The Bold Italic - San Francisco

Young Guns

Elia Varela Serra — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 00:00:13 -0800

That day was a couple of years ago in the art student friendly Cup-A-Joe coffee shop across the street from my TenderNob apartment. The mural depicted an intriguing armed man in uniform with the words “Nob Hill” written on his helmet. A few days later I encountered the guy again in another restroom, this time at Cafe Royale just a block away. And then on the wall of a corner store in the Tenderloin. All of a sudden I couldn't escape the Nob Hill militiaman, and had no idea who was responsible for him. I finally discovered the source of those murals a few months later when I met a group of street artists working on a large piece at 606 Ellis. The gang was comprised of Eddie Colla, Hugh Leeman, and D Young V.

It turned out D Young V was the man behind the Nob Hill soldier, just one of many characters in the artist’s fascinating postapocalyptic world. I've been following his work since, and have even become a groupie of sorts. If you live in San Francisco you've most likely seen his work on the streets of our city, pieces such as the mysterious woman known as the “nun of war.”

After encountering D Young V in the neighborhood a number of times, he invited me to visit his small Tenderloin studio. From the moment I walked in the door, I saw canvases covering the walls from floor to ceiling. His table was full of micron pens and ink, and a large drawing he was working on was pinned on the main wall. The kitchen cabinets were full of drawings instead of pots and pans. I learned that his actual name is David Young, the fifth in a long family line from New Jersey. He moved to San Francisco almost a decade ago lured by the appeal of the California dream and the desire to attend art school. Over the years he has lived in many apartments, often in the TenderNob/Tenderloin area, which explains why I kept seeing his artwork in the neighborhood. When I asked him about the inspiration for his work, he explained that in one way or another he’s always been influenced by comic books, fantasy, punk rock, and sci-fi. He became interested in street art a few years ago through revolutionary aesthetics, namely the Cuban revolution and guerrilla men in uniform posing proudly with guns. In those days he would hang out in the now-defunct Babylon Falling bookstore, and became attracted to the revolutionary art the owner showed him.

David was wearing his distinctive uniform – military pants, a worn-out hoodie, a second-hand USPS cap, and a back-slung poster tube. While he hand-painted some unintelligible text on a canvas, he told me his works depict an imaginary alternate version of San Francisco after the socioeconomic collapse of the world financial system and the deterioration of what we have known as the American way of life. Civil unrest and widespread factionalism would result in a prolonged and unsuccessful military occupation of the Bay Area. The characters in his art are based on this loose narrative of a world attempting to rebuild itself after it falls apart for reasons unknown. I asked him about the cool typography in most of his pieces, and he explained that since much of the history, language, and religion in his fictional world were destroyed, and people were left with no cultural roots, they had to create new ones. They are discovering things for the first time, through a new language based on fragments of the old world after generations of tribalism.

Knowing that I was a fan of his work and how close I live to Cup-A-Joe, David alerted me to a new large piece he was about to start. It would cover the whole wall of the coffee shop and parts of the ceiling. Over the course of several weeks I watched David working tirelessly on the piece from my apartment, and a few times I came downstairs to chat and check out his progress. The centerpiece in one of the two walls at Cup-A-Joe is a triangle with a large letter N inside. David explained that the letter N is often associated with nihilism, nationalism, and squatting, and has a long history in punk rock culture. For him it stands for “neutrality,” and the characters associated with this movement wear it on an armband – a style very much associated with World War II European fascism. David said he sees “The Neutrality” as both a conflict intervention armed force, and as an expanding empire. Out of all the forces in this world, it is one of the largest and most technologically advanced, and its purpose is to unify the majority of existing tribes, armies, and groups. The movement’s goal is to build a new society and pull humankind out of a dark age.

The last time I saw David working at Cup-A-Joe the mural was almost finished. He was running behind schedule because he had just spent a week at Art Basel in Miami, but he said he'd come back transformed and full of energy. He was excited to tell me about another important group in his imaginary world: the Armed Courier Services (ACS). This group is independent of The Neutrality and their allegiance is only to themselves. Transporters of information, packages, and people, they are a blend of a bike courier, postman (I’m assuming not the Kevin Costner type), and mercenary all in one. They have complete freedom to move within any territory without harm since the information they carry is valuable. One such character is the Nob Hill militiaman I keep encountering around my neighborhood. David is making up the rules and events of this world as he goes. His general goal is to provoke people to rethink their freedoms, luxuries, and identities both as Americans and moral beings. He'd like us to question what we might do if we were part of a once-strong nation that had since fallen apart. I’ve thought about that question a lot since meeting David. What I would do if our world ended I have no idea, but hopefully I'd be part of the Neutrality, trying to make a difference.

You can spot several of D Young V's murals in bars and cafés around the TenderNob and Tenderloin, sometimes even in the streets of the neighborhood. For example, Cup-A-Joe Coffeehouse, Cafe Royale, the bar at Space Gallery, Amsterdam Cafe, and Jasper's Corner Tap & Kitchen. And you can stay updated on his shows and events via his website and Facebook page.

SF Sound Machine

Tienlon Ho — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 00:00:13 -0800

I’ve been collecting records for a decade now, and I’ve been meaning to get a turntable for about as long to actually play them.

The way I see it, record players are the gateway drug of audio equipment. Once I commit to one, naturally, I would have to upgrade my amp, which, of course, would require better speakers, maybe some dampening tiles on the walls, and so on. And then there would be the weekends lost to tweaking every component. I figured that I wanted to keep my friends, so my records stayed dusty.

But recently, after someone swiped my stereo, iPod, headphones, and CDs, I found myself huddled around my tinny laptop speakers. As they streamed lifeless-sounding audio, interrupted by countless, overly enthusiastic advertisements, I finally broke down. It was time to get some decent equipment.

Whether you find yourself like me, aching for an affordable record player and speakers, or ready to upgrade your current hi-fi to a hand-built system wrapped in aircraft aluminum, here are some local shops staffed by folks who can point you to equipment that suits your ears and your budget. Just bring along your self-control.

Go here if: you’re looking for some vintage equipment on the cheap.

Those in the audio business say that the golden age of sound peaked in the ’70s with solid-state amplifiers and minimally engineered recordings. Unfortunately, industrial design didn’t quite match up, and it was also a time of fake wood laminate and ill-proportioned knobs. Fortunately, this has kept prices down. The guys at 101 Music scour flea markets for the uglies and fix them up. And they can tell you how to mix and match them into great sounding systems, like an early-’80s NAD receiver ($75) with a pair of mid-’80s Nakamichi speakers ($65), and a ’70s Technics turntable ($70) upgraded with a new, Ortofon Omega cartridge ($50).

Specialty goods: Once highly coveted equipment like Nakamichi cassette tape decks ($50–$500) will pull such sumptuous sound from your Bangles tapes, you’ll cry once again to “Eternal Flame.”

Cheap trick: Any weak link can screw up your sound system, but bad speakers can make a particularly big impact, the guys at 101, Jeff Smothers and Brian Finley say. “Toss out your earbuds and listen on a set of good speakers and you will be surprised at what you can hear,” Brian says. “You’ll get the music, not just a recording.”

Go here if: you’re ready to amp up your digital library.

This place is crammed with slick, steel-encased amps (Cary SLP 03 Stereo Preamplifier, $1,900) and shiny speakers with sculpted curves (Dali Fazon F5, $4,500 a pair), but the current best sellers are the mostly plain-looking network players. Inside these boxes, however, is the magical technology that will finally put all of the media files on your computer and hard drives in easy reach and, thanks to integrated digital-to-analog converters (DACs), make them sound a lot better. Components start at a few hundred dollars (Sonos Connect, $399). One with integrated amps, receiver, iPod dock, and DAC will run a lot more (Naim SuperUniti, $6,000).

