Yeah, if you like that sort of thing.
Times were, all anyone could talk about was combustion. People, turtles, grapefruit, nice rugs made of silk wool. The city burned so many times it stopped making sense to talk about it, a sort of iterative weather of conflagration: “Oh, the city’s on fire? What’s new?”
That’s a little serious, people still talk about the weather. But when the tiny fires start, do you think anyone will remember the bad old days?
Good Morning.
About sums up the situation of the amazing disappearing mural on Divisadero.
Volume on, close your eyes, and feel the embrace of the sweetest 71 in the fleet.
“The critical truth of this destruction—the real life of modern poetry and art—is obviously concealed, since the spectacle, whose function is to use culture to bury all historical memory, applies its own essential strategy in its promotion of modernistic pseudo-innovations.”
So, kids, what is Mr. Debord trying to tell us?
Ends, beginnings
If you’re anywhere near Divisadero tonight (the street the 24 calls “Diviz”), please go give your respects, love, and complaints about cheese-weight to Mario at the Country Cheese Store. Chase is purchasing the building, and after more than two decades, that stretch of the Western Addition will lack the funk of an aged gouda or ripe Camembert.
Just as well, pop in and buy three pounds of truffles next door—I’m more of a savory sort and tend toward cheese over truffles, so.
Mario claims they’re looking for a new location on Divisadero, so here’s hoping we’ll still have access to his excellent cheesemongering skills as well as his general righteousness.
For more background, see Haighteration’s coverage of how this whole story went down.
Oily sake, black fish eggs, coincidence, and a walk home past several people carrying bicycles under hot white lights. This is what my Thursday looks like. And yours?
Hush now, don’t tell anyone that Divisadero is like this every night of the week.
Look, it is a letter from the past
Makes sense, since this mural is from the future. The future confuses me: it’s cute and deadly. But it makes my neighborhood that much better. Thank you, Ezra Li Eismont. Thanks to you and your lethal felines.
This. This is what the inside of my head has felt like all week. Though dry-palmed on the outside, feverishly uneasy, clammy and keyed up on the inside.
Given a choice, you wouldn’t want to sit next to this on the bus.
The subject of some slow, ironic clapping.
It would seem that city-folk require science to explain the beauty of the moon at the convergence of two subtle seasons.