davidson and Land’s End, near the Cliff House and the Sutro Baths ruins, Mount Sutro is one of three stretches of land, which was owned by San Francisco’s 24th Mayor, Adolph Sutro. Most of Mount Sutro’s forested land is now the property of the University of California San Francisco.

The eucalyptus forest on top of the mountain is known as the Sutro Forest. It was planted by recommendation of Sutro to honor Arbor Day in 1886. Originally, Mount Sutro was covered in low brush, which allowed visitors of the summit to clearly see the city. But now, after 120 years, the forest has grown so tall that it’s difficult to see anything through the trees.

There are two easy ways to get up to Mount Sutro’s summit. The easiest way is by going through UCSF’s housing complex Aldea San Miguel, off  Clarendon Avenue. If you’re driving to Laguna Honda Drive from the Upper Haight , you’ll make a left on Clarendon. If you’re coming from Forest Hill Station, you’ll turn right. Once you’re on Clarendon, you’ll need to take a left on Johnstone Drive and drive down until Johnstone Drive crosses Behr Avenue. A little parking area near a narrow paved road leads to the summit of Mount Sutro. The narrow paved road is not vehicle accessible.

But if you get around the city by Muni, like me, you’ll need to take the 36 Teresita bus up to the corner of Warren and Oakpark Drives. Go left on Oakpark Drive until you reach a set of 355-steps at Crestmont and Oakpark Drive to get to the trail that will lead you to the summit.
So if you’re in the mood for a nice walk, going up to Mount Sutro is the perfect place. The mountain is beautiful and the thick forest with its eucalyptus trees smells nice. Not to mention, the climb will do you good. So here’s to your health or as I like to say: salud!

I woke up, but could not move at all. I had trouble breathing, and everything felt heavy. I scanned the room with my eyes, the only body part I had control over. A strange orange glow from a nearby lamp, permeated throughout the room. I heard a peculiar humming sound. I tried to scream for help, but my jaw merely trembled.

I was helpless and overwhelmed by a sense of extreme panic and dread. I thought I was dying, it was the most horrible feeling I had in a long time.

I didn’t know what to do but to shut my eyes. So I did, and tightly. I snapped out of it, and was relieved to have full control over my body again. Looking around, everything was just as I had left it: lights and computer were on, textbooks, notes and homework were strewn to my side. I sat up in bed, thinking. I didn’t know what just happened to me, but I knew enough to know that this was not good.

I was hesitant about sleeping and fearful that it would happen again. Days passed and the phenomena subsided. I passed it off as a one-time thing, and it soon became absent from my thoughts.

A few months later, it came back and happened frequently. After a bit of research, I realized that I had sleep paralysis, which means the body is unable to perform voluntary movements either at sleep onset or while awaking.

I can often feel the sleep paralysis coming on as I fall asleep. With my eyes closed, minutes pass. It’s difficult to describe, but everything becomes, feels, and sounds fuzzy. I hear a buzzing sound, resonating in my head. My whole body feels tingly, prickly, and despite being completely aware that I’m not moving I sense myself falling deeper and deeper into my mattress. As the sinking, buzzing, and pins and needles sensation continues, I focus my attention on trying to move a single part of my body. I snap out of it, switch positions, and try to fall asleep again without experiencing it.

The city has some pretty amazing views and my excursion to Alamo Square, last issue, was no exception. This time, instead of pulling out the map, I decided to share with you one of my favorite things in San Francisco.

If there is one thing in the city that I love, it’s Muni. Before you go, “OMG! Are you serious?” let me explain. While Muni is the thing you love to hate, it does have some redeeming qualities, one of which is the 43 line. Many people, especially my fellow Yelpers, say that they hate this particular line because it’s either late, crowded or the driver drives like a “bat out of hell,” but to me it’s one my favorite lines to ride on because of the views.

The 43 line starts in the Excelsior at the intersection of Munich Street and Geneva Avenue and ends at Webster and Chestnut Streets in the Marina District. The line crosses through many interesting parts of the city including Twin Peaks, Inner Sunset, Cole Valley and the Haight.

One of my favorite views from the route is when you’re on Parnassus Avenue (near UCSF) coming from the Haight going towards City College. It’s absolutely stunning because the city looks so small.

But perhaps the best view from the route is when you’re going up to Miraloma Drive, while still coming from the Haight towards City College. Miraloma Drive is a slightly windy road situated near Portola Drive, right outside the Twin Peaks District. When you come around the second bend on Miraloma, you can see the city stretching out towards the Pacific Ocean, making San Francisco look like a scale model. It’s pretty awesome.

So if you got some time to kill on a Sunday afternoon, take the 43 and sit back and enjoy the view.

I moved to San Francisco from Napa in December 2006, yet I am still only marginally familiar with the city. My original plan was to spend at least one day per week drifting through the city with hopes of discovering my new home town. That obviously didn’t pan out as well I’d hoped.

