Garter Belts or No: These Girls Are On the Move

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Ambrose Bierce:

"Garter: an elastic band intended to keep women from coming out of her stockings and desolating the country."

This week's adventure is further focusing on friendship and exploration, and it strangely took place on a Sunday.  

If you know anything about me, you'll know that I never have weekends off, a point of largely growing bitterness within me. I had scheduled to have this day off because I was invited to this David Bowie birthday costume extravaganza the night before, but as always happens, the person I had intended to go with flaked leaving me alone and without a plan. 

My mother used to always say, "never let the grass grow under your feet" when it comes to waiting for men. Like any self respecting girl, when this Irish gentlemen offered to buy me whiskey as a consolation, I agreed, followed by sharing a bottle of Champagne with my Danish roommate.

The next morning, though anticipating being hungover anyway, I was surprised to find myself ready and refreshed... well... and deeply anxious about my adventure planned with Jessica.

A little backstory. I don't know if you've always been socially successful, but I certainly have not. Until about fifteen, I didn't have any consistent friends, and it wasn't until college when people really started to seek me out. You'd think that by now, I'd be used to friendly overtures, but kill a beast! I'm petrified and deeply confused when anyone pursues me for any reason at all.

Daisy

Meet Jessica: I'm sorry. This chick is just seriously fucking badass. I'm sure you have those friends. Here's this babe I met multiple times in various states of alcohol consumption, and each time she left me with this very weird, fuzzy feeling. I mean here was this beautiful woman talking me up every time we saw each other. Granted, she was trying to talk to my painfully adorable pug, and who could blame her, but really? 

It wasn't until she randomly invited me to her birthday brunch that the tide began to change.

Since then, we've agreed to pursue our friendship. Actually this agreement has come out in hilarious drunken declarations. "Girl! I freakin' love you! Let's be best friends forever!"

I know I sound about fourteen right there, but like I said, I'm a serious late bloomer.

Anyway, Sunday morning I came anxious. She's so together, you know? She's smart and savvy and witty and funny, and did I mention that her hair mimics the sky at that breathtaking moment of sunset? I was hungover, un-showered, riding my shitty bike with broken pedals, desperately trying to act unaffected.

She didn't seem to notice.

I put her in charge. We rode bikes through the Mission, down the recently and much improved Cesar Chavez, around the loop-di-loo into Bayshore, only to find ourselves desperately lost. 

Well, even getting lost can be entertaining....

Bierce again: "Entertainment: Any kind of amusement whose inroads stop short of death by dejection."

The thing with girls (please don't hate me for sometimes falling into the gender stereotype) is that they tend to be more courteous than men. I mean, come on! When was the last time you rode bikes with a male messenger? These guys are fucking terrible! They ditch you, pick fights with cars, break all the laws, and essentially leave you in their dust, chewing your heart, desperate not see them mutilated by oncoming traffic. 

Girls, on the other hand, and Jessica in particular, can be just as savvy (despite the messenger's criticism), and just as quick, and though we were desperately lost on horribly maintained roads, Jessica kept a backwards eye fixed on me, making sure I was ok.

The Old Clam House

Wandering through the comforting wasteland of the old industrial area, we found ourselves on Bayshore Boulevard, and though it was labeled as being bike friendly, it was 100% not. We walked our bikes for a good mile or so until we found ourselves in front of the Old Clam House, thirsty. 

This is San Francisco's oldest, continually operating restaurant.

Built in 1861, this restaurant sat atop on old pier overlooking the salt marshes that led to Mission Bay. It was begun as Oakdale Bar and Clam House, and the owners Ambrose and Anna would serve a schooner of steam beer for a nickel and free lunch, including soup, eggs and sliced meat. Though it is currently owned by the owners of Stinking Rose, Calzones and the Franciscan, they still serve the complementary clam broth and sourdough bread.

We ordered bloody marys.