Specialty goods: Raidho floor-standing speakers with hand-cast ceramic drivers and walnut burl cabinets (Ayra C-3.0 Reference, $36,000 pair), which, despite the price, are not big enough to sleep in.

Cheap trick: “Disconnect whatever you’re listening to from the power strip that you got from Home Depot and plug it straight into the wall,” Marlen Kirby, managing partner suggests. He says power strips can create an electrical bottleneck and introduce interference, both of which keep your system from sounding its best.

Go here if: you think the best part of The Godfather is the score.

If you are the sort of person who waits for the end of the credits to see who did what for the soundtrack, this is the place for you. The basic setups are not so basic, but you get sound quality so clear, as Josh Rudner, assistant manager puts it, “You are enveloped in the sound, and films become an experience.” I didn’t believe it, but a 5.1 Paradigm speaker system (from $279 to $450 each) really did create such a mind-blowing experience that I immediately noticed the shoddy speakers at a movie theater I went to later that night. Best of all, you can test out the possible configurations in the plush, leather seats of the demo rooms.

Specialty goods : For those with the most discerning cochleae, Synergistic Research makes tiny, Buddhist prayer bowls that ring at certain frequencies to balance out bad acoustics ($500–$3,100).

Cheap trick: “The biggest impact you can make to your sound is to get good cables,” Josh says. “Cables have very different sound qualities and can make a system sound brighter or mellower.” Devote 5 to 10 percent of your budget on cables, he says, and keep in mind that like most every part of an audio system, they need time to break in – at least 200 hours of use.

Go here if: you want to take your grooves on the move.

There are a few special considerations when building an amazing sound system in a vehicle. You have to find space for speakers, which need a decent amount of air behind them to prevent distortion. You have to seal out engine and road noises by padding the doors and floor. And then you have to hide everything. Peter’s Auto Radio shapes custom panels out of molded fiberglass and covers them with full grain leather, wood, or even a broken radio facade. A top-end setup with custom panels can run $9,000, but a simpler upgrade to a Kenwood stereo and speakers costs $650.

Specialty goods: A custom-installed, Arc Audio system with hybrid speakers ($20,000) produces such balanced sound that (I am told) you can play Metallica cranked to 25 while doing 90 and still hear Kirk Hammett’s palm hit the strings.

Cheap trick: Listen for distortion and then fiddle with your bass and treble levels until the sound improves. The default setting may not be the best for your car. Owner Rick Theis also says, “People listening to hip-hop generally have the bass jacked up too high for their systems to handle.”

Go here if: you’ve always wanted a buddy who happens to be a high-end audio fanatic.

When a client called to ask how to tone down the brightness of his new system, Tim Nguyen greeted him like an old friend, and then, recalling exactly how he’d configured the speakers in the man’s living room, suggested flaring them out in increments of three-sixteenths of an inch. When he is not administering personalized advice over the phone, Tim is making house calls or demonstrating equipment out of the polished showroom in his garage. If you make an appointment, he may show you a steam-punk amp with vacuum tubes (Zesto Audio’s Andros PS1, $3,900), or a futuristic turntable (Rega RP1, $450), depending on your budget and listening tastes.

Specialty goods: Minimalist turntables by a Brit named Simon Yorke ($10,000–$25,000). Simon or his son personally shape each platter on a lathe and rub beeswax into the steel for a satin finish. Whatever they’re doing produces sound of such clarity that the Library of Congress is using Simon Yorke players to archive its collections.

Cheap trick: Don’t pick your equipment based on its specs or label. “Sound is very personal to each person and each space. Big speakers don’t sound good in a small space, for example,” Tim says. “You have to listen to it yourself to really know.”

Go here if: you want two turntables and a microphone.

Your friendly neighborhood DJ will tell you that World of Stereo might as well be an open trunk in a back alley crammed with audio equipment. The selection is haphazard. Dodgy characters stop by. Prices are usually negotiable. It cannot be missed! Just arrive with some idea of what you want – the first-floor selection alone is vast, and upstairs are stockpiles of used equipment. If you’re looking for a setup for your next bar mitzvah, for example, you’ll kill it with a shiny, lacquered controller with a built-in sound card (Vestax Typhoon, $299) and coffin-sized speakers (JBLs, $800 a pair). Add a pair of spinning lights and a smoke machine starting at $75 (rent for $20 per day) and you might even get some kids to dance.

Specialty goods: World of Stereo has hard-to-find, used Technics turntables (SL-1210M5G, $1,399), which are built like tanks to handle whatever you want to lay down.

Cheap trick: You can get the intro version of the do-it-all mixing, sampling, and scratching program, Serato, packaged with a relatively cheap controller like the Vestax. Play with that before you invest in the full features of Serato Scratch ($699 with hardware interface).

Visit 101 Music, AudioVision San Francisco, Music Lovers Audio, Peter's Auto Radio, Tone of Music, World of Stereo, or any of San Francisco’s other local audio stores to audition their equipment, and once you settle on something, buy it from them. Unlike online and big box retailers, they will come to your apartment to help you figure out where to hide cables, how to angle your speakers, and figure out which of your old equipment is worth keeping. Also, many offer great deals on used equipment and generous trade-in programs.

Burger Meister

Chris Atwood — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:00:13 -0800

I first came across an issue of Hamburger Eyes on a trip to SF in 2006. I was living in Arizona and crashing on a friend’s couch here who had a great collection of books and zines. I snagged a copy of the mag to read on the plane home and got psyched. That issue of juxtaposed random black-and-white photos of people, partying, girls, shoplifting, hood life and street life was mostly shot here in the city. There was no writing to go along with the images. The mag was really good, obviously made by people who understood the comedic value in the spontaneous interactions we all experience.

Over the years, what started out as a DIY photo zine has evolved into a full photography collective, including darkroom facilities, a gallery space, a cell phone photo application, and, of course, a magazine production facility.

When I decided to pay for a month’s worth of darkroom access in 2009, I met Ray Potes, who runs the show at Hamburger Eyes. Through a mutual friend, I managed to get myself a room mere blocks from Hamburger Eyes’ Photo Epicenter in the Mission. I emailed Ray and told him my deal and where I was staying. It turned out I was living in his old room. Small world. With this in mind, let me introduce you to Hamburger Eyes, the continuing story of life on earth.

Ray started Hamburger Eyes back in 2002 along with his brother Dave and friend Stefan Simikich. He’d always made photo zines. "When I look at a zine, I flip straight to the photo section,” he says by way of explanation. One day, he made one called Hamburger Eyes, and for some reason it was one of the more popular ones. He made a second issue and the momentum continued. He started selling ad space and went to offset printing. Issues of Hamburger Eyes were released about twice a year between 2001 and 2009, receiving nods from noted photographers and other publications. Publishing costs made it tough to continue production, though. They sold some ads, but for the most part Ray and the crew were funding everything with their own dough.

But the magazine isn’t the only way these guys keep film photography alive. The Hamburger Eyes lab is one of only two places in SF where photographers can print their own stuff. The collective has had shows all over the country, and last summer they had their first shows in Europe.

As far as printed materials go, the focus has shifted to smaller, laser-printed zines by single photographers. In 2011 Hamburger Eyes released more than 80 photo zines.

The latest Hamburger Eyes project, Celly Brain, is a quasi social network/phone app based around sharing and rating cell phone pics. There are no filters, it’s just the nitty-gritty. Members are called master blasters and they vote on each other’s photos and score points accordingly. The top pics are featured in the Celly Brain zine.

Hamburger Eyes’ site is going off right now and new pics are going up constantly. “I go through and either diss or give props to every photo on there," say Ray. "This is our deal, we gotta control the content. It's up to us to keep the whack shit down."

