one for my baby, and one more for the road

"I spent half my money on gambling, alcohol and wild women. The other half I wasted."(W.C. Fields)

Instead of my usual Monday morning greeting me with sunshine and mimosas, I was sadly awakened with the news that my favorite watering hole was closed. Though we all had been anticipating this for a while, it still came as a bit of a shock. There had been no actual notice, no proper 'goodbye'.

And it's particularly tough to stomach considering the long list of other recent closures in the Mission. 

About a year and a half ago, I was at this art opening for the local painter Brett Amory. It was called '24', and it was a series documenting the changes in the city. He had gone around to old landmarks with a video camera, and filmed each location for one hour. On one wall in the gallery, he had twenty four screens up showing the footage. In the main room, he had taken stills from these films and turned them into oil paintings. A bit Gerhard Richter, they had a vintage charm to them, a blurring line of the passing time.

I was there with a native San Franciscan who I caught silently weeping in the corner. I asked her what was wrong and she said that it was almost too painful to see how much things have changed.

That was a year and a half ago.

What do we do in the face of change and discomfort? Usually, we gather around the familiar, seek the solace of loved ones, pour a few...

When I was first moving back to the Bay Area, I was talking with my father, "I wonder if I'll start drinking less now that I'm leaving Portland."

My father flat out guffawed. "Kid, this is San Francisco."

The other morning, I was reading about the history of Fernet and why it's so popular here. 

Here's a little ferneducation for those of you that don't know.

SF is responsible for 25% of the United States total consumption.

A beverage recommended for "overeating, flatulence, hangovers, gas pains [and] lifting yourself off the floor when you've mixed oysters and bananas (bananas=ketamine)"

R Bar in the Tenderloin "pours more Fernet than anybody in the country, mostly as shots, and goes through about 100 bottles a week."

Did you know that that mint flavor is actually saffron, an extremely expensive flavor at $900 a pound? Fernet uses 75% of the world's saffron supply and controls the global market.

"Hemingway hated it, Hunter Thompson lampooned it, Sean Penn told an interviewer that it had treated him to the best shits of his life."

"Italy's gift to the world" was exclusively marketed to women, until 1913, as a pain reliever, but it's long-lived popularity in this city is due to Prohibition. Because it was marketed as a medicine, it became the only legal liquor served in San Francisco.

I was getting awfully thirsty thinking of this "licorice-flavored listerine,' when my friend Keith texted me, telling me to come to the Attic. There was going to be a very small closing party for the regulars.

I quickly chucked my day's to-do list in the garbage, grabbed a scarf and my dog and raced over.

About Keith:  "Dear cowboy-hat-wearing-bartender-who-makes-amazing-$3-­manhattans-on-Sunday-nights-and-is-extremely-­friendly-and-nice-and-treats-people-with-care-­even-though-this-isn't-any-place-fancy-or-­expensive-where-such-service-should-be-found-but-­is-often-not-found-comma-sadly-comma-but-you-do-­it-anyway,

"You got a sister?"

(yelp review)

If you've ever spent several years in one place, you know what it feels like to look at it for the last time. Each corner is thick with memories and associations. Each song the bartender plays is like a lullaby, a song so familiar and sweet...

I swear, I hadn't intended to get nostalgic here, but it's difficult.

I went through old photos yesterday to put together an album. How many friendships began and ended here? How many failed love affairs? Lost clothing, well intended promises quickly forgotten, bad ideas and even worse jokes? Dance parties, holidays, birthdays, bar fights. Hell, I even got caned out front by an 85 year old woman who was offended by my short shorts.  This bar was epic.

In reading old Yelp reviews, I found a couple real charmers:

"Do you ever wonder where a serial killer might go to grab a drink'? Yeah this would be it... This place is dingy dirty filthy... which reminds me there's a reason why people don't go to spend time in their attics and this is it... I was afraid to sit in their beer sticky booths... the floors even more so sticky... the spot seriously gave me the creeps... even my hard core thrash metal loving husband got turned off from this place. I'm guessing this would be a place that John Taffer would throw in the towel... Bar seriously needs rescuing."

Or there's this one: Q: What's worse than being surrounded by the acrid stench of vomit?  

A: Being in a sweltering, muggy room surrounded by the acrid stench of vomit - so that when you sweat, you feel that the moisture on your skin is now attaching the stink to you.

Over the past few days, Facebook has read as an obituary, everyone bemoaning the loss of of our collective living room, worried about finding the next location, almost desperate to keep together, holding firm to the unexpected and unlikely camaraderie fostered here. One friend was saying that he now feels homeless, like all his family have gone. 

