The Bold Italic - San Francisco

Garage Rock

Mara Sohn — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 00:00:13 -0800

Muscle cars in permanent disrepair, empty beer cans, a battered drum kit, broken lawn chairs, a tool box and oil stained concrete floors: these are the images that I associate with garages. They're a sacred place for highschoolers, even with their lack of heat and surplus of noxious fumes. My teen experience—think Weezer's "In the Garage"—was pretty common. I took refuge from the madness of pre-calc, chores, and my parents in my next door neighbor's garage.

At times we used coolers and buckets as seats to watch a group of melodramatic tweens barrel through Pixies covers. Mainly though we just cracked jokes and occasionally we played Boxhead. You don't know Boxhead? It was a drinking game that consisted of literally putting a cardboard box on your head and rolling dice to try and remove it. Sucks for you if you rolled an 11 or a 12. You'd be drinking in that box all night long.

Lucky for the young folks of the Outer Sunset, they don't need to put on a cardboard box to find booze and adventure, but they do need to go to a garage. It's a garage restaurant, actually: a Korean place called Toyose. But unlike the garage of my youth, there are no skateboards, 40 ouncers, or prepubescent boys annihilating "Here Comes Your Man."

I hopped in a cab with my friend Emily and blasted towards the sleepy Outer Sunset in search of Toyose. I saw the faint outline of the sea from the rolled down cab window as we passed Lincoln and headed towards Noriega. I peeped into the dining rooms of all the box houses and saw families sitting down for dinner. I imagined teens sitting down for their Hamburger Helper-based casserole, just itching to be excused and run to their garage sanctuary. The neighborhood was quiet aside from the

glom of "Missionites" waiting for a glass of wine and a table at Outerlands.

The cab arrived and I looked over at the address, making sure we were in the right place. Besides the winking chicken sign and the hours of operation (6pm-2am), this did not seem like a hopping restaurant; it didn't seem like a dining establishment at all, and the building blended into the garages on either side of it. I was a little concerned to see there

were no windows. I am not sure I've ever eaten at a place without any windows whatsoever, besides the food court at the mall. A whiff of nostalgia struck me: the garage, a respite from the urban world.

We creaked open the door and my jaw dropped. Much to my surprise we were in a full fledged restaurant. We had arrived early, because it fills up quickly. I had tried calling in advance for a reservation but each time had just reached a fax line.

As we were guided back to our table I took note of the semi-nautical decor (perhaps because of our proximity to the sea?). Ropes, burlap and nets wrapped the rafters and shone from the track lighting. We were seated in front of a collection of sexy posters advertising soju. Korean pop music blared in the background.

Our cute young server told us that if we needed anything at all to just ring the buzzer. The buzzer?

We looked around and noticed that each table had a doorbell buzzer. I was scared at first, but ended up buzzing without shame throughout the meal with the server running over immediately each time. At one point Emily said, "I think I just felt a drip from the ceiling," and I sighed, charmed that we were still in fact in a garage.

We started with drinks, of course.
I noticed our neighbors were drinking a very large bottle of

yogurt-flavored soju and they were smiling more and more. As an adamant hater of soju, I was disappointed that this was the main alcoholic attraction, but I sucked it up and got a large bottle of the pineapple-flavored stuff. Much to my delight, the soju was sweet and light. It wasn't like drinking the sickly saccharine Boone's Farm at all (my usual garage fare). If I was a teen again, soju would be my gateway drug into heavy drinking.

The menu was much larger than we expected, with 4 or 5 pages of traditional late night Korean fare. We started with the Banchan—traditional Korean side dishes including old standbys like pickled cucumbers, daikon, kimchi and these little dried fish (they looked like skinny guppies to me). We had to try a little bit of everything, so we ordered: kimchi and beef fried rice (oily and spicy), seafood and green onion pancake (delicious), kimchi pork belly tofu hot pot soup (I think we overdid it with the kimchi) and fried chicken wings (dangerously good).

Our tiny shot glasses were refilled at a rapid rate and the room was growing fuzzier and brighter by the minute. At the end of the meal I felt a bit of oil on my chin and my hands had taken on a glossy sheen from all the greasy food I had managed to put into my mouth. This was a good thing—I needed something to soak up the incredible amounts of pineapple soju that I had pushed back.

As we walked out of the restaurant, heading to hop on the N-Judah home, we noticed youthful faces at every table. I realized that this is the type of place for a group dinner, not romance. Though neither was the

garage of my youth, which was built for drinking, escape and general rowdiness.

On my way home my stomach was a bit disgruntled from the large amounts of grease moving through me, or maybe it was all the soju. It was just like being 17, finally removing the cardboard box, making my way out of the garage and stumbling across the street with a booze-induced tummy ache. Maybe Toyose wasn't that different from the garage of my teenage years. Unhealthy maybe, and a bit over the top, but I don't regret either experience.

Toyose is open daily from 6pm-2am at 3814 Noriega St (between 45th and 46th). There were reserved signs on the tables, so maybe you'll have better luck making a reservation than I did. Oh, and if you were curious, check out Boxhead (http://www.crazystudent.com/drinking-games/dice/box.htm).

Design & Illustrations: Majorminor

Dr. Feelgood

Andreas Trolf — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 00:00:14 -0800

More accurately, the finger was still hanging on by some skin and a bit of gristle. This took place in Los Angeles and I went to an emergency room to see about having it reattached. The triage nurse looked me over and asked if I'd done it while punching someone. I told her no, and she said, "Ooh, a finger banging injury!"

I spent a few hours in the waiting room sneaking whiskey and watching a show on Telemundo hosted by dwarves, only to have the attending doctor tell me in short order that I'd need surgery. The best he could do was to pack me full of pills, wrap up my hand in a mess of gauze, and send me on home. He refused to set the bone, claiming it would be pointless.