At the end of the day, isn't that what it's really all about?

I asked Ray to tell me about some of his favorite pics from over the years. His selections and comments about each are below.

1. Alex Martinez

This photo was published in the first issue of a zine titled Romance Warrior. I think it’s funny and kind of sums up this zine about relationships.

2. Andrea Sonnenberg

This was published in Andrea's first zine with us, Teenage Wetdream. Apparently, this guy likes to booty dance by himself in his garage with the garage door open. Andrea would see him on the way home from work every day and one day got this awesome photo.

3. Bill Daniel

We recently published a zine by Bill Daniel called 847, Do You Have Your Radio On? It’s mostly photos of graffiti that he shot while he was a bike messenger in San Francisco from 1988 to 1994.

4. Chris Atwood

This photo was published in Midnight Special by Chris Atwood. I have fallen asleep with my glasses on in that same hammock many times, so this is kind of classic.

5. Chris Beale

Chris did a zine called 6th Sense and it’s all his photos from 6th and Market, a photo project he has been working on and continues to work on.

6. Mark Murrmann

Photos of The Mummies! I love this band. This was published in Mark's zine Sweat (Stains). Mark is known for his documentary news work, so seeing a zine of just all band photos is great.

7. Michael Jang

The Ramones when they played at Civic Center back in the day!

8. Michael Jang

Mark McGwire of the Oakland A's. Both of these photos were published in Michael Jang's zine One of a Kind.

9. Ray Potes

When the SF Giants won the World Series last year, the whole city went bonkers for an entire night. These two photos are from that night, published in a zine called World Champs.

10. Ray Potes

Portrait of Douglas Dietrich. Ex-military, department of defense military reference technician (Presidio). Published in Spies Like Us.

11. Stefan Simikich

He likes surfing, paint, and donuts. These photos were published in his zine Cool.

12. Ted Pushinsky

He published in a zine called Law Enforcement, [which collects] photos of SF cops spanning three decades. I believe the photo of the lady on the cop car hood came from when the 49ers won their first Super Bowl. I guess all kinds of people were going nuts in the streets, including this crazy lady with no underpants.

Do It Yourself

If you are interested in printing photos at the lab or want to check out the latest selection of zines, you can check out the Hamburger Eyes’ website, or drop by the photo epicenter on 24th and Lilac in the Mission. CellyBrain.com is also definitely worth checking out – it’s pushing the limits of cell phone photography. In a world dominated by digital SLRs and Instagrams, it's nice to know there are people out there keeping it old style by printing, scanning, and xeroxing one negative at a time. Film por vida!

There Will Be Blood

Tamara Barak Aparton — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

My newfound connection with other warm-blooded moms was an unexpected perk of pregnancy. Hormones amped up both my protectiveness and aggression, giving me new empathy for mother bears that delimb careless hikers. A forceful nesting instinct fostered a deeper appreciation for my childhood cat, who transformed our closet into her personal birthing suite. But a nagging thought remained:

If I wanted to really commit to this kinship, I should consider eating my placenta.The notion first took hold after beaching my swollen body on the couch and watching a marathon of nature documentaries. It turns out that gobbling the afterbirth is a near-inescapable fact of our mammalian nature: From the fierce lioness to the nimble mountain goat, postpartum females slurp down their placentas with the enthusiasm of a college kid enjoying a Jell-O shot.

But could I, a finicky vegetarian who recoils at the texture of cooked onions, take on the challenge? Unlike our furry friends, eating my homegrown organ meat wasn’t a decision I could reach without equivocation. I decided to talk to local placenta aficionados.

There are a half-dozen competing placenta-related businesses in the Bay Area, making the region ground zero for afterbirth consumption. In May, the San Francisco Food Adventure Club made headlines when its members sampled human placenta rumaki. Just weeks earlier,

With a human gestation period of 40 weeks, the 1–3 lb. organ is the ultimate slow food. San Franciscans are sautéing, dehydrating, encapsulating, brewing teas, and making tinctures with their placentas. Others are creating rituals and art with the organ, which symbolizes to many the tenuous space between life and death.

Mission resident Andrea Olson and her Australian shepherd, Sasha, both sampled Andrea’s placenta after the birth of her son Kaiva on August 20, 2010. The day after Andrea's home birth, her apprentice midwife arrived on her doorstep armed with a food dehydrator. She boiled the afterbirth in water seasoned with jalapeño and lemon, then dehydrated the organ at 100 degrees. The result?

“It was spongy. It tasted like chicken or seitan,” says Andrea, who sampled a French fry–sized piece. Sasha was more enthusiastic, inhaling the human flesh after drooling throughout its preparation. Andrea also drank tea made from the concoction, which she found spicy and delicious. The remaining tissue was encapsulated as well as made into a tincture for medicinal purposes.

With only one child under her belt, Andrea admits she doesn't have anything with which to compare her placenta-fortified postpartum period. But her mood seemed brighter, she recalls, on the days she took her capsules than on the days she forgot. When her son was teething, she put the afterbirth tincture on his fontanel to soothe him.

Proponents of placentophagy say consuming the organ combats postpartum depression and also speeds healing by replenishing nutrients lost during pregnancy and birth. Whether it works is a matter of debate. It's a belief passed down through cultures, not a medicine with effectiveness validated by double-blind studies and FDA-approval. Its benefits have been little studied.

San Franciscan Jaime Shapiro, who runs the Placenta Apothecary with fellow midwife Kristina Wingeier, believes that may change. With new focus on preserving cord blood for its potentially lifesaving stem cells, science may soon echo what midwives and Chinese medicine practitioners tout through anecdotal evidence, she says.

Studies are currently underway to explore the use of placental tissues to treat ailments including posttraumatic wound healing, diabetic ulcers, ocular surface disorders, and vascular ulcers.

Jaime and her partner incorporate herbs to personalize their placenta medicine, taking into account a woman’s health history and concerns. Since they opened up shop in 2009, business has been brisk. Jaime works with approximately four clients a month, split evenly between mothers who birthed at home and in the hospital. On the first of a two-day process, the women, who are OSHA-certified for dealing with blood-borne pathogens, clean the clots off the placenta, drain its blood, and cook it in a pot with herbs for 20 minutes. It is then sliced thin and dried overnight in a food dehydrator.

Jaime assures me that even those with prudish palates can reap the benefits of the afterbirth by ingesting it in capsules. “People who think they’re going to be squeamish about it end up not having that reaction at all,” Jaime says. “Having a dinner party and grilling up the placenta doesn’t sound so appealing to people, but this doesn’t feel like food, it’s like a supplement.”

The renewed interest in the placenta may dawn a new era of respect for the organ, which has long been the Rodney Dangerfield of the birth process. While the baby gets all the glory, the humble afterbirth is unceremoniously dumped into a biohazard container. The organ is a lifeline, carrying nourishment and oxygen from mother to fetus. So why does it get such a meager farewell?

It may come down to appearances. Large, bloody, and bulging with veins, it looks like the hybrid of a juicy steak and steaming entrails. In fact, it's the last thing you'd think would make a beautiful objet d’art. But surprisingly, it makes a pleasing addition to the wall of Chandra Alexandre's Sunset flat.

I found myself studying Chandra's placenta print during my last days of pregnancy. With reaching branches and intertwining roots, it looks like the tree of life, a symbol for the interconnectedness of all creation. Also, like the City of Oakland's oak tree logo.

Like Andrea, Chandra also says she warded off post-partum complications by taking encapsulated placenta after the birth of her daughter, Eve. But preparing it like food was going too far.

The print represents a happy medium in biological mementos.