While posting photos of our beverages on Instagram, Jessica asked the origin of the name Bloody Mary.

Apparently, it's considered "the world's most complicated cocktail" and though there is much dispute as to its place of origin, it is most likely created at the 21 Club in New York in 1939.  

"George Jessel's newest pick-me-up which is recieving attention  from the town's paragraphers is called a Bloody Mary: half tomato juice, half vodka."

There is one theory that the cocktail got its name from a coctail waitress named Mary who served drinks at the terribly unappealing bar called, Bucket of Blood in Chicago. Really? Bucket of Blood?

The most compelling theory is that the name came from a failure to pronounce the Slav syllables in Vladimir, as Fernand Petiot (the man attributed to adding the ingredients we know now) mixed this drink for Vladimir Smirnov , of the Smirnoff family.

We finally made it to the flea market. We haggled, cajoled, vacilated, and in the end, we each got what we were looking for: jewelry.

Someone was selling my Granny's dinnerware.

Hard Knox Cafe

Shopping and alcohol are known to make girls hungry, so we decided to head over to Dogpatch for a late lunch. We went to the Hard Knox Cafe, a delicious Southern style restaurant typically decorated in tin walls and license plates. Now, I don't know if you've ever had this problem, but being vegetarian in certain restaurants can be downright difficult, especially when people often like to put bacon, pork fat, and chicken broth on EVERYTHING. Nevertheless, we discovered their veggie plate: three side dishes of your choosing. We decided to get one each and share, and holy shit. That macaroni and cheese might have been the best thing I put in my mouth for days. Chewy, creamy, wonderful. Get some today!

 A side note about the servers. Having worked in service industry forever, the main draw (outside of the tips) that keeps me here is the fun of it. It's such a social job and when you get to interact with interesting customers, your day just goes so much faster. Sadly, at my current job, fun is very much frowned upon, so when our servers were smiley, and dare I even say it, euphoric,  a part of me kind of died. 

Still: maintaining momentum to get out of my current hell!

Dogpatch Saloon. 

Well, beer with lunch wasn't enough, so we crossed the street to the recently re-opened and renovated Dogpatch Saloon, originally opened in 1912. 

I know I keep going on about how much I like Jessica, but you have to bear with me. It is obnoxiosly difficult to find the right combination in a friend, and in my case, to find a hyper-intelligent, motivated woman who loves drinking, has a  sardonic sense of humor AND likes me- holy shit! Get out of town!

And best of all, she is really good talking me through my bizarrely neurotic moments. 

For example, the Dogpatch Saloon is exactly what you would expect from a bar one hundred years old. There was a corner with the obligatory piano, the old school style wood tables and chairs.... and then there was the bathroom. 

I was explaining to Jessica my ridiculous fear of public bathrooms, which stems from watching too many horror films. I told her of the time I got personally trapped in the women's restroom at Vesuvio (see: the epic quest for chinese whiskey), when I convinced myself that there was a ghost on the other side of the door.

In a completely non-patronizing voice, Jessica explained A) the ghost was purely a figment of my imagination and B) if there actually was a ghost, there was nothing I could possible do to stop whatever may happen. So fuck it. Just leave the bathroom already.

Though I think this logic of hers will save me in the end, I'm still not quite so ready to believe in non-believing. I've seen too many things to pretend otherwise.

That said, new adventure topic: ghost adventures, san francisco style.

"Ghost: the outward and visible sign of an inward fear."

Jessica and Daisy.

Nevertheless, this adventure was wonderful. As much as I'm disconcerted by the approach of a new friendship, I'm equally not surprised when men offer criticism of my life. Recently, a date had accused me of being a control freak, someone who wanted to mastermind the universe (all because I was upset that at 42 years of age, he couldn't figure out how to use an alarm clock to  be on time). I'll have you know that I let Jessica lead the full day, and I'm so thrilled that I did. She took me to areas I never would have known. We ate and drank at places we've never been to but have always wanted to go. She let me bore her with my weird assortment of historical lore, she walked my dog (later we picked up Daisy to continue our adventure, bar hopping through the Mission) and the whole while, I got to know her better.