As I half-consciously endured the six hour drive back home, I wondered the following: Could I ignore this for a while, apply for insurance while claiming to be uninjured, and then go see a doctor? Could I set the bone myself with some pliers and bourbon? Why did the nurse assume this was a sex-related injury?

Back in San Francisco, I called a friend whose wife is a resident at San Francisco General Hospital. She told me about the Healthy SF program and suggested I apply. In an age of denial of coverage due to pre-existing conditions, I was shocked to find out I could get coverage retroactively. My days of lying to doctors were over! I went straight to SF General and began the labyrinthine journey through "socialized" medicine.

Announced by Mayor Newsom in 2006, Healthy San Francisco is touted as the "first-in-the-nation model to provide low-cost health care to all uninsured City residents." And as of the end of January, over 50,000 uninsured city residents were obtaining their medical care through the program.

Depending on your income level you'll be required to pay for treatment, though at greatly reduced rates. For city residents closest to the poverty level, care is fully covered; my own coverage would cost me $20 per month as well as a fee of between $10 and $20 for office visits and $100 for the surgery I'd need.

But first, the bureaucracy! This rivaled any scene from The Trial. There's a sort of absurdist humor that comes with pushing the lowliest among us to even lower points; depths the likes of which had not previously been plumbed. It's pure tragicomedy; demanding copies of tax returns, bank statements, and utility bills from someone with a mangled hand, doped up on illicit pain drugs. But the eligibility requirements must be met, and if all this was necessary in order to get me all patched up, then so be it.

It took two days for me to procure the requisite paperwork and fill out all the forms the city needed, but at least my administrator was patient and accommodating even if I was, at times, barely coherent. Finally, my documents were stamped and I was approved for the program.

On the third day I was given an appointment to see a doctor. With my hand curled in a palsied claw clutched protectively against my chest, I handed in my paperwork and new ID card. I was then told I'd need to take the completed paperwork to another office in order to pay my $20 fee. Once the transaction was completed—through a layer of bulletproof plexiglass—I was to return to the original waiting room, and there I sat with the other folks who had to rely on the good will of San Francisco.

A young couple sat next to me, the man's hand bandaged similarly to mine. We got to talking and I asked what had happened. He told me that part of his finger had been chopped off after a motorcycle accident. He was lucky, though, his girlfriend added, because if they'd been able to save the first knuckle of the finger he wouldn't have been eligible for full coverage.

Sitting across the room from us were a thuggishly dressed young white kid and his staid father. Whenever an attractive woman walked by the kid would smack his lips and mutter "Oh damn, I would wreck that shit!" And each time his father replied, "Seth, you're 15. What are you gonna do?"

Hospital waiting rooms, like buses, give you a view of humanity that manages to cross social lines. No one wants to find themselves in a hospital; all of our circumstances were pained. Over a month's worth of visits to SF General I sat with gunshot wound victims waiting to have their dressings changed. I saw a man in the hallway who kept shitting his pants. I watched a young woman translate a doctor's message to her old, sick mother, who then wept quietly.

A thin man with scabs covering his face and a thick gold chain around his neck told me that the doctor wanted to cut off his finger. "Does it look that bad?" he asked me, holding his grotesquely swollen and bent finger up for my inspection. "They're gonna cut it off!" Another man sat across from me, looking as if he'd been poured into his wheelchair. He just moaned.

When I showed the doctor my finger he ordered x-rays, but immediately predicted surgery. He was similarly unable to do anything at the time, which of course you can't blame him for, especially since my finger had already begun to heal in its new, disturbing angle. I was then to see another administrator in order to be approved for surgery. Then, once approved, I needed to go back to the cashier and pay the $100. My surgery was scheduled for two weeks later.

In the world of non-emergency surgery, an appointment two weeks off is rapid. I've heard stories from British and Canadian friends who, though happy with the care provided by their countries' healthcare programs, lamented the often months-long wait for surgery. By the anecdotal standard of one friend waiting six months for knee surgery, Healthy SF was a model of efficiency.

Two weeks was a godsend, but with my finger hanging precariously off my hand, two further weeks thusly incapacitated wasn't an attractive option. So I went home, convinced I could do myself no further harm, and sat at my kitchen table and drank. After several tall glasses of bourbon I readied my large pliers, took the biggest gulp of booze I could manage, bit down on a wooden dowel, and snapped my finger into a semblance of normalcy. Then I taped it together with my ring finger and passed out.

The next two weeks were a wash of booze and prescription drugs only broken up intermittently by hospital visits to prepare for surgery. It's not that the pain of a crushed finger lasted that long or was so unbearable, it's just that once you get locked into a real bender and a bout of self-pity (No job! Girlfriend gone missing!), the tendency is to keep it going. Some days I bribed my roommate to go buy me cans of soup and a handle of Maker's Mark. On other, better days, I managed to buy groceries. Finally, though, the day of surgery arrived.

I woke up from the anesthesia as if coming up through deep and warm water. My arm was bundled like a giant Q-Tip. My buddy picked me up and set me on my couch with a sandwich, a jug of water, my bottle of pills, and a puke bucket. Two weeks later the cast came off and I was able to see the three jagged pins protruding an inch out of my hand. Oddly enough, they didn't hurt.

Over the next month I visited SF General at least once a week. Some days I'd traipse around to three departments before sitting for an hour to see a doctor. Other days I'd be out in 20 minutes. To be honest, it was no more of a hassle than any other time I'd gone to the doctor or to the ER, even with insurance. Finally, I got used to it. I brought a book and developed a stealthy crush on one of the young doctors who seemed to regard me with a type of curious pity in her eyes.

At the end of the month I finished my physical therapy and never looked back. But I've got a functioning, albeit slightly crooked, finger to remind me of Healthy San Francisco forever.

If you are an uninsured San Francisco resident and are in need of medical care, contact Healthy San Francisco for more information. When applying, it helps to have a few things handy, such as your most recent tax return and a bank statement. You'll also have to meet other eligibility requirements, so the best time to sign up might be now, before you get sick or injured. Trust me, it's a lot easier to navigate enrollment when you're not stressing about gangrene.

