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: