Homina, homina, homina...

The San Francisco Old-Time and Bluegrass Festival is on this week. Halima and I went to one of the shows last night (this one). It was pretty fantastic to get some of that 'old lonesome' sound in my ears after so long away from the south. There was even a guy there doing a sort of shuffly clog-dance thing right in front of the stage that reminded me of how people back in Tallahassee used to get down to a little bit-o-plucking when the mood took them. After the show we were able to thank a few of the musicians for coming down, and they were all polite and enthusiastic (particularly the bass player for the Clampitt Family. She was super-cute). We plan on going to see a few more shows while the festival's on, but what I'm more hopeful for is meeting a few musicians to play with on a regular basis. Maybe I'll go to one of the 'jams' that are set up this week.

After the show we went to Grubsteak, the local Portuguese-American diner that's stolen my gastronomic heart away. We've been avoiding that place recently in favor of cheeper though less delicious and likely-to-kill-you fare, but the siren of linguica and Portuguese Steak was too much for us last night. As we were leaving a whole crew of frat guys and their sorority dupes staggered in, hooting and carrying on in that singularly banal and annoying 'Greek' way. The waiters looked dismayed, and I felt a pang of regret in my chest as well; every cool little nook blows up at some point. What was your private little slice of heaven yesterday catches the ear of the masses today and will be the 'hip spot' tomorrow. The first time Halima and I ate at Grubsteak, in fact, I overheard the good looking couple sitting next to us say, "Man this place is great. I hope the hipsters never hear about it." Well, my friend, rust never sleeps.

Underneath this paragraph you'll see a couple of pictures; the first is the cabin frames for the Plastiki as they were just after I completed them near Christmas. The second picture is Eva crouching near the doorway of the newly covered cabin mold itself. Yay! We've come so far! Now we're starting to work with foams and PET panels to get the actual construction of the cabin skin going, and while that's underway Eva and I have been busily working away on trouble-shooting the bottle-mounting method. I've worked out how to fit the bottles in a nice, laminar fashion, and Eva and I are now trying to translate my full-size tinkering into a workable template for cutting foam panels to size. It's a challenging drafting/building puzzle and very exciting (if you're a nerd like me it is, anyway).





Later this month is my birthday and the San Francisco Ocean Film Festival besides! I'm going to go to Program #3 - Sharks (pft, of course...), and hope to see long, loving footage of those majestic and terrible fish. There's a panel discussion of shark issues after the films show, and you can bet the farm that I'll be there come Hell or high water. Oh, fuck - I love sharks.

Feather duster

OMFG!

I haven't written anything here in a long, long time. I've been very busy lately, it's true, but I've also been either going out to see friends or nerding out with World of Warcraft. Also, drinking too much. It's a slippery rabbit hole, my friends, and I've got at least one leg sunk well deep in it.

Nonetheless, I have been doing a few wholesome and worthwhile things lately as well; I bought a bike, for instance. I've been riding it to work when the weather is dry, and riding it through Golden Gate Park on weekends (Did you know that you can ride a bike right through the Broadway Tunnel if you stick to the sidewalk? Well you can). San Francisco's a famously bike-friendly city, it's true, which is why so many people who ride bikes here have really, really good locks. Thinking that there are a lot of bike-riders in this city shouldn't give you the impression that the roads are smooth though - they are decidedly not, in general - but there is an awareness of the biker's presence among the car drivers here that is both very pleasant and novel (to me). People actually watch out for you here. They know you have as much right to the road as they do and they let you have your space. It's the best.



The Cricket, my loyal and steadfast motorcycle, has been sitting down on the sidewalk below my window, woefully ignored by me*. Every time I walk by her I feel a pang of guilt. She rode me through a wonderful, occasionally harrowing trip. I promised her the world when we got to where we were going, and I've let her down. There is a motorcycle shop not two blocks from my house, and I intend to take her there and get her spruced up, but I've been trying to allocate funds to smooth over some of the debt I incurred on my way out here. So Cricket sits, sad and dirty, victim of the slow pace of America's economy and my own lax attitudes toward motorized conveyances of late. I'll get her back in shape soon though. I have to.