Though this blog has maybe veered from tourism in general, I think it's still very much about exploration. When you live in a city that varies so dramatically with each turn, any chance to get outside teaches us something different. I'm not worried that she and I won't be friends, or that we are nearing some detrimental impasse (as often happens with me and new friendships), but I do very much hope that we can continue to share this adventurous spirit!

The coolest flea market find, EVER. 

fallen monuments

Bolivar

Flood Building

I'm not sure how my friends feel, but this week's adventure struck me as unpredictable, poorly planned and with an outcome that shocked the hell out of me.

Bill Graham Civic Auditorium. The vases up top mimic those on the Palace of Fine Arts.                  

I had intended this week to explore Beaux-Arts architecture in San Francisco. 

A brief definition of the style: 

"Of or relating to an architectural style originating in France in the late 19th century and characterized by classical forms, symmetry, rich ornamentation, and a grand scale."

where's the side of this building?

In 1893, in celebration of the rise of Industrialism, Chicago hosted their World's Columbian Exposition, a world's fair that dramatically influenced architecture and fine art. Daniel Burnham, one of the chief architects, was hired to design what he considered to be the most beautiful city, based on the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and when that was a raging success, San Francisco decided to follow suit.

Chicago World's Fair

Daniel Burnham

A note on Daniel Burnham: According to PBS, "His work sought to reconcile things often thought opposite. The practical and the ideal, business and art, and capitalism and democracy. At the center of it all was the idea of vibrant urban community."

As the story goes, he was hired to come here and redesign the entire city. He wanted to put in a major boulevard that led to the city's center. He wanted the buildings to rival the most beautiful ones in Paris and Washington DC. 

Building began but was quickly curtailed by the earthquake. Because this city is run by local proprietors, the rebuilding focused more on getting business back up and running, and less about Burnham's City Beautiful.

Nevertheless, there are still old relics from this era, buildings that really speak to opulence and ornamentation, and since this city is already so freaking beautiful, I thought it would be fun to focus on only one style of aesthetic perfection.

Barbary Coast plaque, maintained by Microsoft.

Well... that's where things went terrible wrong. 

Our plan for the day was to walk to the Hibernia Bank building and then over to Civic Center, and somewhere on the way to stop for lunch and Pisco Punch. 

I have been reading Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary, a dictionary he compiled after the Civil War. Known for his scathing wit and dry sense of humor, he was a very formidable character in Old San Francisco. He had a description for Brandy that was all too impressive:

"Brandy: a cordial composed of one part thunder-and-lightning, one part remorse, two parts bloody murder, one part death-hell-and-the-grave, and four parts clarified Satan. Dose, a headfull all the time. Brandy is said by Dr. Johnson to be the drink of heroes. Only a hero will venture to drink it."

The girls were quickly enthralled to discover just how picturesque this city is once you really start to look up. Too often to we find ourselves in autopilot, navigating crowds, looking down, looking at our phones, to forget all that surrounds us. Me, being the natural space cadet that I am, seldom suffer from such a problem, but I did relish in seeing friends notice things for the first time.

Golden Gate Theater

Cameras out, we found ourself stopping often. Too often... By now, we had entered the Tenderloin, or "little Saigon", San Francisco's most violent area. Known for robbery and aggravated assault, I'm always on the defense here... well... until today. Trying to offer insights regarding the buildings, we all got too absorbed in our photo taking to notice the groups of people circling in. Thankfully, Spencer corralled us out of there, and not a minute too soon. 

We made it to Hibernia Bank, at 1 Jones Street, a gorgeous old bank now under a much disputed form of reconstruction. Begun in 1859 as a bank for the people, it was rebuilt by Albert Pisses (In an style intended to "capture the hearts of San Franciscans") and completed just before the earthquake. But from 1908 on, this building was in a long state of decay.