San Francisco is one of the most interesting cities in the country with its different neighborhoods, people, and rich history making it a fixture of diversity. I wanted to visit every inch of San Francisco. I wanted to become intimate with the city. I wanted it to be like an old friend.

Although San Francisco is only seven miles across, there is still a lot to discover. Each neighborhood has its own unique characteristics, which contributes to the allure of “the City by the Bay.” With this in mind, I decided not start at one point and work my way through, but instead to pull out a map, close my eyes and randomly select a place to visit.

Each issue I’ll take you to a different place and share my experiences.

Alamo Square

Alamo Square is a large park at the Hayes Valley border. This park, which is surrounded by Hayes, Steiner, Scott and Fulton Street is home to residents, canines and tourists.

While I was there, a bus unloaded tourists to take photos of the “Painted Ladies” - beautiful Victorian homes lining Steiner Street. If you have ever watched the television series “Full House,” you are familiar with the view from Alamo Square. During the opening sequence of the show, you’d see four or five Victorian homes, which overlook the financial district. You too, can see this view from the top of hill while facing Steiner Street.

But Alamo Square is much more than a tourist attraction. The view of the city is different everywhere you stand. The park also has a playground for kids. If you’re a tennis lover, it offers a few courts to get your game on. Most importantly, the sun casts a beautiful golden shadow across the park at sunrise.

The next time you’re planning a picnic or just want to toss around the ol’ pig skin: give Alamo Square a visit.

However, if there is anything at Alamo Square worth seeing, it’s the view.

Sleep -  a state of rest and suspended consciousness, and perhaps the daily event I look forward to most.

Rest truly becomes top priority at the end of a long day.  I am not a morning person: getting up immediately after the alarm rings is a near impossible task, and I hit the snooze button more than I probably should.  My relationship with my alarm clock is marked with ambivalence.  Though I depend on this blaring contraption to wake me each morning, I regret having bought it in the first place.  I am addicted to sleep, using it to temporarily escape stress or help remedy lazy, unfilled afternoons by way of napping.

One of my New Year’s resolutions for this year,  was to develop better sleeping habits — habits, which as of last year, have gradually gone to crap .  It’s unfortunate how erratic and inconsistent my sleep has become.  I blame these fluctuations entirely on myself, the tendency to deprive myself of sleep, and my penchant for sleeping in and sporadic napping are all culpable.

As a full-time student, my attempts to keep up with school work by continuing to study into the night often backfired on me. Getting little or no sleep made me physically and mentally sluggish during class, not to mention irritable to anybody I came in contact with. The amount of sleep diminished during stressful times with increased work loads and increased over weekends. During finals week I pulled three consecutive all-nighters, taking short naps in a feeble attempt to make up for lost sleep.  With my remaining essays turned in and my final exams completed, I went home to recuperate and give my ultimately fried brain some rest.

I had hoped to use this past winter break to catch up on sleep and establish a normal sleep routine before the beginning of the new semester. I failed. My sleep habits over this past break were anything but normal, things merely got worse: I was getting too much sleep.  It turns out, academics aren’t the only cause for my lack of sleep.  Dedicating nights to more trivial things, such as the internet or television had the same effect. For a couple of days, I fell asleep around four or five in the morning and woke up more than twelve hours later. Sometimes, the sun would set as I’d eat breakfast.

All this irregularity disturbed my bodily operations in terms of sleep.  Since I had absolutely no control over it this frightened me.  It was happening more and more.

My battle with sleep is ongoing.  I’ll keep you posted.

I’m quitting my waitressing gig.

I had to blink away the tears on payday when I saw I had only $40 more than a co-worker who had only worked 48 hours when I had worked 78.

Not understanding the restaurant business and the fact that small paychecks are standard, I was naively counting on the money that wasn’t going to be in my paycheck.

I admit the situation I’m in now is my own fault. I took a job at a struggling restaurant that is overstaffed and under patronized. I didn’t stick to my budget and I spent money like I was still making $200 an hour.
I booked a flight to Las Vegas for nine days in December.

Take away the friends, gambling, clubbing, and fine dining that’s part of a typical trip to Vegas and you’re left with my upcoming stint in sin city: All work and no play.

It will be exhausting.

Shifts end between 3 a.m. and 8 a.m. because in Vegas most of the action and money happens after 2 a.m.
It will be unhealthy.

I won’t have a refrigerator or stove, so I’ll be forced to eat at restaurants. Since the goal is to make money — not spend it — my meals will be cheap and unhealthy.

It will be lonely.

The only people I’ll have contact with will be around the strip club: customers, bouncers, strippers, taxi cab drivers. No one will know my real name or the real me so although I’ll have plenty of conversations they will all be hollow, almost like having none at all.

I feel defeated: I relapsed. But I can and will get back on the wagon.

This trip is my bail-out plan. When I get home I’m paying off my credit cards and school expenses and then I’m hitting the pavement for a new waitressing job.

I am NOT back on the pole.