Photo by Andreas, illustrations by Perpetualplum, design by Chris Nyffeler.

Ticket to Ride

Lisa Tauber — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 00:00:14 -0800

San Francisco may not be a late night party city, but it is a town where you can party anywhere, anytime. When I moved here from New York, I carried with me an unhealthy dose of East Coast paranoia: I was concerned that the kids unabashedly smoking pot on Haight would be arrested, and I wouldn’t drink a Tecate tall boy in Dolores Park sans brown paper bag.

Soon enough, I learned to appreciate that in San Francisco, the party is wherever you want it to be. To shake things up a bit, I wanted to find one somewhere that didn’t involve dives, green spaces, or houses. Enter the party bus. The concept is as old as senior prom: dark lights, loud music, and high-spirited drinking.

Party buses can be rented for a night of debauchery with friends as a vehicle meant to take you from one destination to another. But what if the bus was the party? If ever there were a place for this, our city is it. San Francisco, I want to have a mobile party with you.

There are a few buses I’d heard about, but my first stop was the most SF appropriate to scout out: the party trolley. I’d seen these trolleys whizzing around ‘hoods that don’t have trolley tracks, music pumping, packed with screaming and drunk celebrators. Alas, a little research on the Interweb told me these trolleys, along with many other party buses in the city, are rented for large parties only, so a solo gal looking for some fun can’t just hop on.

Undeterred, I checked out what was going on over at TransportedSF, which hosts bi-weekly events on a biodiesel, solar-powered, bus. My options: an SF Secrets tour, a day of dubstep, and an Alice in Wonderland-themed extravaganza. I opted for the Secrets tour because it was the soonest, and I was itching to groove. I grabbed my boyfriend, a bunch of beers, and headed over to the Satori Dance Studio, where we’d be meeting and given the option of a belly dance lesson.

Framed Burning Man posters hang from the walls, and the crew appears to be of that ilk, some of which were nimbly moving their bodies in preparation for the next few hours of dance. The vibe was friendly and excited, and people came around introducing themselves to one another. Alex Warnow, who runs TransportedSF, sent us downstairs to start our day, and informed us that we couldn’t drink off the bus and couldn’t smoke on it. Otherwise, we could stand, we could dance, and, apparently, we could moon passing cars.

Once a school bus, but now painted grey with multi-colored hubcaps, our bus is just begging to be driven cross-country to a full slate of groovy festivals. The inside has been stripped of its two-by-two seats; now red and white cushioned benches run the length of each side, leaving ample room for booty-shaking – which, once we were all settled, began immediately. Alex, with a small hoop in each ear, white leather shoes, and a skinny tie, was both host and DJ, spinning cool remixes, straight techno, and popular favorites.

Where would we go? Unclear. Today’s event was run by Tyler Macniven of the blog SF Secrets and he’d be taking us to lesser-known spots around the city. After just 15 minutes of drinking and dancing, we put down our beers, climbed off the the bus, and ended up in Cayuga Park. This Excelsior locale underneath BART tracks has been beautified by one man, who hand-carved and painted over 50 statues ranging from mythical creatures to those vaguely more humanoid. It’s a spot I surely wouldn’t have found on my own. Our crew broke off into groups and strolled the small paths for a half hour until the horn honked and we piled back into the bus.

Once aboard, music pumping, we clung to ceilings, partners, and windows while the bus lurched into motion and then straight into slow-moving traffic. The beauty of the day was that it didn’t really matter where we were going. It was cool to see unique spots in SF (the Ingleside Sundial, the mosaic stairs leading up to Grand View Park, and old barracks and weapon sites in the Presidio), but it was the excitement of dancing where you don’t usually dance, with people you don’t really know, while being taken somewhere you’ve never been that made the experience a verifiable party.

The next weekend, a friend and I head to the Chevy’s on Howard and 3rd for a ride on the Mexican Bus, which hosts Salsa club tours. At night, this colorful bus screams party: it’s painted various colors, and all the safety lights have been switched out for a rainbow of neons. Inside, Salsa music is blasting and the seats are exactly as they would’ve looked hauling bickering elementary school students. The décor, however, is like nothing else: there are murals painted by an artist who worked on many a Mission taqueria, posters of Mexican wrestlers, a large Virgin Mary bust on the dashboard, Speedy Gonzales stickers, and other incongruous and stereotypically Mexican ephemera.

Toñia, who started the bus 20 years ago, tells me it pays homage to Mexican buses of the past. Because they’d spend grueling hours behind the wheel, drivers started to personalize their workspaces with all manner of decoration, including the iconic elements replicated here. Tonight, we’re celebrating someone’s birthday, and the other 40 or so people on board are all friends in from San Jose for the evening. They were a rowdy bunch that boisterously clapped when any new song came on the speakers while passing cameras back and forth for photo ops.

Before our first stop, we got off near the Bay Bridge for a celebratory shot of Tequila and a scenic backdrop for more pictures. Toñia poured a round for everyone and after our “salut,” we all packed back on the bus. Next came our passes to the clubs tonight, cheekily called Green Cards.

Unlike TransportedSF, the Mexican Bus doesn’t allow drinking onboard, there’s nowhere to dance, and the vehicle is more of a kitschy and convenient ride to all-access clubbing. We got drink specials at Mojito in North Beach, and then made our way to two Salsa clubs. First, Café Cocomo – a two-story Potrero Hill space with large colorful balloons and a live band. I’d never been Salsa dancing, and marveled at how sexy dancing can be without much touching. I watched a pair smoothly move together, and when the gentleman came over to ask me to dance, I obliged, but warned him I’d never done this before.

I’m not a terrible dancer, but I suddenly realized that no amount of hip shaking would mask the fact that my feet simply didn’t know where to go. The man tried to lead me, looking effortless as he moved his feet forward and then back, to no avail. When the song ended, he thanked me, without giving me the option for a second dance.

