you got a little, a little rose in your eye

You know what? My heart feels full after years of emptiness. And though I could list you the reasons for this sudden transformation, it's not the point. I'm so full that each time I turn my head, my lens is brightened by some new luscious phenomenon, some new sparkle. Jessica calls it the "confirmation bias", a tendency of our attention to be grabbed by examples of whatever it is that is being tossed around in our minds (a very rudimentary definition, at best). At the current moment, I don't happen to have one particular obsession; rather, an emotional abundance, and this abundance is painting the world in roses.

In the past few weeks, the weather has been magnificent, my job only made me want to cry once, and my dog has been well behaved. But these weeks haven't been without their stresses.  Krysten and I both found out that due to some tax error, we both owe the IRS a lot of money - shocking since we make none. But, like all good friends, we knew that the only way to deal with panic was to brunch and adventure.

rescue brunch #1

this rat WAS invited

Johnny, Krysten, Isabelle and I went to the 6th Avenue Aquarium, clearly a black market fish store behind this flower shop in the Inner Richmond. Like zoos, it's depressing watching caged animals, and yet, roses in my eyeballs turned them into lovely little spectacles.

540 club

(I don't know about you, but whenever I get overwhelmed by feelings of captivity, I need a cocktail. In this case, we went to the nearby 540 club, which, according to the Bay Guardian, is "the best place to toast the impending demise of Capitalism.")

A few days later, Isabelle, Krysten and I decided to go check out the wave organ, a water powered musical instrument created by the Exploratorium in 1986. Built upon a jetty made entirely on the remains of an old cemetery, there's a feeling of ingenuity and loss. I have been reading about the relocation of all the cemeteries in the city, and it was strange to be sitting on this somewhat new sculpture with obvious headstones sticking out of the water in a discarded fashion. 

rescue brunch #2

there once was a door here

The pipes were cool. They gurgled, rumbled and burped. The sun made the water sparkle and the city, across from us, was just as pretty as ever. But the second coolest part to seeing the wave organ was getting there. You have to drive past the Marina Green and down Yacht Road to where it dead-ends at the yacht club. Between the parking lot and the street is a nature path, wide enough for single file, that leads you down the center of a maybe five foot wide strip of green, dotted with redwoods. 

goofing with isabelle

krysten

the weird tombstones

Is it just me, or is this part of the world notorious for paths that go nowhere, or ridiculous, almost impossible to access, methods for travel? I'm thinking of having to take my shoes off to scale down this super steep mountain, to wander through poison oak, just to get to Billy Goat Hill, or about the impossibly small park behind my house, Jury Commons, which is maybe 100 feet long, and ten feet wide at its greatest. Or, the stairs that lead to nowhere in the Winchester Mystery House (which, by the way, is now serving alcohol and allowing slumber parties. Who's in?).

Still, this tiny path was fun, even in its pointlessness. 

Speaking of strange, one of my favorite bars just celebrated its second anniversary, the Rock Bar over on 29th street at Tiffany. Just a few weeks prior, I had found these websites documenting the history of Bernal and La Lengua, and there were a few fascinating accounts of Tiffany Street. Back in the day, about mid-block was the Mission Railroad Depot, and next to that was this crappy hotel that catered to, you guessed it, criminals, prostitutes and waitresses. A week couldn't go by without some scandal happening here, but one I found perhaps the most stomach churning, was one night, there was a gas leak and this alcoholic went to flee his room. Opening what he thought was the door, he walked out his window, on the fourth floor.

Rock Bar lately has been promoting the history of the building. I was surprised to find out that it was built in 1901 and that it's always been a bar in some fashion. From the outside, it look like another architectural disaster from 1973. 

If you've never been there, you shouldn't be surprised that the bar is gimmicky, using rocks as its shtick. Seriously, there are rocks everywhere. The candles are inside rocks, there are rocks on scales, your coaster is a rock (maybe I'm using incorrect geological terms in labeling everything a rock, but I don't care). Point is: Rock Bar loves its rocks. Which is why I was surprised to see advertised, for their second anniversary, that they were going to be offering free donkey rides. Donkeys and rocks? 

Still, they came through. 

Johnny, Isabelle, and a donkey

In other news, I've decided to start volunteering with the California Historical Society and the San Francisco Historical Association, in the hopes that these blogs might actually gain some direction. There may be no hope for me, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. If nothing else, I'll get to see and do lots of pretty things in the meantime.