I think that's it. Hear me out. I grew up in bars. There is probably no place in the world more comfortable to me than a bar stool, and though I try to abstain from judgment when it comes to watering holes, there was an elusive charm to the Attic that excelled above the rest. I used to look around at all the dust, the corpse above the bar, the hole in the wall with a note, "$20" (meaning the bartender would pay you twenty bucks to climb into what looked like the mouth of hell), and wonder why I liked it so much. The place fucking stank. There were weeks when no one could locate the dead thing in the walls. The toilets were always breaking. One day, in the bathroom, the bulb burned out and I had the coldest shiver of real fear ripple down my spine. This was the last place on earth you would want to be caught unaware.

But it was this neglected, overgrown, well-worn hovel that seemed to open its arms to all those equally neglected and weather worn. 

One of my favorite books is called La Batarde by Violette Leduc. It's her memoir of growing up an orphan. Early in the story, she was describing the countless nights she spent, ear glued to the radio, listening to nothing but radio waves, thinking that this was the one sound in the world all orphans hear. She thought that only orphans should marry orphans, since they are the only ones to ever know true loneliness.

For me, coming to the Attic was kind of like that. 

Some of the regulars have joked that the only action now is to quit drinking entirely. 

Perhaps I should again listen to the Dating guide I've been reading:

"Many a charming girl rises to the height of social attainment today without tasting anything stronger than soda water. Real social grace comes from what you have within your mind and heart, not what you pour down your gullet. Personality, not highballs, is what unlocks the door to social preferment."

Meh. 

I'm more in step with W.C. Fields, "Everybody's got to believe in something. I believe I'll have another drink."

The only question is where?

"Chillaxin low-key vibe,  

Feels like your leaving life, going on a ride,

Dark corners lit by dim red lights, 

Funky lamps, nothing too bright,

Long narrow hall leading to a small back space,

People minglin all in good taste,  

Mingus and Jeff spinnin cool tunes and beats, 

Gets me up dancin on my feets,

Leave whatever BS attitude at the door,

Come in and enjoy the vibe and more."

(another yelp review)

                                           RIP Attic. You will be missed.

'what can you do for me, you nasty frog?'

This entry is going to be a smorgasbord as I can't seem to tell my head from my ass.

Confused, sad, nervous and excited, I hit the highway on Tuesday. Bit by the traveling bug, I decided to invoke my own pioneering spirit. And because I took the old fashioned form of travel, I had a lot of  time to think…

train station, san jose

I want to talk about love, the failure of romance, the desire to conquer, change, manipulate and pay homage to people present and gone, and all of that with a background of California images.

I took the bus from San Jose to San Luis Obispo, listening to traveling tunes the whole way, embracing each mile that took me further away from everything I was hoping to forget. 

The scenery unfolded, like a great green cashmere blanket. It's difficult to accept global warming and the already disastrous effects it's having on the rest of the world when, in each direction I look I see paradise. Palm trees dot the horizon, roses sit between rows of vines, and that sun just doesn't quit.

best sister ever

I met my sister at the train station and we hightailed it to the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa. I vaguely remember visiting this mission when I was in the fifth grade, and, like all my other childhood memories, I could still feel the bleating heat against my shoulders. There's something about California Missions that always makes me sweat. 

san luis obispo de toloso

Like all churches, this was placed in a volatile location with the simple intention of conversion. Missions were supposed to facilitate self-government but when this failed and California was incorporated into the United States, Mexico passed a decree for secularization. 

The government was free to sell the missions. This one went for $500 and was used as a courthouse and jail until Archbishop Alemany asked the government to return it.

santa ines

A few days later, my sister and I traveled down to Solvang and checked out their Mission Santa Ines, a tacky little mission surrounded by a beautiful garden.

In the back, there was a plaque marking the location of California's first higher education institution. A fence bordered a pit, six feet square. It must have been a mighty small school.

Recently, Krysten was asking me why I like to explore churches, and at the time, the only thing I could think to answer was that having been raised Atheist I am free of any religious feelings (guilt, rejection, anger, solace).

Churches to me indicate history, power. They are the remains of a once successful form of propaganda, and in studying and collecting the images of this dogma, I gain a better understanding of our cultural symbols, our visual language. 

In fact, the more that I think about it, the more I realize that I'm a collector of all things: experiences, characters, objects, images, sounds, flavors. It's difficult to ever nail me down for anything, as there will always be something else to take me away. 