“Sitting down with a knife and fork and eating an organ wasn't appealing to me," she says. "The print is something you can show people. It's accessible. It tells a profound story that isn’t too graphic for people and conveys a point about the physicality of birth.”

I had to be honest with myself:

The printmaking process is simple. The placenta is rolled onto a towel, and then the outer membrane is peeled to reveal the organ’s venous side. It is then rolled onto paper, creating a unique print. After the blood dries, the image is secured with acrylic fixative.

Chandra’s husband, Murray Kucherawy, recalls bringing the print to be framed and explaining it to wide-eyed Cheap Pete's employees. "The post-Goth girl behind the counter thought it was cool but weird," he says. "Everyone else stayed away."

As my due date approached, I let these ideas marinate like a placenta before a dinner party. I was planning to be induced, so I procrastinated on a decision and preparations. I would be having a hospital birth, so I would need to bring a cooler and sign a release to take my afterbirth home with me.

And now for the anticlimactic epilogue. Six days before my scheduled birth, my water broke on my living room couch – before I had made a decision, much less any arrangements. And then things got chaotic, ending with an emergency Caesarian section. After the ordeal, I wanted to travel light on the way home – taking my baby but ditching my placenta, despite its noble service.

Although my afterbirth is gone, it’s not forgotten. And while my gratitude alone may seem an insufficient reward, that’s life for the modest placenta. A quiet workhorse, it toils in the dark and without thanks, except for a few brave souls with adventurous taste in cuisine and interior decoration.

Want to make art that really shows off who you are inside? Follow Chandra’s simple instructions for making your own placenta print: 1. Place placenta on a towel to drain. 2. Peel outer membrane to reveal the organ’s venous side. 3. Roll onto paper to create a unique print. 4. After blood dries, secure image with acrylic fixative.

Do you prefer a professional touch? Placenta Apothecary offers dried and raw placenta capsules, as well as afterbirth tincture and essence. Check out their website for details.

A Fine Mess

Jon Korn — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

In the end, there are really only two types of people. On one side are those decorous individuals who actually have table manners, like ones that they literally possess. These polite few lift pinkies, take sensible bites, and push back from their plates with clothes so clean that, well, you could eat off them. They are estimable, model members of society.

And then there is the other type. Sticky whirlwinds of napkins, condiments, and misused flatware. Parsley firmly lodged in between teeth held within a face smeared with sauce, all sitting atop a body covered in a thin film of whatever menu item offered the smallest ratio of price to tonnage. These messy martyrs are not afraid to sacrifice anything in search of a great meal, be it wardrobe or reputation. Fearless? Perhaps. Shameless? Most certainly. Friends, let it be known now and forevermore: I am one of them.

Don’t believe me? Well, read on and discover five of San Francisco’s messiest – and most delicious – meals, complete with photographic evidence. Welcome to bib country.

Barbecue is dear to messy eaters everywhere precisely because it is by definition greasy, saucy, and sticky. The fare at the Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue fits this description to a T. In fact, this Bayview gem’s meat verges on the platonic ideal of barbecue: an irresistible mix of smoky, juicy, and sweet.

There’s a lot to like about Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue, but paramount among its attributes is the literal truth of its name. This is not so much a “restaurant” as a window in the side of a warehouse, located in an actual warehouse district. Parking is ample, free, and not limited to the sides of the street. The owner of Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue also runs the fire alarm testing company that takes up the building’s upper floors. His love of cooking led to the creation of a catering company in the ground floor kitchen and that, in turn, gave birth to the blessed window.

Amazing things emerge from this portal. Wonders like a classic “three way” tray of meat, in this case brisket and double pork ribs, accompanied by creamy mac and cheese, baked beans with sweet morsels of pork, and shockingly hearty steak chili. The rib meat fell off its bones, mostly into my mouth, and the brisket inspired the platonic paean above. Just as impressive was the Monster Burger, a feat of carnivorous architecture that consisted of a half-pound beef patty topped with cheese, bacon, and – I swear – pulled pork. Every bite produced new jets of sauce and grease, each of which contributed to the calamity on my napkin.

My next adventure in grubby gastronomy took me to Chinatown, where the ineffable R & G Lounge offers up three floors of hospitality – and one wonderfully messy specialty of the house: salt and pepper whole Dungeness crab. I was but one of many there to sample this delicacy, and indeed there can be quite a wait despite the imposing size of the place. Have a drink and relax, the food is well worth it.

Whole crab is normally a bib-worthy meal in its own right, seeing as how it requires hands-on participation from the eater. But R & G’s version crosses into unique territory due to its preparation. You see, the whole thing is fried – shell on – and then served in the traditional way with crackers and tiny forks. Imagine! Not only are there gouts of broth and bits of crab flying around, but also grease and breading as well.

It is such a magnificently dirty process that even the truly mannered would have to abandon any attempts at gentility and dig in. Remember: The wet-naps are there for a reason.

But let us not forget the taste of the dish itself. Amazing. The good folks at R & G didn’t fry the crab just to construct an especially sloppy eating experience. There was intent here. This technique locks the moisture inside the shell, leaving wonderfully tender meat. This is the sort of meal you should eat with a prospective mate, just to ensure he or she won’t go all squeamish when the chips are down. But maybe don’t wear your favorite seersucker trousers.

We’ve all seen some dandy try to eat a chicken wing with a fork and knife, only to surrender to the traditional, manual approach. Truly a case of form triumphing over style – or perhaps function over substance?

Regardless, if wings are your goal then Wing Wings in Lower Haight should be your destination. Founded by head chef Christian, who used to work at the right honorable Little Skillet in SoMa, this tiny storefront has been churning out meaty, tempting wings for the past six months. Your order of 6, 10, 25, or even 100 comes slathered in 9 different sauces, including classic buffalo, tangy BBQ, and the evocatively named “Angry Korean.”

There is other fare on the menu as well – most germane to our topic being a pillowy biscuit, delightfully drenched in chicken gravy. Take-out is popular, as is delivery, but if you don’t eat on the premises then you would miss the opportunity to be serenaded by classic rap emanating from one of the establishment’s many equally classic boom boxes. So, you know, caveat emptor.

Looking to establish a proper base of knowledge, I ordered my wings with the eponymous Wing Wing sauce. It was tart, sweet, and just a little spicy – an enticing mix. It was also very liberally applied, at first just on the wings, but subsequently on my ersatz bib and hands as well. Add in the obligatory side of blue cheese and things got downright epic. A beautiful disaster, as you can see.

The hamburger you have been dreaming about lives in the Tenderloin. You know this burger: as tall as it is wide, piled with various and sundry toppings, just dripping with condiments. The sort of burger that cannot be put down once you begin eating, lest it collapse under its lofty ambitions. The sort of burger that makes the plate below it look like the scene of a crime of passion. The sort of burger that requires not just a mouth opened wide, but also steadfast resolve. And, well, torque.

The purveyor of this sacred feast is Pearl's Deluxe Burgers, a charming hole-in-the-wall that boasts five tables, one bathroom, overflowing condiment caddies, flimsy napkins, and free refills. Go at lunch and it will be packed. Wait for a seat: hefting Pearl's burger on the go would be an impossible feat. Atlas himself would wait for a seat.

The thing about Pearl's Deluxe is that the burgers are as irresistible as they are unstable. The thick juicy patty explodes with flavor, offset perfectly by crisp lettuce, fresh tomatoes, sharp onions, and whatever else you can imagine. (There is even a “King Burger” topped by a hot dog, which to me implies that “king” is being used in the Elvis sense of the word, rather than the royal one.) The fries are thick and crunchy, and almost as good as the burger. There are shakes as well, but my belly was beyond full. It was also covered in the evidence that I had enjoyed my meal. You will too.