"One day if I go to Heaven... I'll look around and say, 'It ain't bad, but it ain't San Francisco."

-Herb Cain

Some photos for you:

"Open Up The Till. Give Me The Change You Said Will Do Me Good."

These past few weeks have been eventful ones. There was a masked outdoor opera featuring aerial dancers, a black market fish store with a huge collection of depressed fish, long afternoons spent in the sun, and, as always, good company. But, as my last entry started to say, I feel like I'm always behind things, chasing after something already determined to leave. And not to sound like everyone else in this city right now, but it's difficult not to feel maudlin about the changing culture. You see, I tend to be a bit on the dramatic side, especially when it comes to melancholy. It's difficult to remind myself of how spectacular change really is.

Krysten Gets a Haircut

photo by #jesszakr

I want to write about some points of evolution I discovered this week. And to remind myself that San Francisco, though always in a state of metamorphosis, has always been supported by fighters, innovators, creatives, and ferociously independent people. That's something I don't see changing any time soon.

Yesterday, there was a huge fire in Mission Bay. My instagram feed was flooded with photos from all over the city. As I've mentioned before, fire scares the shit out of me. And it happens here, all the damned time. In reading a book about the 1906 earthquake, I found myself staring for hours at photos of the fire's destruction, wanting to walk among the skeletal remains, wishing (and thankful that I couldn't) that I had seen that skyline myself. 

But it's not the destruction I wanted to mention. In the foreground of these photographs, you can usually see the silhouette of a few people talking, commiserating, scrambling among the debris. Since they aren't the subject of the picture, they are not emphasized, which shows how truly intense destruction can be. These people who's whole lives were (seemingly) ruined were pictured, dwarfed by the shadow of what was. And it's in their posture that you can read them.

I don't know about you, but when I think of the four elements, fire seems to me the most extreme. I was reading about the Shelby Shot Tower, built in 1850, on the north side of California Street.  Thomas Hensy Selby had started the Selby Smelting and Lead Company in 1865, and this 200 foot tower "served as the south side of Market's most prominent industrial structure for forty two years."

In this tower, they made bullets.  When Thomas's son Prentiss expanded the business by purchasing Pacific Refinery and Bullion Exchange, they started refining gold, silver and lead, becoming "the only refinery outside the US Mint."

In the fire following the earthquake, the tower was completely destroyed and all the metal inside melted together, creating an interior mold. Workers had to cut away the building remains, and using an arc, had to cut the metal away in 3-4 feet chunks.

Random picture, Prosecco on Bernal.

With the development of most American cities, I would think that there was a large level of lawlessness that went into it. 

There's a great story about this hotel in Portland. Back in the day, you weren't allowed to build on the waterfront, but one night, this man (I forget his name now) had a bunch of people help, and they erected the exterior of a hotel. The mayor at the time caught wind, and racing down there, arrested the man and had the building dismantled. Unfortunately for the mayor, he "locked" the builder up in a cell without a lock. Homeboy walked out, went to a nearby hardware store, bought a lock and arrested the mayor for property destruction.

San Francisco has had its fair share of lawless law enforcement. In fact, much of San Francisco's success is due to Mayor James "Sunny Jim" Rolph (served 1912-1931) for completely ignoring prohibition. Because of all the brothels and speakeasies, this city was able to flourish. 

His private interests included owning the Pleasure Palace, a whorehouse at 21st and Sanchez.

When running for office, his six week campaign "included fist fights, egg-throwing, police riots - all typical of pre-television-era electioneering."

One great thing Rolph did was support the Clinic, a law that required prostitutes get medical attention regularly and carry a booklet documenting check ups. 

Some pretty fish pictures for you.

Guess who shut that down? The clergy.

One of my favorite stories of this week included this completely preposterous commercial battle between two companies seeking police money in exchange for tear gas. These two "tenacious" salesmen, Joseph Roush and Ignatius H. McCarty (by the way, in the highly unlikely event that I may ever have a child and that child might be a boy, i'd like to name him Ignatius, but that's neither here nor there). Each thought they had their hand in deepest with the chief of police, until...

This battle of sales coincided with the The Big Strike of 1934. 

"McCarty was worried that their billyclubs were too light to split heads open in the way the San Francisco police demanded."

Roush, openly throwing his brand of tear gas into the crowds, was accused of over-shooting, "merely for advertising purposes as it occurred after we had driven the crowd back." 