Dejected, I went upstairs, hiding from the main dance floor, to dance with a few of the Mexican Bus folks who didn’t take their moves quite as seriously. Apparently, Salsa clubs aren’t the kind where you can just sit and get a drink, and it’s definitely not the sort of place you can go to if you’ve never danced Salsa before.

By the time we leave for Roccapulco in the Mission, I’m wiped out and grateful for the seating factor on this bus. I’m amazed that everyone else is as boisterous and excited as they were at the beginning of the night.

Two buses, four secret spots, and three clubs in, I’m keenly aware that partying in transit is both exhilarating and exhausting. I’d expected the mobile factor to mean more sitting and less activity, much like days spent lounging in the park. In reality, hanging on the bus meant, well, more mobility. And what’s a party if it can’t get up and move itself? I guess I’ll be playing in traffic more often.

Looking to party en route? There are many party buses to rent if you’re with a big group, including the Mexican Bus. $40 will get you into three clubs, with some drink specials. If you’re looking to get transported, find out what’s happening over at TransportedSF. Definitely bring beer and maybe some snacks, and don’t wear wobbly shoes.

Photo by Misocrazy
Design by Redindhi

Pie in the Sky

Sarah Han — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 00:00:15 -0800

My boyfriend Tim is a pizzaterian. If he had to eat pizza three or four times a week for the rest of his life, he'd have no complaints. Needless to say, I eat a lot of pizza. And make a lot of them, too. As a self-taught pizza chef, I have to say I'm pretty proud of the light, airy thin-crusted za that I'm able bust out with my own two hands.

Still, my pies can use some fine-tuning, and one of my main failures is in preparing the dough. Rather than tossing it into a perfectly round, flat disc, my technique involves stretching out the dough with two fists until it resembles a crude circle. If you were being nice, you could call it "rustic," but it's really just the result of not knowing what I'm doing. I knew that couldn't call myself a pizza-making master until I perfected the quintessential skill of a pizzaiolo - hand-tossing pizza dough.

I wanted to learn how to toss from the best, and fortunately, the best happens to be a Bay Area native who co-owns two pizza restaurants. Tony Gemignani of Tony's Pizza Napoletana in North Beach, is a nine-time world pizza champion. He's won the title both for his skills in tossing dough (what they call pizza acrobatics) and baking excellent pies. If that's not enough cred for you, he also runs the International School of Pizza, which officially certifies its graduates in various styles of pizza, following the strict regulations of the Scuola Italiana Pizzaioli in Italy. He also happens to be a really nice guy.

I contacted Tony on the morning after a break-in at Tony's. I don't know about you, but if my business just had a break-in, I'd be in no mood to teach some amateur my master craft. But Tony was friendly and seemed relatively unfazed by the bad news. He invited me to join him in his North Beach restaurant later that week, during down time between the lunch and dinner rushes, to show me how to toss a Neapolitan style pizza.

I arrived at Tony's at 3:30 p.m. on a drizzly Friday. A sweet, warm aroma of tomato sauce and freshly baked dough enveloped me. The hostess showed me to the adjacent dining room, where I'd find Tony. At the back of this room a certified Neapolitan Cirigliano wood fire oven blazed at 900 degrees - this is where the magic happens.

Tony and another pompadoured pizzaiolo were finishing up a large order for the last of the lunch crowd. Tony was wearing a red kerchief tied around his neck that reminded me of a Pamplona bull runner, and both were clad in the restaurant uniform - a t-shirt with "Respect the Craft" emblazoned on the back. I sat down at a nearby table and stared as they worked in the relatively small space together.

They had a steady, but unhurried rhythm about their movements, which was a strange juxtaposition to the feverish, clubby dance music that was quietly playing in the background. Tony assembled the pizzas, and the other chef slid each uncooked pie into the oven with a long-handled metal pizza peel that looked like an over-sized fly swatter. In no time, beautiful, steaming Neapolitan pizzas were removed from the oven and taken away to awaiting customers.

When the last order was sent out, Tony motioned for me to join him behind the counter and pulled out a palette of soft mounds of white dough that resembled large breast implants. The dough had been resting in the fridge for about 30 hours. Cold-risen dough is better to toss because it's easier to handle and properly resting the dough makes for a lighter, airier texture with better flavor. As Tony said, it lets the "yeast do its work."

Tony picked up a dough ball and threw it into a drawer full of flour to coat it on both sides. He then placed it down onto the counter and pushed on it with his fingers, using a circular rubbing motion. In no time, he had a 10-inch disc on the counter. The dough, he explained, should be big enough so that when draped over your two fists, it falls over each wrist. Next, he demonstrated the crucial movements that make pizza tossing possible.

I honestly couldn't believe that Tony trusted me behind the counter, during business hours, handling his pizza dough. I was afraid that I was about to do something that would make him regret this decision. I imagined several disastrous scenarios that I believed were bound to happen in the next moments. In one, I saw myself Frisbee the dough across the restaurant at the table of six, with me wincing and snorting like Steve Urkel - "Did I do that?" In another, I saw myself stumbling backwards while trying to catch the dough and falling into the 900-degree oven behind me.

With trepidation, I tossed up my dough, and well, what do you know? I was doing it - I was tossing and catching pizza dough!

After a few throws, Tony demonstrated the last step, to work on the edges of the dough. Once again, he placed the dough over my two fists, but this time, my fists were close together sitting near the edge, or what would be the crust of the pizza. Tony showed me how to pull my fists apart, and then back together again, while rotating the dough, until I got an evenly-stretched final product.