Speaking of these kinds of distractions, this reminds me of an article I was reading about the dating scene in San Francisco. As we've all heard/bitched about/participated in, in the hetero world, there's the argument that men never hit on women, or if they do, then the woman needs to be prepared for the Peter Pan complex. 

Frankly, I'm sick of that argument and experience. This article offered a different perspective. It was talking about how many people have moved to this city over-educated and self-reliant. Because of that, relationships are less needed or desired. 

The author went on to relate this to our geography: "…the West Coast represents the next thing. And that, in the end, is what people like [me] are programmed to seek. It's not goal-orientation, it's progress-orientation. It's the reason most of us have never stayed at a company more that two business cycles, the reason at my one year business school reunion the predictable answer to the question 'how are things going?' was 'Fantastic! Totally kicking ass… Have you heard of any interesting opportunities lately?'"

"How does this translate to personal relationships? A desperate fear of settling, an overly-attuned eye for flaws, and a thirty-year old habit of uninhibited self-prioritization."

I've been accused of being fickle my entire life. Dating has always managed to get in the way of me, and though I think I really want to be with someone, to care for someone beyond myself, frankly, those people just manage to piss me off.

Why? Honestly? They just never seem to have enough stamina. 

What results is a collection of failed romances, stacks of paintings documenting my emotional catastrophes, image after image of things intended to distract me.

Why do people collect? 

Jessica is working on a project researching hoarders and the psychological ailments that lead them to such strange behavior. 

I've known a hoarder and it was bizarre watching the panic that would ensue if a pile of what appeared to be garbage got shifted slightly. Getting this person out of the door was impossible, as there was a never ending list of things they had to complete to get there. 

Not all collecting is bad. Let's look at William Randolph Hearst and his eclectic castle in San Simeon. 

Having the intention of building a house on the site where his family had camped for years, it started out as a humble project. But then twenty eight years later the palace was created with hundreds of rooms, two pools, and looping gardens littered with art and flowers. 

Our tour guide (in costume) talked about how critics have had a difficult time with his collection, as he collected everything. Most collectors focus on one or two things.  And though this palace hadn't begun as a labor of love, it eventually turned into something akin to the American version of the Taj Mahal.  

"Legend has it that when he was first courting [Marion Davies] he reserved two seats (one for himself and one for his hat) at every performance of the follies for two months."

Though he was openly cheating on his wife (whom he never divorced), his affair with Marion is always gold-plated. Maybe it's because she was a starlet and their house extravagant, and maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I think he's still just a cheater.

According to my new bible (thanks Isabelle) The Art of Dating: Necking, Petting and Popularity: Wisdom from the 1940s, "A cheat, chiseler, or flirt reveals an untrustworthy type of person, usually selfish and untruthful. A lie is told without hesitation and attempts are made to convey false impressions. The person who will cheat usually is a liar. He attaches little, if any, sacredness to a vow or promise. There is little guarantee that he will treat the marriage pledge with respect if it is convenient to ignore it."

And like relationships that end in betrayal, so too did my train ride. I had decided to take the Starlight Express from San Luis Obispo back to San Jose, a train that was supposed to romantically hug the coastline. And though the scenery was pretty for a bit, just like all lovely things, it came to a screeching halt. We lost power and had to sit, completely stationary, for two and a half hours. 

One of the last bastions of old fashioned romanticism had come to a standstill. 

Though I think Hearst is despicable, he was an interesting philanthropist. 

When we entered the billiard room, we were greeted by two women in period costume playing pool.  Apparently, in the 1930s, after dinner, it was expected that both genders go to the game room, a tradition exclusively reserved for men. Hearst felt that it was perfectly acceptable for women to play alongside. 

This served as a double purpose. Not only were his guests partaking in taboo activities, but it emptied the dinning room for the staff to clear it. Once all their tasks were done, staff AND guests reconvened in the movie theater to watch a film together. 

Hearst also became interested in the plight of the declining missions, and having donated $500,000, and sold them his Valley of the Oaks, restoration on Mission San Antonio was able to begin. 

"Today Mission San Antonio de Padua is [the] only mission with a setting that is almost identical to the landscape of the mission era, more than two centuries ago."

In staying in San Luis Obispo, it was a charming experience to see how somethings never change. We were in town (though we didn't go) for the annual tractor pull. We saw this strapping team of rather burly looking men at the Thursday night Farmer's Market, the largest weekly social outing in town.