Listen, we have had fun so far. That’s four amazing and messy meals. You can stop now and still retain some shred of self-respect. Or you can continue on with me to the most disgustingly wonderful meal I found in San Francisco. It’s your choice, I won’t be mad. Not everyone is built for this sort of peril.

Still with me? Excellent. Welcome, my grubby brethren, to Craw Station. A Creole-style seafood joint right in the heart of the Inner Sunset, Craw Station is the sort of restaurant where it’s not a question of whether there will be a shellfish antenna in your drink by the end of the meal, but rather how many. Here crawfish, shrimp, clams, and crabs are served by the pound. You choose among the four styles of sauce and within minutes the friendly servers plunk down a heavy-duty plastic bag filled with your food.

Then they bring you a bib, a wet nap, a roll of paper towels, and a bucket for your shells. Whatever happens after that is between you and your god.

Regardless of creed, all can agree that the food is incredible. I sampled both the house Cajun crawfish and the shrimp with garlic butter, and would be hard-pressed to choose a favorite. The former featured a beguiling mix of cumin and chili pepper, while the latter was utterly luxurious. I also enjoyed the house noodles, which are prepared Asian-style, with soy, garlic, and rich fish roe. Visit with a crowd and try everything. Just don’t plan on going anywhere afterwards other than home to do laundry.

Think you know a spot with messier, more appetizing food than these five? Let me know in the comments! But please abide by the sacred rule of the Internet: pics, or it didn’t happen.

The Smokin' Warehouse Barbecue is at 1465 Carroll Avenue in Bayview, right near the Muni. Head over to 631 Kearny Street in Chinatown to visit the R & G Lounge. Lower Haight is the place for Wing Wings, which is located at 422 Haight Street. Pearl's Deluxe Burgers waits for you at 708 Post Street in the Tenderloin. And Craw Station is just off the Judah line in the Inner Sunset, at 1336 9th Avenue.

Punk Planet

Joshua Cobos — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 00:00:13 -0800

Despite the fact that the record store has been open since 2007, Thrillhouse remains a relative secret in this city. It started out as a local punk label, featuring releases from Bobby Joe Ebola, RoboCop 3, and Black Rainbow, and is now a shop-cum-clubhouse deeply entrenched in San Francisco’s music scene.

Thrillhouse is the kind of place you can sit around and drink beer with the all-volunteer staff while flipping through Crass records and talking about the Wipers. Over the three or so years that I’ve been going there as a customer, I’ve engaged in numerous discussions with the staff that travel so far down trivia wormholes that I end up learning gobs of the most unsanitary information about rock and roll’s dirtiest heroes.

The vinyl carried in the shop varies wildly in genre and you can generally count on leaving with some unexpected finds. On one particular visit, I scored a long lost Black Sabbath album I’d been looking for, a collection of classic country LPs, and a couple 45s by local bands that have since broken up. The house stereo is just as eclectic. I’ve heard “God Save the Queen” followed by a Billy Idol hit and a Billy Childish ballad. This wide cultural smattering extends to the name of the shop itself – which was taken from a segment of a Simpsons Christmas episode in which Bart is caught shoplifting. Sounds pretty punk to me.

On a recent trip to Thrillhouse, founder Fred Schrunk invited me to come down and help prepare a feast for a potluck he was attending. As usual, I ventured in with a case of beer and no idea what to expect next. I arrived a bit after the agreed meeting time only to find an empty store and some half-asleep punks at the counter. Fred isn’t a slave to punctuality, but when he finally arrived, we eased into a conversation about the ethos and mission of running a subversive punk record store in a city with ever-changing taste.

Fred explained that Thrillhouse embraces a lifestyle that goes beyond punk. It fosters a true rock ’n’ roll ethic that incites people to share their tastes and influences. The store is designed to be a not-for-profit, which means that the records aren’t marked up at insane dollar amounts. They’re priced just high enough to cover overhead and keep the electricity on.

While we prepared food for the potluck, Fred introduced me to members of the staff who’d just slogged their way into Thrillhouse after a late night of anarchy and debauchery. We caramelized apples that were to be wrapped in bacon while the volunteers talked about Star Wars and Richard Hell. Later we played Super Mario Brothers 3 while dissecting a Gary Glitter album and drinking Coors.

Fred showed me the basement where shows were held before the fire department deemed the space too risky for those sorts of events. The space isn’t exactly fit for the vertically inclined, and getting it up to code would’ve been an architectural conundrum. What remains are tiny remnants of better days: guitar strings strewn on the dirt floor mixed with shards of glass from bottles long emptied. On the way back up from the basement, we passed by a wall covered with laser discs.

Thrillhouse has had an effervescent presence in San Francisco’s music community since its start. From curating and promoting the 2010 San Francisco Is Doomed Fest to putting together a library of collected and donated zines, there are always murmurs of something new going on at the shop.

The city’s liveliest underground movements and communities are rarely recognized while they’re happening. Usually it’s only upon reflection after their demise that we realize what a good thing we had going. Thrillhouse offers a unique opportunity to be part of something great and progressive right now.

Dust off your parent’s record player and head down to Thrillhouse for records you might not even realize you’ve been missing. Check out the zine selection, bring a zine to trade in, or leaf through the newest issue of Maximum Rocknroll.

Burn It Clean

Caleb Garling — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:00:13 -0800

So when I sat down with Mark DeVito at his pub, Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, I wasn't sure how to recalibrate my expectations. Mark's joint serves hot wings, but they’re the kind that come with a waiver requiring a witness in case you develop some sort of medical complication due to the heat. Mark got a bead on the legendary bhut jolokia peppers, otherwise known as ghost peppers, from a source in India. These suckers make the backbone of one flame-throwing marinade.

How hot are we talking? The Scoville scale is the rough measurement of capsaicin, the compound that lights up your mouth in spicy food. Original Tabasco sauce comes in at about 4,000 Scovilles. The ghost pepper typically comes in at a million.

A week prior, a food writer had been in to Dr. Teeth's and sat down for wings coated in the Death Sauce, as they call it. Mark said the guy perspired through his shirt and was frightened by his haggard reflection in the mirror.

At this story, my own palms get a tad clammy. I can take spice. I make my own pepper flakes and salsa. I order "extra hot" for a burrito. I've eaten – enjoyed, even – the street food of Bangkok. But the thought of a fellow human, experienced with food, turning into a helpless sweaty mess because of a wing marinade has me on edge.

"So, you want to try a couple?" Mark asks, yet his grin seems to say, "Ready for school, pal?"

"Sure," I answer, already perspiring a little.

He goes to the kitchen to put in the order and I glance around Dr. Teeth.

The décor pays homage to the "Electric Mayhem" portion of the name (which, for all you non-Muppet fans, is what the rock band was called, and it’s the original namesake of the bar). Designed by Michael Brennan – who also did SOMA's Zero Zero, among many other joints – the room has pipes with stylish-but-utilitarian lights snaking down from the high ceilings. Tiny mirrors on the walls accentuate the soft incandescent bulbs. Mannequins with wild fixtures replacing the heads are nestled into the corners of the bar. This intricate artistry is punctuated by flat-screen TVs playing soccer and Monday Night Football.

The stylish-mixed-with-pub contrast makes its way into Dr. Teeth's menu too. Spice is far from the only option available. It has little sliders and a hearty steak. There are beers for $2, alongside cocktails for $10. Mark is also the head bartender, and when he comes back from the kitchen (I envision the cook preparing my wings with one of those suits used to handle nuclear waste), we go through a few of his prized spirit concoctions.

The space for Dr. Teeth actually came to Mark and his business partner by way of a Craigslist ad. When they took over the joint, the previous owner left behind a bunch of liquor – a somewhat common practice when a bar changes hands. Within that treasure trove was a stock of calvados, an apple-flavored brandy.