These salesmen sound like army captains. Roush: "I started in with long range shells and believe me they solved the problem. From then on each riot was a victory for us. During the middle of the day we gathered in all available riot guns that I had and long-range shells and proceeded to stop every riot as it started."

I don't know if it's the water, the high level of alcohol, the microclimates, or the old pioneering spirit, but there has always been an interesting level of confrontation here. In some ways, we will never be able to escape our past. 

In Rome, it is almost impossible to renovate properties, because, should you (almost inevitably) unearth an artifact in your basement, you must cease work forever. Here, it's similar. As much as this city is always changing, we hate to see things crumble.

This masked opera event I went to was a celebration/unveiling party for this artwork attached to the facade of a new skyscraper. My friend had told me that the building was built on an empty lot, therefore not replacing a previous structure. His friend, however, protested the whole event, saying that by offering the public the art on the side of the building, and by us accepting it, we were approving development. 

"Just because a pineapple is delicious and the universal symbol of peace, doesn't mean I'm going to eat it."

This reminded me of a story about the Satanist's curse. 

Fox Plaza, an old theater at 1390- Market Street, with 4,561 seats, was a massive landmark. You could read its sign from the Ferry Building. But in 1963, it was demolished and replaced with a high rise. Before its demolition, the old organ player, and later Satanist leader, Anton Lavey cursed the building, and those that know of this, claim that they building is hexed.

Fox Plaza

Change that comes from politics, nature, economics, things that feel beyond our control, is despised. We feel vulnerable, unprotected, with little recourse. 

However, when change forces rough decisions, sometimes the strength we experience is pretty awesome.

After the earthquake, the city was left dark. The working class neighborhood of Fillmore needed lights in order to extend their working day. They hired the metalsmith, John Hendy to build arches that stretched across the intersections, lighting up the streets to the point of daylight. Fourteen arches were installed, making Fillmore the most illuminated street in the United States. In 1943, the war required the metal, and the merchants (I'm sure begrudgingly) sacrificed these gorgeous metal frames.

Though I wish I had seen the Selby tower of the Fillmore arches, or was here in the beginning, the middle and not what everyone keeps claiming is the end, I'm sure I'd find something else to regret. I'm good at that. Instead, I'm trying to collect the good, the stories, the nuggets. 

Here's a great word of warning, one I'm taking to heart. I need to quit bitching and moaning, because "the downside to this mode of attack was that it increased the chance of a damaging head butt." (The source of this is a book I'm reading about a great epic SF boxing match I'll tell you all about later.)

Daisy Eating the City

Break Your Face. I'm Sick of You, Clock. part one.

i miss everything. i always show up too late. 

and i'd be fine, if i was tardy. my clock is punctual as shit.

but i missed you.

i missed you when i was eighteen. i came six months too late. that rainstorm, the thunder bolts, the fog were more than enough, but you had already committed. 

and then i missed it when i moved to portland, when all the punk bars were closing and gentrification was raging. and i missed it again when i moved to san francisco and this world was ending. and i missed it when i didn't meet you before you were broken. and i missed it when i became broken.

i miss things.

i've always missed things.

i sat on the swings in a playground, by myself, the majority of my childhood, singing songs to my handy-me-down shoes about how one day i'd catch up. i'd be on the grabbing end. but i even missed it then. i missed it when my bio-dad split and my childhood was formed. and worse, i missed it when my family got better and i was told about all of that later, in a letter.

and i'm sitting here, on my sad bed watching the clouds blow beautiful colors. 

i should have named my dog 'tail lights', as i'm always chasing after them.

i'd like to reminisce about all the beautiful things created from a space of lack.  that's the history of the world. i wish i were that brave. 

and i do. don't get me wrong. i collect, i create, i pay my obeisance. but for once, i want something for me, truly for me, a brand new, sparkling red thing. and since i'm in a mood for asking, i'm just gonna say...

i'd love for once to see eyes look at me without the bruises from another's hand.

i'd like to feel a heart beat free beside me.

i'd love to discover something unknown and precious. or watch someone else discover.

i'd love to show you, the you whom i've yet to meet, this beauty i feel within me, this thing that is still fresh. 

it's a good thing tail lights look awfully pretty in the rain light. as long as they're sparkly, i'll chase them forever.

expect a more coherent entry soon. i am formulating. just thought i'd share this current barf.