Author: David

The Earth Moved

Before anyone asks, it was a complete and total non-event. A magnitude of 5.4 according to the fine folks at Richter (a subsidiary of Microsoft). If not for the accompanying media frenzy, half the Bay Area might well not even have noticed. Of course, native Californians being such a jaded bunch, they generally don’t admit to feeling anything less than a 7.0 anyhow…

From the coverage on local TV, though, you’d think this was the first time California had ever had an earthquake. Jeez…talk about overkill… It brought to mind the panic that hits in places like North Carolina, when the TV stations spend hours going over emergency procedures in preparation for the two-inch layer of snow which MIGHT be on the ground in the morning…

I wouldn’t have noticed either, except for the fact that the damned thing woke me up at 7:15 in the morning (almost two hours earlier than I needed to be awake) and I never quite got back to sleep. This was not amusing at all, since I was already up half the night thanks to the hunger of the El Nino-generated mosquitoes.

This was probably the fourth or fifth noticeable but minor quake in my six years here. The first coincided, as these things do, with my mom’s first visit to SF. It came just after I’d dropped her off at her hotel. I called to say good night. Suddenly my roomie (who was watching the news) yelled “earthquake” from the next room. I asked where. I got my answer pretty quickly.

Mom seemed a little nervous. My aunt, who was also visiting, sounded terrified. I, working on my “Californian” credential, was mildly amused…

The second came a few months later, as I was lying in bed having…ummm…some quality time by myself. Suffice to say, when the earth moved that night, it REALLY moved…

By the way, no one believes that last story, but it’s really true…

Ultimately, I’ve been in storms back east which sacred me lots more than this earthquake. Keep in mind that SF has had two (maybe three) quakes of any particular significance in the past 100 years. I know a few trailer parks in North Carolina which get that many tornadoes in a decade…

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…

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!

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…

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…

I Just Don’t Understand (More)

Seems the California Highway Patrol (you know…Erik Estrada..etc…) is cracking down on sexual activity in the mens rooms at the Transbay Terminal in San Francisco. As is the usual case, they have opted for entrapment (using undercover officers) rather than prevention (using visible uniformed officers). Granted, the uniforms are far more of a deterrent — and I speak from experience here — but undercover officers result in more arrests and ruined lives. No big surprise why they made the choice they did, huh?

Quoth Tom Ammiano: “they’re targeting gay men”. Granted, there aren’t a lot of dykes having sex in the mens room, but actually, they’re targeting people who have sex in public. All sociological aspects aside, these people know there’s danger. It’s one of the rules of the game — and I speak from experience here. It’s hard to come up with too much sympathy, though, for those caught in tearooms in San Franscisco, though. Jeez…you can find somone to have anonymous sex with at SAFEWAY here…

I just don’t understand:

I understand that backpacks are part of the urban scene. I understand why people carry them to work, even though some of them seem big enough for a month-long journey across Europe. What I do not understand is why people drag these mutant backpacks into crowded bars at midnight on Friday night. It’s hard enough to walk from the front of a bar to the back without having to dodge someone’s wardrobe (and TV, VCR, and dishes, for all I can tell…).

So I feel justified in giving these people extra elbow action when they get in my way at Hole in the Wall or My Place…

Other things I’m having trouble understanding today:

  • The “Laverne and Shirley” marathon on Nick-at-Nite this week.
  • Why is it that the larger and “more efficient” a company becomes, the harder it is to get anything done?
  • What do animal rights activists do when they get roaches or termites?

The Idiot Factor

The Harder Side of Sears:

A certified letter arrived the other day from…well…let’s just say a major US retailer. Planet SOMA is forthwith and heretofore advised to cease using the term “the Wish Book” anywhere within the site, as this term is a registered trademark of said major retailer. Mind you, the only place in the entire site this term was used was in a link to another site, the title of which was, surprisingly enough, “The Wish Book”. Never mentioned the damned catalogue at all on my own. All the same, it seems I’m guilty of suggesting that there is some connection between Planet SOMA and this…ummm…major US retailer.

Another letter arrived today from this same retailer, begging me to accept a pre-approved credit card. They must need the extra income to pay their context-impaired lawyers to sit around doing Internet searches…

Funny, they didn’t seem upset by my admission that I used to suck dick in the mens rooms of their stores…

These People Are Allowed to Count Money?