After a little tinkering, and adding in Bulleit Rye and Fernet, The Mayhem was born, Dr. Teeth's numero uno cocktail. It lands in the neighborhood of a sweet and elegant Manhattan. (Note: Do not describe Dr. Teeth's cocktails as "sexy." Mark hates that.)

The summer before opening Dr. Teeth, Mark bartended a friend's wedding where the ceremony was held in a sprawling meadow. Inspired by the summertime fun, he created an effervescent hybrid, drawing on the lightness of a mojito and the kick of a Moscow mule – except using gin instead of vodka. He calls this one the Manchester Mule.

Mark informs me that all of Dr. Teeth’s cocktails are designed with no added sugar. "It's easy to put in a shitload of simple syrup and call it a day," he says. "But then here comes your hangover."

When Dr. Teeth finally opened and proudly displayed the long list of cocktails, uppity folks would still come in and give the ol' "Come up with your most creative cocktail," leaving the bartenders looking longingly at the menu and thinking, "Just read."

But those moments of forced inspiration spawned the Agave Azul. It’s basil, blueberry, lemon, and fresh jalapeño muddled together with tequila to make this upright, sweet, and capsaicin-kicking beauty.

As if my hot wings heard us discussing jalapeños and got angry, the kitchen doors fly open and two of them arrive at my table, lathered in Death Sauce. They steam on a wilting piece of lettuce like undetonated warheads.

"The one trick I'll give you is eat quickly if you want to finish," Mark suggests.

"I'm going to use one hand. Keep the other clean and try to take notes as I eat," I say.

"Just be sure you don't use the dirty hand to go to the bathroom later."

I grimace. And reach for a wing.

With most spicy foods, the smell kicks you in the olfactory bulbs before you make it to the first bite, yet as I raise the drumstick I find I'm not wincing at the harbinger. That at least seems like the sign of a good marinade. I sink my teeth in and am careful to keep my lips high – the less sauce on my face, the better.

To start, the spice hits with a smoldering warning shot, but not enough to slow me down. I'm clinging to Mark’s advice, and in less than 20 seconds, the first wing is down. I begin to picture a deep crimson cloud billowing in my mouth. I reach for the second wing. It's a thigh, so it needs careful maneuvering to avoid smearing the sauce. This isn't my first rodeo, however, and after another 30 seconds, it's down with minimal residue everywhere except on my fingers.

And just as I'm about to be proud of myself, that crimson cloud opens up and rains hot magma.

The lips go up in flames. The nose uncorks. Then the throat begins to smoke. I glance at my notes and see that my handwriting has melted into an array of doodles.

Mark sits quietly but intently as I channel my inner athlete and yogi at the same time: anything to reclaim motor functions. My jaw won't stop twitching and my lips curl inward. I'm worried that if I exhale too deeply my napkin will burst into flames. Sweat forms on my brow – but not that much, certainly not a drenching.

And then, after about eight minutes, it passes.

The heat doesn't go away, but the magma cools. And I am left with what I will honestly say was a pleasant taste. It was hot – do not get me wrong – but it wasn't painful. It actually never was painful. Just intense. A spicy exhaustion fueled by adrenaline, then soothed by endorphins.

Mark assures me he didn't tell the chefs to take it easy on me and dilute the marinade.

That's impressive. Not my ability to withstand heat, but Dr. Teeth's ability to take one of the world's hottest peppers (look up YouTube clips of people eating ghost peppers fresh off the branch – not pretty) and turn it into an explosive but delicious marinade.

Dr. Teeth, you have passed my hot wings litmus test.

I'll be back.

Dr. Teeth and The Electric Mayhem is located on Mission just south of 19th. Head over for beers 'n' sports, cocktails, or a quick bite. The staff will accommodate any social gathering. Even if you go solo and want to try the Death Sauce wings, a bartender can cosign the waiver as a witness.

Preservation Society

David Franklin — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

It never fails to make me smile when I pull up to a stop sign in my ’66 Volvo 122 sedan and someone rolls down the window to ask, “Hey, what year is that?” And I can’t say it wasn’t a good day when instead of a parking ticket under my wiper, I found a note reading, “I love your car!”

I’ve owned two other cars in the city – an ’89 VW and an ’88 Honda – that only thieves were attracted to, leaving me with broken windows and an ashtray empty of quarters. After the Honda got towed and I had to pay $300, I gave up on being a car owner and reverted back to my other wheels – a bike and a skateboard. But after eight years of borrowing cars and bumming rides, it felt like it might be time to invest in some real wheels again. I’d just about set my heart on finding an old Ford F-150 when my buddy Eric told me he was selling his baby blue Volvo. I immediately fell in love. It wasn’t tricked out or restored and there was definitely some rust peeking out here and there, but it was a true original and that’s what sold me.

I’d never been much of an auto snob, but modern cars just don’t have it compared to older cars: those chrome details in the grill and side panels, rounded headlights and true-red tail lights, Jetsons-era instrument panels, and real metal bumpers, not to mention that unbeatable old-car smell. The feeling of driving one of these cars is different too. It’s hard to explain until you get behind the wheel. You don’t always get power steering, electric windows, rear window defrost, or even heat for that matter, and you might not always be able to just turn the key and drive away. But when you do get going, you feel like you’re actually driving. I can honestly say my car is beautiful – she has curves, plenty of chrome, and there’s not a plastic panel anywhere. And did I mention she’s baby blue?

(buildingresources.org)

(strangebirddist.com)

(letitbleedtattoo.com)

(talbotdevil.com)

If you do happen to fall for a classic car, know what to ask about the engine, transmission, tires, suspension, rust, and so on, before handing your money over. If you don’t know what to ask or what to look for, make sure that the seller will let you take it to a mechanic for an inspection, or bring along a friend that knows their stuff. No vintage car is going to be perfect. As Talbot pointed out, “You’re buying someone else’s problems.”

Of course, owning an older car means that you have to pay extra attention to maintenance. Either find a shop with a mechanic who is familiar with your classic and spend some money, or take the time to learn on your own and spend your weekends under the hood.

I’ve chosen the latter option and although I’ve saved some money, I’ve spent at least twice as much time as a trained mechanic who’s got the right tools and lifts. For me it’s worthwhile, because by doing the work myself I’ve learned a new set of skills and gained an affinity for my Baby Blue.

- Craigslist.org

- eBay motor

- classifieds

- for sale signs

- Carlos Exclusive Auto Services

- Precision Auto

- House of Brakes

- Popular Mechanix

- Larkin Bros. Tire Company

- take an auto repair class at City College of SF

Humm Dingers

Leigh Cuen — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

I roamed the markets and Arab-owned liquor stores, but nothing satisfied my garbanzo-lust. So I embarked on an exodus. From greasy shawarma joints to swanky Turkish wine bars, I infiltrated kitchens and went behind counters to taste test some of the best hummus the city has to offer. Turns out, there is many a place in San Francisco to worship the chickpea.

Complexity is the sole universal measure of good quality hummus. Global cultures each have their own distinct variations – mild or pungent, salty or savory, with tons of garlic or no garlic at all, the styles are endless. But a great hummus will surprise you with its layers of flavor, the soft crunch of a whole chickpea, or a subtle dash of cumin that wasn’t obvious at first bite. Universally, a good hummus is a challenge to eat slowly.

When I walked into Goood Frikin Chicken and saw the stacks of fresh pita grilled with zatar (a forest green Arab spice the texture of fine sand with tiny seeds), I knew I’d stay for a while. The hummus created a storm cloud in my mouth the way that a good one should, billowing with waves of flavor, each with its own stage. First my tongue recognized a hint of salt, and then the tangy bitter of the tahini, all delivered with an undercurrent of garbanzo. It was light and sunny, and not too filling, dissolving in my mouth with the ease of cotton candy. This only made it more addictive. The entire time I was reduced to mumbling: "Oh my Gd. Oh my Gd. Oh my Gd."

