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Visit from James

One of the benefits of living in San Francisco is that one’s geography tends to motivate friends to visit regularly. This is a good thing. Sometimes, when a lot of these visits happen at the same time, it’s also an exhausting thing. But still good. Got me?

 

James is a friend of a friend…neither individual being someone I’d ever met before. Two or three years ago, this would have sounded a little odd to me, but my biases against getting to know people in “text only” format first have slowly disappeared of late. James was introduced to me by my friend Andy in London. He was here for the non-standard San Francisco vacation (“screw the cable cars…I wanna see the giant icon sculptures at Apple”). I was more than willing to assist.

How could I not love someone who wanted to spend an afternoon with me and Sarah visiting a bigger-than-life manifestation of Clarus the Dogcow? And before your correct me, yes it IS spelled with a “u”, thanks.

Other highlights included burritos at Pancho Villa, hamli and okra at Massawa, really uninspiring pizza at Sbarro (on the obligatory mall visit), and a trip to Green Apple Books. Oh, and there was a bit of drinking. And a little civil disobedience as we ignored the law and smoked actual cigarettes in actual bars. This will become a running theme as you read on.

We like James very much. He is allowed to return.

More Visitors

 

Rae and Dawson don’t need my permission to return. They used to live here. Rae now lives in Portland. Dawson lives in a mystical far-away place called Redwood City; the distance explains why I never see him. Anyway, we all used to work together. OK…actually, to varying degrees, we STILL all work together.

We tried, as always with mixed success, to avoid talk of this loving company. We drank. We played with the juke box at Jack’s. We broke the law by smoking in Jack’s on 16th Street and by putting ashes in the ashtray which the bartender at Jack’s provided. So was SHE breaking the law too?

 

We ate dinner at Art’s. We didn’t smoke there. I believe that people should not smoke in restaurants. I do not share this belief about bars.

But I do love Rae and Dawson. And Rae doesn’t even smoke.

Yet Another Visit

Matthew offered to show me DC during the 1997 Planet SOMA US Tour, although I somehow never GOT to DC. We met during his last stay in the city. The catalyst for this trip was the Joni Mitchell show in San Jose Tuesday night (which also featured Van Morrison and some old nasal-sounding guy named Bob something). Matthew took me to the show. Matthew slept in my house. Matthew drank with me. Matthew went with me to see a friend play at Brain Wash. Matthew understood that I was completely beat by the time he arrived, and was not offended that I was being such a lethargic host. We LOVE Matthew.

Matthew is also allowed to visit again. And I promise to be more entertaining. Matthew is also seeking the perfect green-haired boy (other hair colors considered). If you are that boy, ask me for Matthew’s email address. It’s the least I can do.

The smoking reference for this part of the story? At the show, people were smoking pot all around me. This is illegal (although I do not necessarily agree that it should be). Even though I really cannot stand the smell of marijuana smoke, I did not complain. On the other hand, had I lit a (tobacco) cigarette in the same place, security would have been on my tail in no time flat. This bugs me a little…

San Francisco, Herb Caen, and Me

I guess I will forever love — and forever be annoyed by — the city currently known as San Francisco. No better way to reflect on both extremes than by re-reading old Herb Caen columns. I used to fantasize about taking over for him, as a sort of “Mr. San Francisco” for the 90’s, although I know deep down that I’d never qualify.

There are minor similarities between us, I guess. Like Herb (if I may be so informal), I’m fiercely possessive of a city I wasn’t born in. Like the late Mr. Caen, I feel a tremendous sense of nostalgia for a San Francisco which is long gone. A big difference, however, is that Herb lived this past. I never did. Herb romanticized through reflection. I romanticize through Herb (and assorted others).

Thousands, even millions of words have been written about this city, past and present. The past, no doubt, could never have lived up to its reputation. And my God, what a reputation! From the crazy (or opportunistic) Emperor Norton to the “opium dens” of old Chinatown to the earthquake to the backrooms of Folsom Street…my God…

Thirty years ago, Herb wrote about how the corporate mentality was making San Francisco increasingly bland and generic. Today, I worry about the same thing. Herb was interested in the small places and unique individuals, and the historical context which added life to the present-day landscape. So am I. In many ways, the 60’s and 70’s were not kind to the city, bringing us such hideous bastardizations of urban space as Embarcadero Center and the “new” Japantown. Perhaps the prosperity of the 80’s and 90’s will prove even more destructive, as we build a theme park city so “cute” it is in danger of choking on its own espresso-flavored bile.

Maybe the romantic San Francisco of the past never really existed in the first place, or at least not for a large portion of the population. Maybe it’s always been “just a place” to many of its residents. Who knows?

