San Francisco, 2003

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Day 2

In the morning, I decided to actually attend the conference. The weather had turned typically San Franciscan anyhow – dense gray fog spitting out a constant misty rain. There were some seminars covering things I’m doing at work, the exhibitor’s pavilion opened with more free swag, and I had free lunch.
A computer conference is much like a sci-fi convention – geeks huddled around talking obsessively about subjects nobody else could possibly care about. But with the recent crash in the sector, the event lacks the festive atmosphere of the sci-fi convention and you don’t hear a thing about big room parties. Then again, maybe it is a lot like certain sci-fi conventions I’ve attended recently…
I decided to skip the afternoon sessions and hit the road. I’d been told by my native guides that Polk Street was an interesting walk so I headed that direction. I got through the Tenderloin district, an area known for muggings, porn, drugs, etc. and thought to myself, “Interesting walk, yes. Fun, no.”  But apparently I hadn’t hiked far enough up the mountain. Eventually you get to Nob Hill and other neighborhoods I’ll cover shortly.
But the rain and cold discouraged me from a longer walk. If you don’t like the weather in San Fran just walk two blocks. If you don’t like it still, wait 5 minutes. If you still don’t like it, SF might not be the town for you.

After giving my feet a break and freshening up, I returned to Polk Street via the cable car and found the Nob Hill area much more fun than the Tenderloin neighborhood end of Polk.
Cable cars are loud, crowded, labor inefficient, dangerous, wonderful ways to travel. Were I installed as dictator of San Francisco there’d be no other form of transit in the downtown area. Of course, there’d be a bloody coup within days, probably with Schwarzenegger in the lead, my body strapped to his Hummer like a hunting trophy followed by a convoy of cabs full of yelling cabbies and angry tourists. But what a great couple of days. The cable car forces you to realize your traveling. There is almost no way to zone out. Subways, airplanes and cars all encourage you to forget your journey. POOF, you arrive at the destination without a thought as to what comes between point A and B. But a cable car puts you in the environment. You feel the car's operation through the floor and the clanging and grinding noises. You have to watch where you’re going so you don’t get swiped off by a passing truck or miss your stop and have to march uphill a block. The streetcars are nice too, but the cable car is the superior experience.

There are lots of beautiful classic cars in San Fran,
and people actually drive them instead of locking them away.

I hit the Good Vibrations store, an adult toy and porn shop that’s like an upscale boutique for people interested in sex, forgoing the usual nervous porn store experience in favor of a classy environment. A lesbian couple was consulting with a helpful sales girl about which strap-on harness was the best. Another lady asked about the difference between silicone and latex toys. I browsed their interesting display of antique massagers and vibrators and tried to keep my giggling to a non-lecherous tone.

I had a tasty dinner at Cordon Bleu, on California Street just up from Polk, a place about the size of the average American household laundry room, barely room enough for the 6 person counter and the grill behind it. Several Asian people busily prepared dishes of grilled meat, fried meat, and grilled and fried meat.

I ate nothing but the most calorie-intensive foods my entire week, but I was climbing hills like a goddamn mountain goat, so calories be damned. Bring on the fried meat, crème sauce, extra cheese, and wash it all down with a hefty beer! Water, can I get some more lard for my bread? There’s a fly in my soup… and HE'S NOT FAT ENOUGH!

I wandered up Polk Street looking for a neighborhood bar without too many rainbow flags flying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I do like the occasional straight girl to ogle. I ended up at Kimo’s, a tiny little place at Polk and Pine. The bartender said "there’s live music upstairs for $2."
I can afford that even without the taxpayer-subsidized trip. Downstairs, Kimo’s isn’t entirely straight. In fact, it’s pretty darn crooked. But upstairs is a small room with a tiny bar and tiny stage for live music acts, packs in a comparatively straight crowd, except for the trans-gender bartender.
The room is covered in graffiti, giving it a punk rock basement feel. The “maximum capacity” certificate on the wall says 7766 persons, but upon closer observation the first and last digit were drawn on afterward with a permamarker. But I can’t even imagine cramming 76 people into that tiny room.

Perfect.

Bars in San Francisco are smoke-free, though there are occasional rule-breakers. It’s great for me solo, but when I went with SW last year it meant I had to step outside with the rest of the addicts to spend time with her and she missed most of any show we attended. Were it up to me, every building on the planet would be smoke-free. Better yet, there would be rooms inside for smokers so the rest of us could step outside for actual fresh air instead of the smoking hordes surrounding the doorways like and army laying siege to the building. Then the smokers would be corralled into little chambers with tar-brown walls and have to stare at each other with their tar-brown teeth and tar-brown fingers and wonder what they hell they're doing.
But I digress.

First up on Kimo’s little stage, The Wearies, straight up garage rock with a bit more harmonic pop in the vocals. They’re also a bit cuter than the average garage band and bring with them a few more female fans as a result, not a bad thing in my opinion. Moments of Elvis Costello, sans English accent. Their guitar licks all sound familiar, i.e. unoriginal and predictable, but with some improvement in that area they’d rate high by me.

Next up, Feral Moan. Their first tune would’ve been called “grunge” just a few years ago, though their poster calls it “libido rock.” For me, that title is, and will always be, held by AC/DC and Feral Moan sounds nothing like AC/DC. It’s more Seattlesque, with moments of bass-heavy Primus. Good, but again too familiar without bringing enough newness or something. Or maybe it’s just a Tuesday night and I’m still 3 hours behind and I can feel the fall funk coming on. Or maybe it’s because Feral Moan didn’t have the gaggle of cute groupies to distract me and the time and distance between me and SW is wear on me.

I look at the clock and it’s only 11:30 local time. Goddammit. I’ll have hell to pay when I get adjusted, then move back to EST.
Horny, tired and lonely on the left coast - there’s a blues song in there somewhere and Feral Moan ain’t playing it, strictly up-tempo grunge/new punk.

Yet another minor misadventure with mass transit ends with yet another multi-block march up and down mountains, but at least I’ve had enough vodka to numb my throbbing feet. Combined with a chill in the air and the excitement of a new city, I’m stepping pretty lively considering I’ve walked almost every waking minute since I landed.
Crap, was that just… the day before yesterday?