In the end, mine didn't look like Tony's perfectly-stretched, almost transparently thin dough, but I was still proud of myself. Like a good teacher, Tony praised me on my best tosses and patiently offered tips on how to get things more evenly-stretched. He also told me the three reasons why people toss pizza dough in the first place (no, it's not just for show):

After our lesson, I asked Tony if he sold pizza by the slice. Being around all those pies was making me hungry. About five minutes later, he placed a whole margherita pizza in front of me, which he said is best to eat within a minute of it hitting the table. That wouldn't be too difficult. The pizza was perfectly cooked: its crust was charred in spots and crispy all around, the sauce was slightly sweet and bright, the cheese was generous but not overwhelming, and the whole, fresh basil leaves were wilted but still had bite. On top of that was a splash of flavorful extra virgin olive oil and a sprinkle of Neapolitan sea salt. In a word, it was heavenly!

I also got to try a piece of his Sicilian deep dish pizza, as the restaurant staff was eating a family meal before the dinner crowd arrived, and that too was delicious. As we sat and ate, I listened in on the workers' conversations, and it was apparent I was surrounded by a group of people who loved pizza and probably ate a good deal of it every week. I had found Tim's people! I was able to eat a few slices and wrapped the rest up to go (not really recommended, but hey, I wasn't going to waste it!). As I rode my bike home, I was already planning my next trip out to North Beach with Tim.

If you've always dreamed of becoming a certified pizza chef, the International School of Pizza offers courses in authentic Neapolitan Style pizza, New York, Chicago, California, and New Haven Style Pizza. The school also offers classes for amateur home chefs. Or if you just want to eat some really great pizza, visit Tony's Pizza Napoletana. Both the school and pizzeria are located at 1570 Stockton. Call (415) 835-9888 or visit internationalschoolofpizza.com for more information.

Image: Jeff Kubina

High Wire Act

Annetta Black — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 00:00:14 -0800

Like a grown up Geek Scout, tonight I earned my badge in soldering. Thanks to a little help from some new friends, I am now the proud owner of two tiny LED devices which I assembled and soldered together myself with a minimum of burnt fingertips and muttered curses.

I came to Noisebridge hackerspace on Mission for the Monday night Circuit Hacking class, a drop-in free weekly workshop that promised to teach me all about making simple electronics.

Noisebridge is like an art collective for geeks, with an emphasis on the crossover between tech and art, but open to all flavors of geeky enterprise. It was founded by Mitch Altman and Jacob Appelbaum and inspired by the German hackerspace movement that has been going strong for 25 years. At a hacker camp-out in Berlin two years ago, they committed to come back and create their own hackerspace. Along with like minded folks in NYC, DC, and Philly, they started Noisebridge first as a community who met at cafes weekly, and then into a small space, and finally into the 5200 square foot area now open on on Mission Street dedicated to making stuff, and making stuff go.

Noisebridge has no paid staff, and only one rule, "Be excellent to one another."

I first heard about Noisebridge at the Maker's Faire, where they had hosted similar workshops which were so packed I couldn't get close enough to see what the fuss was about.

I arrived tonight just after dark and found the building on Mission at 18th. Not sure what to expect, and armed with nothing more than a notebook, I pressed the buzzer and walked up the yellow linoleum covered stairs to the top floor. In a huge open plan space perhaps a half dozen guys milled around, chatted, or tinkered at work tables set up around the room. I was early for the class, and just stood around awkwardly for a while, looking at stuff while soldering stations were plugged in at one large desk I assumed would be where the class would take place.

After a few minutes Owen, a tech writer who's been coming to Noisebridge for a few months now, came over and offered to give me the nickel tour. Noisebridge only moved into this new larger home in October of last year, so it is still a work in progress, with cables and cords hanging everywhere. The space takes up the entire top floor of the building, with only a few separate rooms built to accommodate classes or heavy equipment like drill presses.

Near the semi-complete kitchen, a classroom in the back was hosting a Python (programming language) class, and up front industrial shelves were stacked with computer manuals and travel books, with boxes of unshelved books waiting for space. I also spotted a couple of industrial sewing machines, a 3-D printer, lots of bins for wires and small parts, and some intriguingly mysterious machines covered in knobs.

By then, a herd had gathered by the solder table, which I took for a sign that we were getting started.

The class was led by inventor and Noisebridge co-founder Mitch Altman, a friendly guy with bright, multi-colored stripes dyed into his otherwise gray hair. To start the workshop, he introduced various pocket sized LED kits we might choose to build, including his signature TV-B-Gone, a concealed remote-controlled TV off switch he designed in 2004, which uses infrared LEDs to signal a television to shut off. He produced assorted persistence of vision (POV) toys and hand-held games that emulated Pac-Man, Tetris, or Space Invaders, and Arduino-controlled light displays from little bubble wrap or static-free bags.

The largest kit was for the Brain Machine, a pair of glasses which look (I suspect intentionally) like something advertised on the back of a comic book of yesteryear. Flashing LED lights and a soundtrack of an ambient buzz work together to form a kind of sensory deprivation that, according to Mitch, encourages meditation and colorful hallucinations. They were passed around, and when I tried them on I was almost immediately overwhelmed by the sensation.

Following Mitch's enthusiastic "four minute introduction to electronics" ("Everything is named for dead physicists"), he showed us his precise soldering technique and gave us a quick warning about the lead-based solder we would be handling. By this time I had 12 fellow classmates. Some appeared to have been before but most had the feel of newbies. With a closing declaration on the power of soldering ("if you can learn to do this, you can do anything"), we chose our projects and settled in at soldering stations to take stock.

I chose a spot at the table next to guy who I (erroneously) suspected had been there before, and who had conveniently selected the same device to make. I opened the contents of my little bag, the whole thing the size of my palm, and emptied 14 tiny parts and a small, empty circuit board onto the table.

The kit came with no printed instructions, but the circuit board was printed with clues. The whole thing was like assembling a very small fiddly puzzle with only the vaguest idea of what the finished form would be. The process of placing the tiny wire leads in place, soldering, and clipping the leads proved to be quite satisfying. If put together correctly, my kit would produce a motion-sensitive LED light that would change colors when I waved my hand over it. My neighbor and I compared notes and collaborated on which bit went where, and we made it through most of it without any direct instruction.