I've been spending a great deal of time near the water lately. Mostly as a result of the boat I'm helping to build (the Plastiki), but also because I've been doing a little sailing with my old friend Mike Rose. We've rented a boat together and plan on taking it around the bay and beyond in the months ahead. Note: it gets fucking cold out there.



Halima and I have been slowly discovering our new city; the surface layer of restaurants and stores, the slightly deeper layer of its people and personalities, its ephemeral past. I suppose that our course here will make itself more evident as time wears on, but for now we are just enjoying everything about San Francisco we thought we would. Spontaneous brass band performances on BART trips, well attended free Lindy Swing dance lessons in Golden Gate Park on Sundays, historical brass plates on the sidewalk denoting where San Francisco used to be (and not be), quirky book stores, stunning restaurants, balmy weather (mostly). It's everything we thought it would be.

Ok. More later.



* But not by the parking cops, unfortunately. I got a $100 ticket on her for parking on the sidewalk. Here's a tip - if you need to park your bike on the sidewalk in San Francisco, put the cover on it and lock the cover on. If the cops can't get to you VIN, they can't properly identify your bike. If they can't identify your bike they can't say for sure how long it's been somewhere, so they can't give you a ticket for anything (and the junkies can't get to your spark plugs easily either). For informational purposes only, of course.

Fennel, Flannel, Funnel, Final...

Dame Darcy's coming through San Francisco. She'll probably sign her comics and pluck a tune or two on the banjo. I'll probably go up to her again and say 'hi', tell her I knew her childhood friend back in the day, give her the news about what her friend's doing, buy any records she's got with her and get her to sign my comic. I know I'll feel dumb for bothering her once I've done it, but I won't be able to help myself. I have a soft spot for Darcy in my heart - she and John Marr both. They were my favorite 'zine authors at the height of my interest in the subject.

Here comes a non sequitur...

I used to go to this Greek joint in Seattle, just next to the laundromat at which I did my weekly laundry. I’d put my stuff in the washer, then walk over to the gryo place and give them my order. At the time I was a vegan, so I’d order a falafel gyro with hummus instead of tzatziki (which is fantastic, BTW). Over time, the owner got to know me because of the frequency of my visits and the unusual order I was placing. He was a stocky Greek guy, dark and hairy and always ready with a smile. He was the local soccer coach for his son’s league, the main chef in his restaraunt and about as Greek a fellow as you could meet outside of Athens. After a time when he saw me coming, he’d just point at me and say, “The usual?” I’d smile and answer in the affirmative, he’d yell the order back to whomever was behind the counter, then he’d shake my hand and we’d chat briefly about our lives. It made me feel as though I were really part of that neighborhood.

One day I went in to place my usual order and there was a new kid behind the counter. I gave him my order, and he looked back at me and said, “You can’t have that.”

“What?” I said back.

“We can’t make that. A gyro comes with tzatziki, not hummus.”

“But I get it all the time,” I replied, “I get it here every week.”

“It’ll be extra,” he said back to me.

“No, it won’t,” I began to reply.

Just then, the owner came out from behind the counter wiping his hands on a paper towel and asked what the problem was. The new kid told him that I was trying to order something that wasn’t on the menu and that I couldn’t have it. The owner put his right hand up between his face and the new kid’s face and made a, “pssshhhht!” sound. “He can have what he wants!” He shouted.

The kid looked at me like I had just peed in his flowerpot, then he skulked off into the back to do God-knows-what (hopefully not spit in my gyro…). The owner extended his hand in appology and said, “I’m sorry my friend. The usual?”

I miss that place a lot.