In Solvang, we saw a town that tried to mimic and preserve the architecture of Denmark. Horse trolleys toured the street. There was an ostrich farm right outside of town where, for five dollars, you could feed these seriously ugly birds (be careful, they bite… HARD).

In Morro Bay, (a 'tied island' in that a causeway connects it to the shore) i learned that the picturesque huge rock in the water is actually the last in the line of the Nine Sisters of San Luis Obispo County, a site that has been considered sacred to the Salinan and Chumash tribes from the Millingstone Horizon, 6500-2000 BCE.

Weird Al sings about it in Take me Down

Someday I'm gonna pack up

And then I'm going' back up

To that place where sentimental feelings arouse

Take me down (take me down)

To that good old SLO town

Where time shifts into neutral

And idles away

If you're new in town

Then you'll wanna look around

But you don't know where to begin

Well, there's Bubble Gum Alley

And the local car rally

Not to mention the toilets at Madonna Inn

It's not much of a hassle

To drive up to Hearst's Castle

And it's not too far from Pismo Beach or Morro Rock...

Despite my reluctant romanticism, I returned home, heavily ladened with a new collection of wine and about eight hundred photographs, to spend a few days with my adorably, madly in love, parents. On my first night in town, my mother had slipped at this restaurant and managed to break her foot.

NOTE: you high-heel wearing women, I've said it before and I'll say it again. Wedge shoes will be the death of us all. The doc told her they see this same accident several times a day. 

My grandfather used to always give me shit for my heels, saying, "I thought you were the intelligent gender."

I laughed, "I am, but we have to do stupid things to attract the less intelligent."

Anyway, back to my mother and her moon shoe. My parents have an unusual relationship in which they are attached at the hip. They do everything together. I'd go bananas in a situation like that. I need at least 40% of my time away from my significant other. 

Nevertheless, they dote on each other, and have that same cantankerous kind of humor that comes from long years of loving. I shouldn't have been surprised to see just how much my father would do to help my mother in her disabled state. It made me hopeful for their future, and it reminded me of why people have believed in relationships, the concept that in marriage, you care for each other for life. 

Maybe there is something to be said about traditional thinking. 

I decided to consult my bible again, this time on the topic of one of my favorite pastimes: kissing!

"Kissing does not stoop to the lower pressures aroused in petting, yet it may lead to such actions. Others besides Jesus have been betrayed into the hands of sinful men by a kiss. Passions have been aroused, desire awakened and restraint released because a kiss was thoughtlessly given to another."

But if that's true, and if there is any wisdom in the Brothers Grimm tale of the frog prince, how am I going to kiss a bunch of toads if even kissing leads to evil behavior?

The book goes on: "Inexperience in fellowshipping with members of the opposite sex may cause a youth who is caressed to become emotionally disturbed. This emotional upheaval has a volcanic effect upon his mental life and may create an abnormal attitude toward sex. Peculiar and unwholesome thoughts become associated with a kiss, and the individual may never be able to make a satisfactory mental adjustment." 

And what of the collector? Am I remiss in thinking they are traditionally isolated people, filling the emptiness of lacking relationships with objects to remember things by? Are they like artists who require a lot of alone time, building castles in their minds? Are those that are driven by the need to find or build beautiful things out of nothing doomed to enjoy their successes alone?

When Hearst died, the family decided to get rid of his palace of love. They tried to sell it but no one wanted to buy. They tried to give it away, but the upkeep was too expensive. Finally, they decided to gift it to the California Parks Department, turning it into a museum. A museum in which none of the artwork is labeled. 

What will come of all the things I work on, collect and build when I die? Should I redirect my efforts into creating more beautiful and meaningful experiences with people? Should I build tolerance for people and their bizarre needs? Should I put up with more crap?

The article on San Francisco dating ended on a great point:  San Francisco "is the mecca for people who want to change the world, from geeks to entrepreneurs to self-reliant overeducated thirty somethings like me. And it leaves you wondering: where is all the progress taking us, when meaningful relationships seem so difficult to find and maintain? Is this really the world we want? And is there anywhere else to go?"

I don't know about you, but I think this calls for a glass of wine and a cool dip in my parents' pool before hitting the highway again, this time homeward bound.

some pictures for you:

you know you've made it in life when you have a lion sculpture in your yard

bubblegum alley. it smelled disgusting.

madonna inn

pismo beach. i really need a new kite.

cemetery in san luis obispo

santa ines

santa ines

the road home