Although my circuit board, marred as it was with tiny burns and sharp ends of inexpertly clipped wire, was not a thing of beauty, it was hard not to be excited when I flipped the little switch and my light successfully came on.

My first kit took me an hour to complete, with a few false steps. The second I was able to complete in under 15 minutes.

By this time it was about 9pm, and there were probably about 40 people there. In the middle of the room a group had gathered around one of the tables. Noisebridge is a non-profit, supported by dues from about 100 members, but it is open 24/7 to anyone who wants to come in and learn, socialize, or tinker. When Mitch and Jacob first decided to create this place, there were only about 40 places like it in the world. In just two short years there are now more than 400.

The success of places like this is part of the DIY-everything movement that we've been seeing lately, particularly in the Bay Area, but after talking with Mitch about it after the class, I think there's more to it. To paraphrase: These new communities are just the most recent expressions of very old needs and desires. As long as people have been around, they have formed communities and relied on their support. At the same time, the making and using of tools is an essential part of being human, so there is a deeply rooted desire for both these things: community support and tool building. "It's so pent up . . . they don't even know it's a need until they come across a hackerspace."

I think he's right, and it's kind of a thrill to see a place like this thrive.

As the class wound down, Mitch stopped by to see what I'd made and make sure they worked. After a quick demonstration of blinky success, he handed me an iron-on "I learned to solder" patch depicting a spool of silver solder and an iron.

Packing up my projects to go, I caught myself thinking about ways to change them and make them bigger and better, which I think is exactly the point.

Noisebridge is open to the public every day, and you are welcome to stop by anytime. For a good introduction I would recommend the Monday night Circuit Hacking class, weekly at 7 p.m. The class is free and open to all skill levels, and the cost of kits or parts to mess with is between $10-30. They also have several other events and classes listed on their website, including Five Minutes of Fame, a series of fascinating lightning talks that always draw a crowd.

Design and photography by Renée Walker and Heidi Meredith

Drag Races

Josh Rotter — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 00:00:14 -0800

In The Devil Wears Prada “Runway” magazine art director Nigel describes fashion as “greater than art because you live your life in it.” I couldn’t agree more. I’ve always regarded my body as a blank canvas, desperate to be decorated with interesting clothes and accessories by renegade designers such as Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier, and (RIP) Alexander McQueen.

Flipping through fashion magazines in my teen years only encouraged my respect for cutting-edge designers and their art. I even fantasized about becoming one, myself. Unfortunately, the great esteem with which I regarded them both inspired me to and inhibited me from competing in their arena. I thought I could never put needle to thread – until the bar was lowered with San Francisco’s “Project Runtover.”

A slang term for “broke down,” Project Runtover is a local, low-budget fashion challenge similar to “Project Runway.” Here’s the way it works: teams of designers, models and stylists arrive with their own supplies (fabrics, scissors, hot glue guns, etc.) to be coupled with materials that are thrown at them by the hosts – anything from newspaper to tinfoil.

A garment must be created in an hour and a half and modeled by a drag queen (or faux queen) before it’s judged by a panel. There is also a theme to each event and this month’s was birthing. I had the sneaking suspicion that with McQueen’s recent passing, fashion’s late-and-great enfant terrible would somehow play into the show.

For an inexperienced designer like me, this was a golden opportunity. I might win the grand prize of $100 – but more importantly the confidence to design. But I needed a designer to help me realize my vision.

I located Domonique Echeverria, a 22-year-old couturier who designs for drag queens, has myriad models at her disposal, and has competed in Runtover twice before. She sounded too good to be true, but she agreed to help.

Meeting the 6-foot-tall glamazon designer in a black-sequined mini dress with ripped stockings that showcased her thigh-high Gypsy tattoo (a nod to her Basque roots) at her Townsend Street Studios showroom only five days before the event, I knew that I had found my golden ticket. Domonique embodied the rock ‘n’ roll glamour aesthetic that I’ve always loved.

Her studio was filled with similarly chic, handmade, one-of-a-kind creations on racks and mannequins, such as a black-sequined hooded coat with green fringe; a pink, brown and gold smoking jacket with French cuffs made from vintage brocade curtains; and a detachable fur and chain shoulder piece.

The product of two models, the Novato native and FIDM (Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising) graduate explains her style as a combination of Rococo, 60’s and 70’s. It was at FIDM that she first saw boys dressed as girls and girls dressed as boys, which would also have a profound effect on her design career. According to her, there is no reason why a man can’t wear a dress or woman can’t rock a man’s three-piece suit.

We discussed creating a garment for the event that embodied our shared passion for rocker glamour – Courtney Love circa 1993. But before we could go any further, we had to find our muse. It was time to flip through Domonique’s rolodex for the perfect queen, but none were suitable for this particular project. As we banged our heads against the design table in despair, epiphany struck. No performer could do Courtney Love like Virginia Suicide, so with a phone call, we got her onboard.

The day before the show, Domonique and I hit Fabric Outlet in the Mission. While I thought she was dressed to kill in a black bra, mini skirt and boots, an elderly passerby didn’t share my opinion. Gripping her walker, she gave the designer a look that kills and spit the word “Yuck” from her toothless mouth. “Well, you have no teeth and no one likes you,” Dominique responded, before sashaying away.

I could relate to her frustration, because I’ve been there. When you take fashion risks, you become exhibited artwork, subject to criticism. Your peers will regard you as a masterpiece, but more conservative folk will just drive by and call you a “faggot.” Quickly recovering from this incident, my fairy princess guided me around the basement store, filled with myriad bolts of low-cost fabric, ranging in price from $0.99 – 49.99 per yard.

While it was overwhelming to me, an old pro like her has it down to a science. We gathered up some voluminous fabric, a thick, stiff woven for folding, a draping fabric, a knit fabric for stretching, a show fabric (eye-catching print or fur), trim (sequins, fringe), and of course, closures (hooks, buttons, and zippers.)