Quick note regarding the earthquake. With the safe compromised, the city needed some kind of protection to thwart robbers. They hired a bunch of large armed men to camp out on the front steps. 

These guys.

Since then, it became a police precinct, but has been abandoned since 2000. Purchased in 2008, the new owner wants to renovate the building for private offices, but the city is fighting back, adamant that the beauty of its interior be protected.

In front of the bank, I shared another Ambrose Bierce quote. 

"Abatis: rubbish in front of a fort, to prevent the rubbish outside from molesting the rubbish inside." The building was surrounded, and therefore blocked by a large wooden wall. 

While we were discussing this, we were oblivious to the fact that Spencer was getting in an increasingly heated confrontation with a woman demanding money from us.

(Claustrophobic and stressed out, we ducked into this Thai bar for quick libations.)

Our next stop: Civic Center:

City Hall was built in 1915, in time for the Panama Pacific International Exposition held here, by John Bakewell and Arthur Brown Jr. It was intended to rival Paris and to outsize the Capital Building in Washington. After the 1989 earthquake, the dome was retrofitted to sit atop rollers. Should another earthquake strike, it will just roll around. 

The gold leafing was an addition, a status symbol of the opulence of the dot com era in the 1990s.

City Hall

This is an interesting plaza in that it has always been the center of San Francisco's liberal politics. It was here that the massive anti-McCarthy protests were held, where riots happened when Harvey Milk's murderer was given a very lenient sentencing, where the first gay-marriage was conducted. It was also here that the treaty ending the Pacific War with Japan was signed.

Spencer informed us that years ago, there used to be pools in between the trees, but after a lack of upkeep they were drained, becoming a great spot for skateboarders. Obviously, no city likes skaters-  the pools were filled.

When looking at City Hall, to the left is the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium, the first building built for the PPIE and the last to still exist. It was given to the city by the Exposition, a $1 million dollar present.

Now, there are a million little random facts I could share with you regarding architectural decision making or even juxtaposing these old relics against their neighboring modern skyscrapers, but what really interests me is the sheer Americaness of that experience. Here we were on a quest to explore and enjoy these neglected symbols of opulence while being completely surrounded by the city's most neglected. 

Me, sitting on Abe Lincoln's lap, clearly NOT political.

Though I have worked very long and hard in life to not buy into one political party over another, nor to claim to actually know anything, I have to admit that that simple juxtaposition was overwhelming. With this city's great push to evolve, with the huge, heavy handed impact of gentrification, it's shocking to see these impressively large and spectacular buildings left in such a state of decay. Concurrently, it's terrible to think that these buildings should be renovated in order to celebrate their beauty, when, to do that, would case massive evictions (for the city's most impoverished) and another area overrun with the wealthy. Also, like I mentioned in my last entry, I find it terrible fascinating to watch symbols of our history fall, while also celebrating the need for such things TO fall. 

The day felt like a bust to me. I was depressed at my priviledge, at my temporary blindness to the situation, my desperate desire to avoid what was happening on the sidewalks in favor of pretty walls. And though I don't want to pick sides, I have to say that today was truly the most poignant and happenstance example I think I could have experienced of America's wealth differential. While the rich keep getting richer, they just abandon their "garbage" for the rest to move into.

Beaux-Arts is an art movement from over a century ago, from a competely different world, and one that I don't think anyone would dare rejuvenate. Beauty for beauty's sake is a wasteful and dangerous thing.

