"What the fuckin hell! My grandma could do better than that!" yelled a teenage snowboarder upon completing his wobbly jump. Observing his tantrum last month from my skilift perch, this hoarse intonation continues to resound through my head.

I live in San Francisco, a sometimes awe-inspiringly provincial burg with a crunchy candy-coating metropolis shell. Every once in a while the homespun flavor slaps me upside the head like a performance artist with a slab of beef, not unlike the shock of going out for a beer in London and discovering that everything closes at 11.

Upon our fair city, former mayor Frank Jordan left his mark by installing pay toilets, the cost of which was defrayed by the exhaustive distribution of rotating advertising kiosks throughout the city. From every street corner, Symphony Conductor Michael Tilson Thomas' smarmy orange leer twirls at me in freakish nightmares. Jordan was also largely responsible for enacting such momentous public policy as planting palm trees along Market Street. In addition to making us look like L.A., these expensive trees periodically expire and have to be replaced because, der, this is not a tropical climate.

But it's not really Jordan's fault that the policies enacted under his administration were largely cosmetic. He might have raised mountains of revenues for the City, were it not for being hamstrung by the pansy-packed Board of Supervisors. Those bleeding hearts would hear nothing of Jordan's expedient plan to charge a modest tourist tax on what could have become one of SF's beloved traditions, sniping the homeless.

And what discussion of Jordan's attributes would be complete without a reference to that pasty white mother proudly smiling naked from the cover of every newspaper? Such penetrating political reporting is one of the things I've come to expect from our daily papers. A few weeks ago, in fact, a front page headline story earnestly described the tragic tale of a cat stuck in a tree. But once in a while I convince myself it's just a bad dream and pick up a copy of the daily lies. Here's what I learned from a recent morning's incisive commentary:

A page one piece, "Clues to Police Custody Deaths," dutifully reported that "[t]he phenomenon of sudden death that strikes suspects following violent struggles with police" has an official title. These curious occurrences are now known as "Custody Death Syndrome."

In addition to serving so efficiently as the mouthpiece of our happy friends in uniform, one of the ways in which our papers excel is reporting on the electoral process. These organs of the state are not afraid to probe our officials for explanations of the increasing tendency to put controversial issues on the ballot.

They have been elected ostensibly to represent us, and have the resources to deliberate upon public policy. Even if they cared, citizens don't have a staff to research complex issues, nor can they commission a study to determine what the best course would be. The result is that we end up with laws that have great popular appeal, or seem worthwhile at first glance (term limits come to mind), but have unintended consequences.

Proposition 184, the "Three Strikes" mandatory sentences law, for example, was overwhelmingly passed, with more than 70% of California voters' approval. But a judge's task is to determine, given the circumstances, the punishment that fits the crime. Hey, I like macho posturing as much as the next bi, but sports analogies simply are not appropriate guidelines for our judicial system. Only the certifiably insane would extol the virtues of imprisoning potsmokers alongside rapists.

The dilution of the political process, the increasing populism in which our elected officials engage, relying on the participation of uninformed citizens, in short, the ever-encroaching democratization, is hardly creating a thoughtful, reasoned government. We have arrived, Jefferson. Rollicking in the Tyranny of the Majority.

In a perfect world, this paragraph would now launch into a witty review of George Coates' new production, Twisted Pairs. This hypothetical diatribe might depict the shock I experienced watching this formerly entertaining company dissolve into a sea of thespianized whiny shrieks, chunk-blowing pun-ridden dialogue, and Luddite rants that would swell the unabomber's heart with pride. Yes, this review surely would have cleverly tied the metaphor of overdemocratization of government with Mr. Coates desire to create an "interactive sho."

Indeed, the review would have described this play's vast and hairy suckitude as I searched desperately for a way to escape my seat. Trapped in the middle of the row, knowing from experience that just because I felt like setting my program alight and pelting the actors with flaming projectiles, didn't mean that everyone else, tapping into the collective conscious, would join in the fun.

Yep, this masterpiece of criticism would have explored the many facets in which this show sucked. Instead, as I did a few weeks ago, it slithers out during intermission.