I have yet to find my 'usual' place here in San Francisco, but I've been working on it pretty hard. Two places that stand out as possible candidates are Asuka Raman on Bush street downtown, and Kennedy's Irish Pub and Curry House, up in North Beach. Both of these places have good, cheep comfort food (if you think of raman or curry as comfort food, that is) and pleasant staff. Kennedy's is the more atmospheric of the two, but Asuka has genmai cha, which is one of my favorites. Anyway, North Beach isn't exactly on my way anywhere, so Kennedy's will probably end up being the once-in-a-while treat instead of my 'regular' joint.

Asuka, you win!

Supergroup

That map up there is the route I took here to San Francisco from Tallahassee. It was an amazing ride, one that I'll never forget. There were the typical ups and downs that one might expect on such a long distance road trip: many moments during which I caught my breath in excitement at something beautiful just off to the side of the road, many times that the hairs on my thighs went stiff and my guts were shot through with a bolt of ice as some yokel narrowly missed destroying me utterly with a careless swerve along the road, many quiet moments spent utterly alone in an unfamiliar place along an unknown road in an almost inconceivably large country, many friendly faces that came unexpectedly out of the gloom to provide me with just the nudge of kindness I needed to get me down the road. There were many times that I found myself asking God for favors, too; asking Him for luck.

You know, there's an old saying that conveys the idea that it's good luck when a bird poops on you. I've always felt that this saying originated out of a desire to stop people from complaining about getting pooped on more than anything else (as in "Oh, fuck! I've just been crapped on by a bird!" "Oh. well, that's good luck, you know. Now shut up, here comes Isabella..."). Anyway, it's a saying not entirely sensitive to the revulsion one feels when defecated upon by a bird.

I was wearing my favorite "fashion/casual" jacket here in San Francisco, a grey turkish sport-coat that I never found much reason to wear in Tallahassee. I was ambling through North Beach, the Italian neighborhood of San Francisco up near Fisherman's Wharf, when I happened to look to my right and lift my arm at an awkward angle for just a moment and for no real reason when a pigeon flew over me and dropped a dollop of wet, white pigeon poop on the back of my right arm. "Ho, fuck," I said, automatically. Halima was walking next to me. She asked, "What?" I replied that I'd been dive-bombed. "Oh, that's good luck," she said. I replied, "Yeah, but it's still shit on my favorite jacket."



If I truly believed that getting shit on was good luck I'd run around under the pigeons in DiMaggio Park. I'd sneak around on the waterfront, scaring seagulls into flight, hoping to collect a poop or two as they jumped up, startled into the air. I'd shuffle around on the flat concrete patio at Union Square, bread in hand, waiting to receive my good fortune by way of avian incontinence. But I'm not so sure it is such good luck to get pooped on. If it were, why would you want to wash the poop out so badly? Why wouldn't people who've been pooped on just leave the poop there in an effort to soak up as much luck as possible? Wouldn't more or larger poop be more lucky? People might stand around behind horses or elephants much more often if it were.

Who knows? Getting shit on is no great fun, in and of itself; but here's to hoping that pigeon poop has a quiet effect on my fortunes that's working in ways too subtle for my leaden intellect to detect. Let's hope pigeon poop leads to something great, shall we? Let's do, lest my revulsion get the better of me and I burn my good coat.

Bright as bright light...

I've just completed a week of 14-hour days, chipping away at a batch of furniture renderings that needed to be re-colored for a presentation. No, it's not a full-time gig (I'm going to build a floor with Captain Mike tomorrow for a little extra cash, in fact), I've just been freelancing some, which feels better in many ways than full-time work, both physically and philosophically. Yes, I am writing this in my underwear.



Halima and I have gotten settled in to our apartment, have had time to explore our neighborhood enough to find out where we'll be buying our groceries for the foreseeable future, and have found our first bills for electricity and internet in our mailbox. Yay, we're residents.