It’s obviously “just a place” to a large number of its affluent new residents who obviously couldn’t give two shits about the history and customs of the place they’re helping to destroy with their “lifestyle lofts”, their Starbucks and Pasta Pomodoros, and their aggressively incompetent driving. Too many of these people are here simply because of the job market , and not due to any particular affection for the place. They have no context and can’t be bothered to try.

But San Francisco wasn’t “just a place” to Herb. It’s not “just a place” to me. I love it here, although sometimes I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I love what remains of the leftist, offbeat sensibility. I love not fearing violence when I kiss a guy goodnight on a street corner. I love knowing that San Francisco existed prior to my arrival in 1992 and I love knowing how this past affects the future. Unfortunately, the future looks a little frightening right now. But maybe it always has…

Changes Afoot

So then there are those mornings when you find yourself awake at an ungodly hour completely unable to sleep because so many unsettling thoughts keep getting lodged in your brain. This kind of insomnia must be a lot like a psychological equivalent of AIDS. One big anxiety compromises your faculties such that a multitude of smaller opportunistic anxieties intrude. The net result is no sleep. It’s been happening a lot the past week or so.

I guess the “big anxiety” stems from the fact that my roomie of six years is getting pretty damned close to buying a house. This, in itself, is a good thing. I’m happy for him, although I’m still not convinced of the wisdom of buying property at the peak of the most inflated real estate market in Bay Area history.

I feel really guilty that I can’t bring myself to act enthusiastic when he talks about it, but the whole thing is causing a tremendous surge of uncertainty in my life. The most obvious problem is the necessity of finding a new roommate, not an easy task given my general lack of sociability. At this point, I’ll consider taking speculative applications

There are financial pressures as well, coming at a time when I’m living quite adequately but have no savings to speak of. I’ll have to come up with the deposit which I never paid upon moving into this place. Utilities will have to be transferred into my name.

And of course there remains the big question of whether I’m still under rent control when he moves out. The prospect of paying current market rent on a two-bedroom apartment South of Market (or anywhere in San Francisco) is not pretty. In fact, it’s down right terrifying. I’d even consider it an impossibility, more or less.

So then the little anxieties surface. Is it really worth it to continue living here? Should I look on this as a sign that it’s time to get the hell out of this increasingly expensive, rapidly gentrifying city? And if the answer is yes, where exactly should I go and what the hell should I do when I get there? What exactly am I doing with my life anyway?

Oops…maybe that’s the REAL “big anxiety”. It does, after all, come down to that “what do I want to be when I grow up” thing, doesn’t it? Admittedly, it’s hard to address that particular issue with so other more pressing crises piled up in front of me. But, of course, that’s pretty much the same excuse I’ve been using for almost 34 years now…

It’s after 4:00 now. Maybe I should consider trying to go back to sleep or something. Whatever’s coming up can’t harm me while I’m sleeping. If only I WERE sleeping…

Ten Years Ago

Ten years ago this week I was just getting used to a new apartment in Charlotte NC (still the coolest apartment I’ve ever occupied and it rented for $250). I was thoroughly annoyed with fags. I was pondering the oddly disturbing fact that I was about to enter my mid-20s. I had recurring fantasies involving the Beastie Boys having their way with me. I was planning one of my first really major road trips, to Boston and New York with my friend Jeff.

This week in 1998, I’m pondering keeping an apartment in SF (which is about the same size and rents for more than $800) by myself when my roomie moves out. I’m thoroughly annoyed with fags. I’m pondering the less disturbing fact that I’m about to enter my mid-30s. I’d still probably do the Beastie Boys if the opportunity should arise. And I’m planning on Chicago and Minneapolis in the fall.

Yup…it’s birthday time once again. Two weeks from today yer humble host hits 34. I will have outlived Mama Cass and Jesus Christ. I will be the same age as my mother at the time of my birth. And in two short years it will be legal for me to be attracted to people half my age. My birthday will require a tremendous outpouring of support. A list of appropriate gifts is available upon request

Best of the Bay

What I didn’t expect was a phone call from my friend Avery congratulating me for being a Best of the Bay winner in this week’s Guardian. This came out of nowhere! To be voted one of a handfull of the best web sites in the Bay Area by the editors of the best newspaper in the Bay Area is pretty fuckin’ cool! Yer humble host is even more humble thatn usual (though not too humble to mention the award, you’ll note…)

For those of you from outside the area, the Guardian is SF’s equivalent of the Village Voice or the Chicago Reader. There is no publication in the city from which I’d be happier to receive an award. I’ve been reading the annual Best of the Bay issue since before I moved here in 1992. Never figured I’d actually be IN it.

