Two men urinating in public, on spindly trees that barely hid their shame.
A rock shaped like a tooth, lying on the sidewalk.
Four instances of malt liquor.
Supervisorial pdf with a whole lot of ‘WHEREAS.’
Happy birthday Mayor Sutro.
It’s going to be fine, really. He wouldn’t just hand it to any schmoes. The new owners are the Skky vodka dudes, and they’re local, so they know how fearful San Franciscans are of change.
Y'know, just don’t mess with this stuff or the beer (an acquired taste, according to some) and we’re square.
and looked into my eyes and told me, no, declared: “If I get to heaven or wherever and I meet God, Buddha, Allah, or Him or Her: whatever! I will give my sincere thanks for the opportunity to have lived in San Francisco in the 1960s and early 70s. It was like no other place on earth and I am truly grateful for the experience.
Of course, I lived here until ‘81, when it became a shithole, and I couldn’t take the weather any longer. But man! Those days.”
I’m reminded of what might have been had I stayed: more space to write about, to shoot, to draw, to drive. It’s that last one gets me every time. Back when the Dart was an extension of me, when I didn’t over-think the commute and got up early enough to make a stop (a Cuban coffee in my neighborhood or La Brea Bakery closer to work), life was fine as the smog and weather and traffic allowed.
But I didn’t, because I couldn’t, so I moved north with the intention of changing everything I couldn’t trust about fickle Los Angeles. Intention being what it is, it took far longer to change things than I could ever imagine. But once the wet air of the Bay gets into your bones, it’s harder to shake than anything (if you’re me).
In the meantime, my Los Angeles died. When I left Echo Park somewhere in the late 20th Century, much near downtown was still affordably tatty and unfashionably comfortable. My last walk around proved that there’s more live music (good) and beer is nearly as expensive as in NYC (bad). My operatives tell me that Hollywood still seems to manage that impossible dichotomy of trashy but expensive, which is what I’d expect–this much is true, and gives the place its bad reputation for surface. However, Boardner’s is unrecognizable. If something remains long enough, it apparently gets turned into a museum.
Knowing full well that there’s a “Hey you kids get offa my lawn” quality to my voice at times like this, it pains me that I care about the potential loss of history as much as I do. But for Los Angeles, the sentiment’s not misplaced: so many of its inhabitants are intent on creating their own histories. Forgetting is easy, it begins with not looking back.
At risk of constantly tripping over my own feet, I like a place that reminds me of its history daily. Los Angeles, you were a lovely bit of work.
1) A PORTFOLIO CONSISTING OF:
* A minimum two-page comic story starring yourself, a snowman, a robot, the ocean, and a piece of fruit. You may combine characters! Format may be a zine, mini-comic, or plain black and white copies (must provide a printed version). Crisp legible reproduction is a must. Non-returnable.
* Eight samples of your work in any media that represents your abilities. CCS will look at comics, computer art, video, paintings, and drawings. Send slides, photocopies, tear sheets, mini-comics, zines, CDs, or web addresses. Slides and CDs will be returned if a self-addressed stamped envelope is included. Under no circumstances should you send original art. It will not be returned.
time to start seeding new books with old letters.
and when I was out to lunch in Civic Center I saw none. Where will I get my fix of Libertarians?
but I just witnessed an act of such utter sweetness at Market and 8th. After giving the gruff homeless man (one of many who stand outside of Burger King) some change, one of the Downs’ Syndrome locals gave him a hug. Gruffy was taken aback, but then gave into it.
Hugs are like special people’s secret weapons.
Okay, back to misanthropy.
“A museum is not only a place where one can enjoy beauty and art, but it helps man to relate himself to his past. A man who dwells only in the past is a fool and a man who only dwells in the present is but half a man.”
Around 9:40, Rauschenberg!
I spend considerable time explaining that the Asian Art Museum is not the DeYoung: the former’s owned by the city, while the latter is the part of the Fine Arts Museums. This will confuse people further.
My favorite part of the DeYoung, outside of the James Turrell? The tawdry history.
SexPigeon has a good puritan work ethic.