The following night we arrived at the event’s temporary venue, Mama Calizo’s Voice Factory in SOMA. Domonique, who was carrying two bags filled with supplies, appeared ready to rumble in a black bra, spanks and boxer boots. But as we entered the competition area, featuring a black platform, bleacher-style seating, and stage lights, I was sweating. There were seven other competitors and from the looks of their designers and models, the competition would be ferocious.

MC’s Tim Gumm and Vivvyanne Forevermore, the latter donning a hooded white curtain dress complete with baby bump, finally appeared, confirming my suspicion about the theme. The season three debut of “Project Runtover” would be “pregnant with possibility,” said Vivvyanne. Other than incorporating the birthing theme, she insisted that designers create “an homage to Alexander McQueen with a worthy-esque outfit.” We had an hour and a half to make McQueen live again.

It was a total rush job, from creating an armored top out of woven grey polyester (a nod to McQueen’s armor style); constructing a neck piece out of canvas, ostrich feathers and safety pins; pinning the top collar to the under collar; and adding a pink hood and grey draping, to creating a long, flowy coat out of purple chiffon.

Then at the last minute the hosts threw a “Project Runway”-inspired wrench at our plan in the form of plastic sheeting. So we quickly cut and folded it into a conical baby bump and Domonique’s bff Mani drew a picture of a baby on it. We affixed it to the dress, creating an Alexander McQueen maternity outfit. It was gorgeous, innovative and truly fashion. I finally felt hopeful.

After judges Honey Mahogany, Hoku Mama Swamp, and Joshua Grannell (Peaches Christ) were introduced, the performances, DJed by down-E, began. Our team, which Dominique dubbed “Team Whatever,” seemed destined for the top spot.

Virginia Suicide took the stage to the tune of “Violet” – not only my favorite Hole track, but also one that could be interpreted as being about a scorned pregnant woman. Her make-up was 50’s starlet-meets-edgy-vamp with hints of Courtney Love.

She began with a birthing ritual, gently emerging from a fetal cocoon of purple chiffon, channeling a young studio actress who got knocked up by the married studio head and then discarded. As the song tempo picked up, she abruptly dropped to the ground, banging herself against the floor to “abort her fetus.” She would end her pregnancy as abruptly as her philandering lover had terminated their relationship.

She then ripped off the plastic bump, and somewhat poignantly retrieved it and looked through it, ruefully. Before I knew it, she had stripped down to her underwear. I knew we had won.

But then, it was time to announce the winners. We came in Third Place, behind Mona's Horrible Team of Terror and Dirty Hairy of The House of Chammee, but won “Best Performance,” leaving Virginia Suicide with some oversized bear t-shirts and a make-up portfolio.

Best of all, I left with my pride intact. I was proud of what we had achieved as a team. I had fulfilled a bucket-list dream and no one was going to break my strut. Not even the car full of assholes who called me a “faggot” on my walk home.

Think you can beat Mona Jihad? Head down to vintage store Thrift Town in the Mission for design inspiration. Then check out nearby Fabric Outlet for low-cost fabric, trim and closures, and another one of Domonique’s recommendations, Discount Builders Supply for buckles and plastic wire (great for collars and corseting). If you have cash to burn, check out Britex in Union Square for more premium goods. Once you’re ready to compete, enter the monthly Project Runtover at The Stud. You’ll be sew happy you did.

Design: Gordon Baty. Photography: Andria Lo, Orange Photography

Storyville

Ethan Kanat — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 07:00:13 -0800

Over the course of its storied history, San Francisco has been home to a swinging jazz scene on more than one occasion. Back when the Beats were inventing the idea of cool, hip cats and daddy-o's were hanging out at the Cellar, smoking Chesterfields and reading poetry while jazz combos played in the background. In the 1960s clubs like the Blackhawk put up Miles Davis' band for a month at a time, letting the buzz build and allowing the musicians to soak up the city's fog and dark steam beer.

As recently as the mid-1990s San Francisco was again at the forefront of a jazz renaissance. I was in high school then, and I spent almost every weekend sneaking into places like the Up & Down Club and (the old) Bruno's to see musicians that went on to redefine the genre. I saw the original Charlie Hunter Trio more times than I can count. I saw Josh Jones take Latin jazz and turn it into a beautiful hybrid of funk, rock, hip hop and tropical swing. It was only recently that I began to realize what a rare moment in time that was.

I was drinking with a friend and we were talking about the good old days, when San Francisco was awash in dot com money. For better or worse, those khaki clad douchebags fell in love with idea of martinis and jazz - and SF club owners were only too happy to oblige. During its short, but glorious run as Internet capital of the world, San Francisco hosted a jazz scene that rivaled New York. But that was then. What about now? Where could we go to see good jazz in the 2010 version of SF?

I enlisted my friend Nathan to serve as my tour guide. Nathan leads his own sextet, cleverly titled the Nathan Clevenger Group. More importantly, Nathan is tirelessly devoted to jazz music in general and SF's scene in particular. He was able to take me around and show me that not only does our jazz scene still have a pulse, it's actually thriving.

Now I know many of you will form a chorus and sing the praises of the Yoshi's franchise. And yes, Yoshi's is great, but it is also expensive and bright and has a two-drink minimum. Moreover, their calendar is often stacked with touring musicians from the KCSM daytime roster. Which is fine, but that's not the kind of jazz I'm talking about. I'm talking about young musicians playing new, innovative music in an intimate setting (read: dark bar with cheap drinks), ideally with no cover charge. I knew this sort of thing must still exist in the city, I just didn't know where.

Our first stop was the Make-Out Room, a bar not usually known for its jazz offerings. In fact, on most nights you will find no jazz there whatsoever. But on the first Monday of every month the bookers turn over the stage to bassist Lisa Mezzacappa and trumpet player Darren Johnston, who curate a series on original compositions called The Monday Make-Out. On the night we were there we saw a broad spectrum of new and original music - all loosely operating within the standard definition of jazz while simultaneously redefining it.