The fresh, homemade hummus at Cheese Boutique comes in a convenient, small Tupperware container, its khaki-color visible through the clear plastic. Its creamy texture drips onto your dipping instrument of choice – I prefer vegetables. It was utterly fantastic, tasting satiny smooth and savory, with a citrus zing, and leaving behind creamy memories of lemon in my mouth. It did not fog up my taste buds or leave my stomach full. It was light, and the perfect complement to every lunch item I could think of.

The edamame hummus at Radio Africa Kitchen throbbed with zesty lemon and had a garlic aftertaste. It was the light meadow green of mint chip ice cream, with a proper hummus texture. I closed my eyes and savored the crisp taste of the edamame, as refreshing as biting into a slice of juicy cucumber. It was both light and satisfying. Starting very soon, this hummus will be available at Radio Africa’s new location in the Bayview and served with sourdough bread.

La Mediterranee was pulsing with color – woven rugs and vibrant craft art adorned the walls. Lights twinkled across the top of the bar like snowflakes caught on eyelashes. The hummus came with vegetables arranged across its surface in a geometric pattern. Slices of beet, carrot, cucumber, and olives were cut diagonally and sprinkled with parsley. The hummus was a creamy beige, served with warm, soft pita. It was light and tasted gentle, like early morning sun. It was not as flavorsome as I would have hoped, but it wasn’t bland by any means. It was slightly salty with a sour sting, with footprints of lemon. As I chewed I listened to the mellow, groovy tunes overhead.

Murals of the city it’s named after covered the walls of Old Jerusalem. Tear-jerking Arabic music filled the air. “I came here and I wanted to make a restaurant exactly like home,” the chef told me. His recipe uses no garlic and he looked offended by the mention of lemon juice. “Lemon salt,” he clarified. “The process is very important, that it’s timed, how long to soak, how long to grind, like a dance done to music.” The hummus was covered with lakes of olive oil, scattered clusters of paprika, and finely chopped parsley. It was slippery, disappearing down my throat quickly, but very filling when served with warm pita, and thicker than the summer humidity of Tel Aviv’s beaches. In it I could taste smoke from the wild fire roasting shawarma in the kitchen. I savored the chaos of Jerusalem behind my teeth, a noisy flavor, a buzz between my ears. It was velvety, almost sublime.

Haig's came highly recommended by a Greek-American foodie I trust. I ordered the spicy hummus to go despite my pansy palate. It was the color of Skippy peanut butter, and the ingredients included frightening words like “no added oil,” “cayenne,” and “water.” But it proved to be rich and only mildly spicy. It delivered a kick to the tongue after swallowing, but (thankfully) no burning or sweating followed. This hummus was not heavy enough or complex enough to stand alone for my taste buds, but it would make the perfect complement to a sandwich or falafel.

Modern art covered the bright blue walls at Bursa. The restaurant was packed. The hummus came with a few whole chickpeas still meandering in a pool of olive oil on the surface – a promising sign. It was served alongside soft, grilled pita. The hummus itself was saucy and salty, a savory appetizer that proved decent, but it needed even more olive oil in order to capture that authentic taste I craved. This hummus was like a cruel lover – I couldn’t explain why, but I always wanted more. I licked the plate clean.

For a tongue in exile, the hummus offerings at Old Jerusalem, Cheese Boutique, and Good Frikin Chicken more than get the job done.

Theatre of Magic

Eric Slatkin — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

It’s 8 p.m. on a Sunday, and I’m sitting with hundreds of people waiting to see a young Harrison Ford break some skulls. A guy with a whip and a group of girls who look just like Greta Garbo breeze past me down the aisle in sync to a live organ version of the Raiders of the Lost Ark theme song. People are turned around in their seats, talking, laughing, scarfing down popcorn. No one’s scanning Facebook or uncomfortably sitting through endless Coke ads – we’re all sinking into our comfy plush red chairs, excitedly awaiting the lights to go down and the curtains to draw at one of the last grand movie palaces in the country.

You won’t get this experience at a giganto-plex or on your computer screen. Some might call it nostalgia, but watch a film here and you’ll get it: This is the way a movie is intended to be viewed, the way a director intends his or her film to be experienced. In 2007, the filmmaker Paul Thomas Anderson showed an advanced screening here of his film There Will Be Blood. When asked why he chose the Castro, he said he wanted to screen it in the best theater in America. "I cannot tell you," Anderson said as he got up on stage, "what it means to be here to see all these people out on a Monday night to see our film that we're so proud of. This is how it should be done, in a theater like this, on film, it's just a thrill!"

At its core, the Castro Theatre is a community – a place for strangers to come together and share an experience. And whether it’s an Oscar-winning film, a Little Mermaid sing-along, or short films made on cell phones, one thing is certain – you’re going to have a great time at the movies.

So the next time you head over on a rainy day, a “sick” day, or on a date, the history and facts below should come in handy.

Got nothing to do late night? Check out the theater’s regular screenings of some of the coolest films you’ve never heard of at Midnites for Maniacs, hosted by Jesse Hawthorne Ficks. And be sure to stay updated on all the Castro’s great events.

Find out more about the film festivals and books mentioned above on the following websites:

Noir City Film Festival

Frameline

SF International Film Festival

Disposable Film Festival

Left in the Dark

Divine Intersection

Alanna Hale — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

I am trying to remember the first time I met Reverend Bertie Pearson. I don’t think it was in the basement of YamaSho, when we were doing karaoke to bad ’90s tunes while swigging from a large sake bottle. Likewise, I think it was before the 4th of July party in Sebastopol, when we spent the day lounging atop several colorful floaties in one very pristine swimming pool. Rather, it was precisely where one might imagine meeting a Reverend, I suppose. I believe we first met at Grace Cathedral.

EpiscoDisco was a monthly arts and music event that took place at Grace Cathedral from April 2009 to August 2010. It was an evening of DJs, bands, and installation and video artists. The artwork was generally site specific – referencing the cathedral or other aspects of the Episcopal tradition – though none of the creators were typically religious. Neither were the partygoers. Alcohol and revelry were welcome.

I remember walking up the steps of that magnificent church one EpiscoDisco night and there stood Bertie, tall and sharply dressed in a black suit, indistinguishable as a priest save for the white collar. With a cherubic face and parted hair slicked back into place, he evoked a stylish, bygone Gatsby-esque character, though bobbing along to a techno beat and drinking from a blue plastic party cup.

I was fascinated. Who on earth was this party-boy-preacher-man who, I later learned, played in bands and was married to an ex-model turned scientist? How had he single-handedly created an event that lured hundreds of people from all across town to church on a Saturday night? Wasn’t any number of the things we were doing on said night somehow ... sacrilegious?

Bertie now has a new monthly event called Sound and Vision, held at the Episcopal Church of St. John the Evangelist. At four months old, it is similar to EpiscoDisco but has an even stronger focus on the art, and favors more live music than DJs. The launch of this series seemed like good motivation to get the backstory on this reverend promoter. And so, some time and many social encounters after our first introduction, I find myself at church on a recent Sunday morning.

Having dragged myself out of bed to see the Reverend do his thing, I’m seeking the other side of Bertie – the pious and spiritual version that seems so contrary to my understanding. I did not grow up with religion in my life, and my grasp on it – beyond some undisputed historical facts – is limited at best. Turns out, Bertie is as patient and forgiving a teacher as they come.