As I've written previously, I've parked Cricket under a neighbor's cupola. One thing I'd forgotten to ship out here was my bike cover, which means Cricket is sitting out there on the street with nothing to protect her from the wind, rain and stray weirdos. I really didn't think this would be much of an issue, but the other day I was passing her and reached out to stroke her gas tank, as I often do, when I noticed that some inconsiderate person had knocked off her right spark plug cap. Investigating further I found that they had also somehow chiseled the porcelain tip of the spark plug off altogether, leaving only the hexagonal nut in place in the cylinder head. I have some dim recollection of hearing that drug addicts do this kind of thing for one reason or another, but can't imagine that it's worth the effort of knocking off the tip of my spark plug to make a crack-pipe or whatever. In any case, not only did this person risk being discovered as a vandal and an asshole-at-large, but if I ever find them they're sure to be found out as a person in need of serious medical care as well. In any case, it's off to the garage to buy a bike cover and a padlock (I already have spare plugs). Some explanation of this bizarre incident here.

In lighter news, we ate at Le Trappe in North Beach the other day. It was amazing; sub-terrine Belgian food and beer and evidently a huge yuppie-hipster spot. We got there before the rush and ate rabbit stew and mussels and pom fritz (an upscale word for French fries), which were all sublime. What'd I tell you? A gustatory nirvana, San Francisco.



Furthermore, I've discovered that four or five of my friends from Guam have been living in San Francisco for some time now. They are from the arty bunch of people I used to hang around with back then, and they are evidently still as arty as ever. I've had drinks with one of them, the chef of the bunch, and she promises to have a little soirée at her place soon so we can all meet up again. Sounds like a plan.

More later.

Nothing but Hornblowers

Way back before the Americans got to it, California was a provence of Mexico*. San Francisco itself got it's name from a mission established by Spanish missionaries that they named after Saint Francis of Assisi (now called Mission Dolores. You can tour it for $5). The Spanish had established a whole series of missions along the west coast of what was then Mexico, and they were appreciably successful in dealing with the natives and bringing some measure of civilization to a very rough culture and topography. Happily, when America won the Spanish-American war and took the west coast as its spoils, they were wise and/or uncaring enough to leave these missions alone. As a result, a person can still see these missions, largely intact, and get a sense of one of the Catholic church's less horrifying intrusions into indigenous culture.

I have yet to go to the Mission Dolores, but I used to tour Mission San Juan Capistrano with school groups when I was a kid. I like the fact that these aged structures are still around, and that you get walk around in them and get a sense of how people used to live. I guess that makes me a layman history nerd, but I'm alright with that.

One thing I have done in San Francisco is walk. I've parked Cricket under a cupola, unpacked most of her bags, bought myself a MUNI pass and gotten lost in my new hometown a time or two as I get to know the place. I've opened all my boxes and put most of my things where they will be for the foreseeable future. I've spread out enough to pick up a bit of work at a local website, and have ambled around enough in my new neighborhood to bump into both the necessities and accouterments that every good neighborhood has. I've even found a local Italian place that does a pretty good linguine vongole - something everyone should know how to get quick access to when the urge demands it. Found a good raman joint, too.



Perhaps because I've moved from somewhere smaller I'm easily overstimulated, or perhaps as a product of my own excitement at being here I've somehow failed to see things that I've walked by several times. I enjoy thinking that my neighborhood has been offering up its secrets to me slowly, quietly letting me in - but the truth is that I'm sort of unobservant and spend a lot of my time looking up at the tops of tall buildings. Last night Halima and I walked a few blocks over to Mel's Diner, a place that recreates a diner from the 1950's a la 'American Graffiti'. On the way there we noticed a small assortment of businesses and structures that we hadn't remembered seeing before - a furniture consigner, a restaurant, a bank, like that. We got to the diner, had some pie and coffee (it was good pie and decent coffee), then walked back home and the same thing happened; the neighborhood seemed newer than it had in the daytime, different without the sun.