Also in today’s Chronicle was an article on the parking crisis in San Francisco (way to grab those breaking news stories…). The manager of the Bank of America branch in the Castro was quoted as saying it was unfair that her employees had to go out and move their cars every two hours to avoid tickets.

Earth to manager: anyone who DRIVES to job at 18th and Castro and expects to be able to park on the street all day is a fucking IDIOT who deserves whatever tickets he or she gets. The Castro has more transit service than almost anyplace else in the city. Jump on the clue bus people. Hell, jump on ANY bus…

Flaming Idiots:

It seems the US Congress is precariously close to sending out a Constitutional amendment to permit laws banning “desecration” of the American flag. Aside from the pure idiocy of altering the Constitution to punish those half dozen annual flag burners, just who exactly gets to define “desecration”? I think that allowing the flag to fly over the current Congress shows a pretty flagrant lack of respect for the old red, white, and blue.

Too bad we can’t come up with an amendment to render idiots ineligible for elections…

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…

Gay Pride 98

It’s almost that time of year again. San Francisco’s Lesbian – Gay – Transgender – Bisexual – Questioning – Curious – Insert – Appropriate – Label – Here Weekend. Time to start making plans for the big weekend. So far, the one viable suggestion I’ve received has been from my friend Sarah; she thought it might be a good day to go thrift store hopping in Stockton. Sounds like a winner to me. Beats last year when I cleaned the bathroom…

I know…the parade is tempting. Nothing like four (five?) hours of standing in the hot sun watching a bunch of groups with signs declaring their narrowly-defined labels drone past, with the occasional bar float blaring the latest techodiscohouse drivel to break the monotony. I only WISH the parade were as much fun as the 700 Club portrays it…

And nothing like fighting your way into a crowded bar and waiting a half-hour to buy a beer behind some drunk disco bunny who’s ordering seven DIFFERENT cocktails of varying colors and textures for his entourage, none of whom remembers what they wanted and all of whom must stand in the way for fifteen MORE minutes trying to figure it out…

The Saturday night before the parade is a special treat. The city becomes one huge circuit party, with rainbow-clad muscle boys in various stages of chemical disrepair all heaving and grinding to the happnin’ rhythms of Axel K or Simon Q or whoever. It’s great. Really…

When I was a young curmudgeon back in North Carolina, I used to love going to the Pride parades. It was all about visibility and making a statement of political and social power.

Of course, pride is about making a statement here too. And the statement is thus: fags have money. If you sponsor our parade, we will buy your brand of liquor or beer. If you set up a booth full of insipid T-shirts with slogans like “2Q2BSTR8”, we will buy them. If you say you’re working to fight AIDS, we will give you donations, no matter how much of this money goes to furnish your plush offices. If you have a petition about a “gay issue” (like, say, abolishing rent control), we will sign it without even reading it.

We are happy liberated gay men. We are secure in the knowlege that having a sexual orientation is an acceptable substitute to having a personality or an individual identity. We can think for ourselves, as long as the Advocate and Genre tell us it’s OK. And as long as there’s a snappy ad campaign (and a cool T-shirt) behind the recommended thought.

And we’re PROUD dammit. PROUD of our sexual orientation (even though we had no say in its development). PROUD of our ability to get liquor companies to sponsor our parade. PROUD of our muscles and our disposable income and our wardrobes from Bloomie’s. PROUD of the way we’ve made the Castro into a suburban shopping mall and kept those property values high. PROUD that we’re the only ones allowed to make jokes about ourselves.

Of course, we’re probably proud of some other things too, like our political gains, etc.. Some of us might even be embarrassed about a few things. Things like the way we elevate mediocrity to sacred status (witness “Ellen” and the Pet Shop Boys). Things like rampant commercialism, or a completely useless “gay press”, or a culture which completely ignores its youth and “marginal” elements. Things like our severe substance abuse problem and our body fascism. But we’ll be embarrassed quietly, so as to avoid disturbing the party.

Yup…I think I’ll be embarrassed in Stockton. Or maybe even Fresno…

Work and Stuff

I’m still back at my old location about 20 hours a week, and the freelance stuff has started to take off. A year has passed since I got marginally sucked back in to help open a new store. And suddenly, I find my store under construction, being totally remodeled. Haven’t we played this scene before?