One last note: we did finally find a glass of Pisco Punch, a signature San Francisco drink at this bar in Hayes Valley called Absinthe. Pisco is a Peruvian brandy, and in the end of the 19th century, it was blended with pineapple juice and simple syrup by Duncan Nicol, on the spot where the Transamerica Building now stands. Despite being a famed mixology bar, our bartender didn't know the drink. Using his phone, he found a recipe, and though delicious, it didn't quite add up to the description written by Rudyard Kipling:"compounded of the shavings of cherub's wings, the glory of a tropical dawn, the red clouds of sunset and the fragments of lost epics of dead masters." 

the seduction of america's phoenix, part one

I have decided that my blog is insincere. As I'm still trying to find my "voice", I try to moderate the criticism, guide the self-loathing into something beneficial. Today, I have decided to do something different. I'm just going to write, itinerary free.

With Candlestick closing, I find myself reflecting on how much this city has changed in my life and how much that change has affected me. 

When I was a child, my father and I used to go to Giants' games at the Stick, and if you've been there, you know; it's miserably cold.  But that's it's charm. We would pack blankets and sweaters, our jeans would be tight from the long johns, and we would stuff ourselves on Polish sausages. And though AT & T is a way cooler stadium, I know that I'll never have those same moments, feel that same fear and ironic safety of being left alone while Dad went in search of a beer. 

You can now buy seats from the stadium in sets of two.

Though Candlestick is ugly and outdated, it makes me sad that this dinosaur will soon be no more. I don't understand how as humans, we are creatures of habit, and yet, as Americans, we feel the need to constantly tear down and rebuild. What if Candlestick could be America's version of the Colosseum? I remember in the 1989 earthquake, my parents were at the stadium for the World Series (I was home with my infant sister and a very terrified young baby-sitter). Dad told me how he and his friend Ray were on the upper deck with the whole thing started shaking. Once they realized that the game was canceled and everyone was forced to leave, they found the parking lot full of people trying to sell pieces of the stadium's roof.

I have a friend who is an avid collector. Anytime the city is dug up for renovation, he sneaks into the dirt in hopes of finding old glass or relics from before the 1906 earthquake. It wasn't until maybe this past week that I started to realize just how huge the impact that earthquake had on this city. Kindly referred to as "America's Phoenix", San Francisco suffered what is considered the largest disaster in American history. The mind reels to understand that only 303 of it's original 28,000 buildings were left standing!  Or how the city rallied so quickly together to rebuild, that they averaged restoring 15 buildings  a day!

When I first moved here, I was amazed at how self-referential this city is, how many people have SF tattoos. No one in Portland would ever be caught seen with an I ♥ PDX tattoo, and yet here, it's almost commonplace. How can people love a place that  much? 

I was at my favorite local dive bar about a year ago when my ex-best friend's ex-boyfriend walked in. He travels the world for his job, so it shouldn't be surprising to randomly run into him, but I thought it odd to find him here, at the Attic, a bar you kind of have to know about to a) find and b) risk the smell to hang out. Nevertheless, we had a beer together. I was bemoaning my life, saying that I felt ruled by my rent; I pay triple what I paid in Portland for 1/10th of the space. I have to paint in my bedroom (which is actually the living room) because I can't afford my room AND a studio. 

Adrain told me to shut up. "You live in the most beautiful city in the world and you afford it by waiting tables." He went on to illustrate how my lifestyle is perfect. I walk to work, I have sunlight almost 365 days of the year, I live in a city where every day is a celebration, and hell, I can take my dog anywhere (she was sitting on my lap at the time). The next morning, as I started painting in my tight little corner, the sadness started to creep back in, well, until I looked out the window at the sight of Twin Peaks in one window, and Bernal Hill in the other. He's right. I was being a big ol' baby.

But still, though that was the first planting of my city-love, it wasn't enough to plunge me head first. Despite how much beauty and exciting history and wonderful things there are here to explore, there are still earthquakes, and worse, fires. Everyone I know that has lived here for more than five years has personally been effected by fire. When I first moved here, I was living on South Van Ness in this dumpy apartment with a psychopath. This one afternoon, I was in my room working on something when my other roommate (the nice one- at least back then) started beating on my door, saying to grab Daisy; our building was on fire. Naturally, we ran. 

this was another fire, recently

Though it turned out that a downstairs neighbor had left beans on the stove and went to work, and it was only a small fire, it was deeply unnerving. I had only been here about four months and already there were three large fires in my neighborhood and now this.