We meet in his office the afternoon following his sermon, and I immediately unleash a barrage of questions. As he enthusiastically walks me through the history of the Episcopal tradition, the process of ordination, and the day-to-day life of a priest, it becomes clear that what I saw as a schism between a religious man and social fixture is in fact not a divide at all.

Hailing from Austin, Texas, Bertie came to the Bay Area by way of UC Berkeley. Starting college with a double major in English and studio art, he finished with a degree in history and philosophy. He always knew he wanted to be a priest, however, and had announced his vocational desire to his father at the age of seven. “When the popular kids wanted to play wedding on the playground, I always wanted to marry them,” he says. “I memorized the whole speech early on.”

We talk about his wife, Rahel, and how they met backstage at Mezzanine in 2006 when his band was playing a magazine party and she was modeling in the fashion show. He tells me about his current band, The Altars, and how the deeply religious lyrics he writes are sung by a friend for whom the words take on a lovestruck, non-deistic meaning.

As I plod on, asking about his life as a musician versus his life as a priest, marriage versus celibacy, alcohol versus abstinence, I begin to realize that it’s the very phrasing of my questions that pits one generalization against another. By presenting my inquiries in opposition I am creating this dichotomy, and this duality is a projection Bertie faces often.

He feels he lives an integrated life. “I think that because people cast religious people and people who are involved in music in stereotypical ways, they think it must be this very bifurcated life,” he explains. “But it never felt bifurcated to me. The whole time I was DJing and playing in bands I never missed church on a Sunday.”

As the youth coordinator at the Diocese of California, Bertie started EpiscoDisco so that those close to him could experience a sacred space on their own terms. “Most of my friends are not people of faith,” he reflects, “but I found that a lot of them got what I get out of church through art and music.” He wanted them to be able to come into a church and feel like they didn’t have to be on some sort of hypocritical version of good behavior, or worry about doing the wrong thing. “They could make the cathedral their own for that night,” he adds.

EpiscoDisco came to an end when Bertie left the Diocese to become Priest-in-Charge at both the Episcopal Church of St. John the Evangelist and Holy Innocents Episcopal Church. Being a parish priest was always the ultimate goal, and he’s grateful to be with people at “the most vulnerable points in their lives.” He says he loves writing sermons as well as the social justice and outreach work he’s able to do through the church.

A week later, when we meet at his house and thumb through his collection of records and rare first edition books, Bertie talks about Sound and Vision. The bands in this new series span from electronic to folk to indie, and while nothing is particularly mainstream, everything is “pretty San Francisco oriented.” The art, too, showcases mostly Bay Area talent, some of whom he approaches while others seek him out to participate. Local musician Danny Paul Grody played Sound and Vision’s first show and is now helping curate the music for upcoming events.

As the sun begins to set and I reluctantly pack up my camera, I ask Bertie what aspect of his life he feels is most misunderstood. His answer, particularly for a secular, nonbeliever like myself, feels like a good one to go out on. He says people sometimes assume a person of faith can’t respect other metaphysical worldviews, but he feels that “God, or the divine, or whatever you want to call it, is so much greater than our tiny brains can ever encompass.” For this reason, he claims, “There’s room for an infinite number of understandings of who we are and why we’re here and what it’s all for.” To that I say, amen.

Sound and Vision takes place the last Sunday of every month at the Episcopal Church of St. John the Evangelist from 6-9:30 p.m. There is a suggested donation of $5-$20 but no one is turned away. If you’re interested in performing or showing work at a Sound and Vision event, or have general inquiries for the Reverend, email fatherbertie@stjohnsf.org.

Parks and Recreation

Abby Wilcox — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 00:00:14 -0800

My first encounter with a San Francisco parklet was at Four Barrel Coffee on Valencia a while back. I remember looking at it and saying to myself “Wow, what a revolutionary idea.” Parklets have become a fast-growing phenomenon in many of SF’s districts since then, with outside-of-the-box design ideas that make them a go-to hangout spots for city dwellers looking to get some vitamin D.

I set out to photograph the creative minds behind this growing trend, and in the process, learned how much work goes into the development of a these public spaces. It starts with an idea. Then the respective business must apply for a permit from the city to inhabit a street parking space, which can be fairly time-consuming and difficult. Finally, the parklet comes to life, often with contributions of many people.

Valencia Street has parklets popping up everywhere, so I started my journey on 14th at Four Barrel, where the story first resonated for me. The inspiration behind this parklet is a unique take on the urban balcony, someplace to lean up against the rail with your coffee and watch the passersby. If you’re a biker, have no fear, there are a plethora of racks for your ride on this parklet.

Next I made my way up to the first parklet built in a residential parking spot in front of Deep Jawa and Kimberly Conley’s home on Valencia near 20th. There I photographed the lovely couple, along with the designer Jane Martin, who was especially taken with her clients’ love of dinosaurs. A succulent topiary Triceratops stands tall, surrounded by all manner of fauna, as well as cyads, which the dinos liked to chomp on.

The reason for a parklet in front of their house? Deep apparently knows how to throw a great party, and he also loves to give back some of the awesomeness that the Mission gives to him!

Right off of Valencia at 22nd sits this amazing art gallery called Fabric8, with the current parklet curated and built by artist Eric Otto. Olivia Ongpin, the owner, filled me on her plans to change the parklet on an annual basis to support various local artists. Though it was raining while we were shooting, we had quite the time!

Fabric8 commissioned Erik Otto for their first parklet because shelter and refuge are common themes in his work, and they liked his vision of constructing a tiny oasis that allowed visitors to forget the troubles of their day. In general, they like to think of their parklet as a kid-friendly public art installation, a “canvas” that brings art to the community.

Next I trekked to another part of the city, to the parklet at the Mojo coffee/bike shop on Divisadero at Hayes. There I met Riyad Ghannam, the architect, along with Remy Nelson, the owner of the shop. The parklet was quite the scene, bustling with people and cyclists, and the space was also built with a few extra bike racks to accommodate SF’s bike culture.

The inspiration for their parklet was simple; they wanted to create a place for people that was more valuable to the neighborhood than a space for a car. Their challenge was to do it well for less than 5K. This was the first official San Francisco parklet ever, so they wanted it to be a good model for future installations.

I continued on with Riyad Ghannam to Noe Valley where I photographed him in another one of his first parklet designs, out front of Martha & Bros. Coffee Co. Again, we kind of had to work around some spotty rain, but with luck on our side, the rain stopped and a cute surf family took up residence for some coffee and socializing. It’s great to see the parklets in action, especially once the sun comes out, where they quickly become local hot spots.

With this parklet, Riyad wanted to really improve upon the design of the Divisadero Parklet, with the materials used and the quality of construction. They had more money for the project, so they were able to do both in the end.

Finally, I headed out to one of my favorite places in San Francisco - the Outerlands, near Ocean Beach - to photograph Giulietta Maria Carrelli and Ajax Oakford at Trouble Coffee. In this rad location at 46th and Judah, their parklet was made completely out of found wood. Giulietta and Ajax literally spent a few weeks prowling the beaches for wood, with every intention of maintaining the “recycled” mantra in their design.

The goal of their parklet was to combine land and sea. They built the parklet “like a shipwreck that brings people together.”

I finally headed over to North Beach to photograph Blaine of Rebar Art & Design Studio at Caffe Roma, and I was ecstatic to finalize this photo story with him. Rebar has been incredibly influential in the rise of San Francisco’s parklets, so after touring some of the city’s finest, I was excited to hang with one of the guys who started this phenomenon that has been beautifying the city.

It turns out the city’s parklet permit program was an evolution of Park(ing) Day, which Rebar created to show how much public space we devote to private parking. After helping the city craft its parklet pilot project, Rebar has designed four parklets around San Francisco. Now, they’re watching how people interact with the spaces and are working on the next generation of parklet designs.