So now I get to be in the winners’ photo shoot in the morning at Kezar Stadium. I get the cool certificate like they have at Naked Eye and Pancho Villa and even Kinko’s (which was voted “Best Insomniac Playground” a few years back). I get the strange satisfaction of seeing my name in newsprint.

This is cool!

Another Year Older

Thanks to all who sent birthday greetings. Best gifts so far came from Mom and Dad, who (among other things) sent me a Matchbox Brady Bunch station wagon and a copy of “Jungle Book” (the animated one, thank you…) I love that I have parents who are cool enough to send me toys and cartoons for my birthday. They KNOW that I love toys and cartoons. They aren’t SCARED that I love toys and cartoons. I love my Mom and Dad. Of course, I’d probably still be pretty fond of them even if they didn’t send me toys and cartoons…

Other than the above, the birthday was pretty uneventful. I had pizza with my roomie and a friend, and then we went to Baskin Robbins. And then I cleaned the commode ‘cuz it smelled kinda funky. Definitely a low-impact day compared with some past birthdays

Crushes

Crushes. Don’t you just hate ’em? I’d think that by the age of 34, I’d be immune to this kind of thing, but I’m not. And this annoys me no end.

I define a crush not as something particularly obsessive, nor even particularly sexual. As a matter of fact, the whole concept seems a little cloyingly sweet for a jaded old cynic like myself. I don’t really want to jump the guy’s bones…it’s more of a desire to curl up and have long conversations. Maybe with a realtively laid back dog at the foot of the bed or something. He’s just a neat guy that I like talking to and would love to spend a lot more time with.

Gag…wretch…puke…

Disillusioned

I must admit that I’m giving much more consideration than ever before to just packing up and leaving the city formerly known as Sodom by the Bay.

It’s sad really. I love it here in many ways. San Francisco is a beautiful place, and I know I would miss the city terribly. This is home. I’ve lived here six years…far longer than anyplace else but Greensboro, the city where I was born. But I’m disillusioned, and I’m beginning to think my own personal California Dream may be just about used up.

It’s hard for me to justify the expense and the stress of living in a boom town. The ridiculous rents. The fear of living in the shadow of the newest loftominium. The threat of being forced out of my apartment on 30 days notice if the owner decides to sell. The knowledge that there would be no place in the city for me to go if this happened.

But there’s more. The idiots who drive (and live) like they’re still in Houston or Denver or Atlanta or whatever other boom town they just moved from. The Starbucks on every corner. The crowds at the movies…at the ATM…at Safeway…in restaurants…on the bus…everywhere…

San Francisco is a boom town. People who don’t have the financial or career status to cope are no longer welcome here. The whole tone of the city is changing. The working class, the artists, and anyone else who can’t (or won’t) buy into the new corporate culture of San Francisco are an endangered species. It’s all career and conspicuous consumption, fueled by the voodoo economies of Silicon Valley and Montgomery Street, among other things.

The new order is not my cup of tea, obviously: a multitude of drones with no moral center or respect for the place they’ve invaded. Vapid corporate slaves in ugly new buildings who don’t know (or care) what they destroyed in the process. And their employers: corporations with even fewer morals which exist not to produce a “product”, but to become an attractive takeover target, providing quick cash for the founders and unemployment for the rest.

This is a population which could vote a chain like Chevy’s “best Mexican restaurant” and Nordstrom “best place to buy men’s and women’s clothing”.”Expensive” and “cute” are fast becoming the two most descriptive terms for almost everything here. “Generic” is a close third.

Of course, it’s all going to crash soon. How long can we sustain a paper economy where no actual goods are produced? How long can the idea of cute industrial condos remain trendy for the short attention spanned yupsters of the late 1990s? At some point, the boom will become a liability, even for businesses and developers. Eventually, people will decide San Francisco is not special enough to justify the cost of living here.

And they’ll be completely correct. The people who made San Francisco special won’t be living here anymore. So many have already left. Many more are leaving, or are seriously considering it. There’s a pervasive sense of hopelessness and doom among many creative people…among many of my friends. San Francisco as we used to know it is over. It’s history. Period.

The most deeply disturbing aspect of this whole thing, I think, is that so few people seem to be concerned about it. I expected more from San Francisco.

I’m tired of complaining about it and wishing things were still the way they used to be. I’m tired of our stylishly arrogant mayor and his slimy developer/banker friends. When reading about the history of the city, I no longer get excited about the foundations of what we have. History now reads more like a eulogy for what we’ve lost. I don’t have any illusions that things are better anyplace else; I simply wonder if it’s worth the effort paying a premium to live someplace which is becoming so very much LIKE everyplace else.

I’m just tired. And I don’t think I’m deriving enough benefit to make the city worth the hassle and risk anymore. Leaving would be a sound investment decision. I’m sure the newcomers would understand.