Around this time, I was working in an office in SOMA and every day would ride my bicycle down Harrison street. At Alabama there is this large mural depicting a major fire, and in the center is a woman floating through the air, holding the skeletal frame of an umbrella. As an artist, I tend to read things differently. I don't often put context on things when I first see them. I don't listen to lyrics. I have to re-read non-fiction multiple times to remember that these aren't metaphors explaining some existential dilemma but hard truths. Everyday that I passed this mural, I thought it a beautiful work of surrealism; what a lovely experience, to float through the world with an ineffective umbrella. 

Sadly, my friend informed me that years ago, that building had gone up in flames, killing many, and that people on the higher floors actually did try to use umbrellas to carry them to safety.

As with any disaster, there is always the aftermath. We must always keep moving forward. These buildings get rebuilt fancier and more expensive. The people displaced by fire can never move back in. Evolution.

And it's this  constant forward thinking that has me wondering. The SFMOMA is currently closed due to renovations, and in the meantime, they have scattered their collection around the Bay Area (a cheap attempt at appeasing the public if you ask me, but I didn't think the museum needed changing to begin with). According to my grandmother, who lives in Los Altos, Charles Garoian is an artist there who has put out a call for contributors. He wants people to embrace boredom, to turn off our phones, to just stop. "You are invited to disconnect from the distractions of digital mediation in order to experience the boredom of silence, quietude, and the slowness of actual time as a radical (political) act."  

He has recommended a few cute things to get you started such as "Spend time humming or singing whatever internal dialogue is going on in your mind" or to turn everything in one room upside down. 

I find this project compelling, especially in lieu of some other sad news I read the other day. One of the members of one of my favorite local bands, Thee Oh Sees, has decided to move to Los Angeles as a form of protest or resignation. He's fed up with the increasing gentrification, the massive dependence on technology, our addictions to our smart phones. And though I appreciate his passion/stubborness/refusal to change, I also think that we do need to evolve. We need to keep moving forward, but maybe at half the speed of today.

I'm telling you all this because these are my meditations on my deeply growing love of this pioneering city. That here, there is such intrinsic beauty (both natural and manufactured), such monoliths to remind us of our history, and yet the increasing flood of google buses rushing in the future, that I find myself torn. People all around me keep talking about how our San Francisco is gone, that art is dying, that the spirit is being snuffed out, and yet I look at that mural of the girl with her umbrella. There will always be someone here to document what's passed, to help us remember our evolution. There is no end, just change. 

Here are some of my favorite San Francisco moments. And just you wait... there will be many, many more to come.

my morning light, every day.

anyone know the name of this tree?

someone's curtains

someone's altar to a penis, dia de los mertos

hamming it up with krysten

boats

a beautiful wood map of the city that i'll never be able to afford

the view from my roof, one direction

parade

cool

that guy 

the view from my kitchen

when the giants won the world series

sutro baths

palace of fine arts

playing the tourist, tonga room

The Changing Light

  by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The changing light
                 at San Francisco
       is none of your East Coast light
                none of your
                            pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
                        is a sea light
                                       an island light
And the light of fog
                   blanketing the hills
          drifting in at night
                      through the Golden Gate
                                       to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
       after the fog burns off
            and the sun paints white houses
                                    with the sea light of Greece
                 with sharp clean shadows 
                       making the town look like
                                it had just been painted

But the wind comes up at four o'clock
                                     sweeping the hills

And then the veil of light of early evening

And then another scrim
                  when the new night fog
                                        floats in
And in that vale of light
                      the city drifts
                                    anchorless upon the ocean