I'm sure I'll feel this exhilarating sense of discovery for some time to come, particularly with as curious about our environs and Halima and I are. One thing we've found that we expect will be pretty much the same for as long as we are here is the glut of tourist tents and shops set up down by the Embarcadero. There are street musicians and tents in which you can buy interesting hats or scented candles, and further along the street, up by Fisherman's Wharf, you can buy a whole steamed crab for about twenty bucks. It's an ungainly and messy meal, but worth every penny and every spare napkin it takes to enjoy it. Certainly a tourist trap, but one worth becoming ensnared in from time to time.

More to come.



*Yeah, sure, before that it was a provence of the natives, but I'm talking about structured government, not strict occupation.

Onomatopoeia...

Halima and I have been in San Francisco for just over three weeks and are feeling quite good about being here. We've secured an apartment, have seen a few shows (I have tickets for Jolie Holland at Bimbo's on the 15th of October, too, which I'm pretty excited about), have sampled some of (perhaps too many of, actually...) the cities staggering number of delicious places to eat and have made so much of a habit of drinking a celebratory pint or two that we've gotten to know a couple of area bartenders by name. It's pretty difficult to not be in a celebratory mood in this place though, so much so that every time we set foot outside the house we feel like cheering and running around like loonies.



I ended up buying that guitar I wrote about earlier, and it arrived at the dock this morning. Halima and I walked down to retrieve it, bought a steamed crab and sat on a bench to eat it, then walked home where I sat and played my new guitar until my hands felt like they here on fire. Then I noticed that I hadn't washed my hands sufficiently to keep my new guitar from smelling faintly of the crab I'd eaten for lunch. No matter - it'll make the whole 'musical sailor' thing a bit more authentic (ha).



I've been on an interview at a local advertising agency, helped Mike (the captain with whom we've been staying) by working the tender during test sails of the prototype of the boat he's building, been down with him to Alameda to test material samples at a submersible robot factory (?!?), cobbled a pretty impressive portfolio together and have sent out several hopeful resumes (wish me luck). Halima's been busy handing out a sheaf of resumes herself, as well as helping out Captain Mike and generally being the organizational force behind the two of us. We've been acclimating to the inevitable hill-climbs we're always faced with and have both lost a bit of weight just being able to walk everywhere. We love to be able to walk so much, by the way. After the lacking sidewalks and daunting heat of Florida, it's like being let out of some invisible cage. We take advantage of the opportunity as often as we can.



Talented street musicians, outstanding hole-in-the-wall-pubs and dim sum joints, gorgeous walks in any part of the city, pleasant people everywhere you go, historical markers spilling out a story about almost anything within a stone's throw of you, gorgeous bay views from almost any elevated point in the city, your favorite band or comic playing right down the street from where you live all the time, a massive and varied city park chocked full of energetic people at any given time and weather that is impossibly mild and enjoyable - it's fantastic, hard to believe. There's something about the fact that such bliss is taken in stride by the people who live here that adds to the weird sense of disbelief, too. It's hard to explain.



See that Chinese fiddler up there? He was playing this beautiful Chinese music as Halima and I walked up the street toward him, but when I stopped to listen he suddenly switched to playing 'Oh, Susanna', then 'Deep in the Heart of Texas'. I must look like a rube, I guess. I solidified that notion in this guy's head by giving him a dollar. I like 'Oh, Susanna'.

I'm sure there's a downside to all the good things I'm seeing about this city, but I couldn't care less about that just now. I'm sure I'll have a peek at the other side at some point, but for now I'm staggered, enamored, in love.

I'll write more soon, but I've got an amazing meal to go consume. "What meal is that?" you ask. Well, I don't know yet, but I'm almost assured that it'll be amazing, no matter where I go. Oh, but I'll get over this and start writing more frequently on this blog, I swear. I promise. I'll do.

More soon.