Citta di Vitti, the brainchild of alto sax player Phillip Greenlief, played an imaginary soundtrack to a trio of films by Michelangelo Antonioni. Next up was a nine-piece band that filled half the room, led by the impressive drummer Eric Garland. The Garlando Nonet (as they are apparently known) played a suite of four original songs that touched on everything from New Orleans funk to delicate chamber music. Rounding out the bill was a trio led by alto sax player Aram Shelton playing frenetic, high speed free jazz.

And how much did we pay for this full night of music played by incredibly talented, well respected professional jazz musicians? Nothing. A tip jar was passed around, to which the surprisingly large crowd contributed generously, but there was no cover or drink minimum. And the bar was dark and smelled comfortingly of stale booze. Beer was three bucks and it was served by a hot chick with lots of tattoos. All on a Monday night in San Francisco. What...?

I asked Nathan how this was all possible. Without a cover charge the musicians weren't going to make a lot of money. The answer is that the musicians do it out of love. "Playing high quality music reminds you why you became a musician," Nathan says, "why you work so hard at it, and why it's still worth it in spite of having to work a day job (or day jobs) or having to take grim money gigs backing up awful singers at weddings!"

We had this conversation en route to Blue Six, a venue that Clevenger describes as a listening room, meaning people come there to listen to music, not just to talk and drink. It is a musician-run space, with bassist Joe Lewis the main man in charge. It is funky and has a living room vibe, and it can be hard to pin down the show calendar, but it's often worth the effort. Tucked into the corner of Treat St. and 24th, the place has the feel of an artists' commune and is a great place to experience the freakier side of jazz, along with strange visuals provided by a group of artists clearly familiar with the effects of psychedelic drugs.

But back to our conversation. Why doesn't San Francisco have more venues that play jazz? And why aren't there more people interested in hearing it? Nathan, who often accompanied me on those illicit trips back in the day compared those times with our current epoch. "At this point, I feel like we're fighting against a culture with an ever-shrinking attention span and increasing disinterest in music that doesn't immediately explain itself. I mean, clubs don't even play full songs now—what hope does jazz have in a world of mash-ups and video DJs?"

I next met up with Nathan to see his band perform at the Revolution Cafe—right across the street from the Make-Out Room. As is the case with so many of the players crowded into the genre of modern jazz, the NCG's sound was yet another departure from the bands I had already seen. They sounded like a classical music ensemble playing a blend of jazz and rock without bothering to switch out their instruments. Nonetheless, the crowd stayed with them, cheering for solos and bopping their heads to the funky parts.

I was also beginning to notice a pattern: there were plenty of dark, intimate bars offering free, live modern jazz. But they all seemed to be in the Mission. In fact, the following night we were supposed to head to Amnesia on Valencia Street for their weekly jam session. Nathan had also been talking up Red Poppy, as well as Coda, which is stationed at the far end of Mission Street and serves as the informal home to a large collective of musicians known as the Jazz Mafia.

So what gives? Is the Mission the only place in the entire city cool enough for jazz? What about The Fillmore, the neighborhood the city redesigned to be a nexus for jazz and blues? That turned out to be a failed experiment in urban planning, but there are other venues spread around our city. Enrico's in North Beach still has small bands playing standards, as do Rose Pistola and Bix. Cafe Royale in the Tenderloin has an early evening Sunday jazz series, and according to Nathan, the owner has made it a priority to make jazz a part of his cafe's identity.

And here we get to the crux of the matter. Most club owners are hesitant to take a firm position as a jazz venue, especially when the economy is slack and promoters are casting the widest net possible in hopes of luring in customers. Opening a jazz club is a big risk in an inherently risky business. The running joke among Nathan and his cohorts is that the average time it takes for a San Francisco jazz club to become a funk club is three months or fewer. And two months after that the same club just hires a DJ and calls it "live music."

So it appears that, like so few things in this great democracy of ours, the power is actually in the hands of the people. There is great jazz happening in San Francisco. If you look for it, you can find it almost any night of the week. All you need to do is show up and buy yourself a drink so that the club owners know you were there. And of course, don't forget to throw a couple bucks in the tip jars so that the musicians know you're listening.

Go hear some music, dammit! SF is home to an impressive assembly of jazz musicians, and plays host to many more visiting from other cities and countries. Keep your eyes out for the names Graham Connah, Ben Goldberg, John Schott, Scott Amendola, Ralph Carney, Eddie Marshall, Phillip Greenlief, Adam Theis, Myles Boisen, Kasey Knudsen, Aaron Novik, Sylvain Carton, Howard Wiley or any of the players mentioned above. Otherwise, check out Make-Out Mondays or the schedules at Cafe Royale, Revolution Cafe and Blue Six.

Design: Majorminor

Photo credits:
bdwaydiva1
Richard Kaby
ll1t
Rick

Bulking Up

Sarah Rich — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 07:00:14 -0800

You may think you're living frugally in San Francisco if you pillage derelict Yellow Pages for Rainbow Grocery coupons and pack your own lunch before work each day, but that kind of economy is for lightweights. You don't know thrift until you've woken before dawn to shop at the city's wholesale produce warehouses to cut the middle-man markup from your grocery bills. Even then, you haven't sealed the real deals until the lettuce-slingers know you well enough to inquire about your family vacation and hug you when you leave with your car buckling under the weight of damp brown cardboard boxes. That's when you know you're getting rock-bottom prices.

If I weren't trying to pinch pennies, I'd bet a lot of money that nobody in this city spends as little on food as my friend Valentina, while still managing to consume a diet consisting primarily of fresh, organic fruits and vegetables. Compared with her, I am a profligate shopper, easily caught shelling out cash for shiny apples at Whole Foods. But when recently I found myself challenged to cater a non-profit fundraiser on a shoestring, I knew exactly who to call.

Strawberry alarm clock

My alarm goes off at 6:30am and I stumble to my car in the dark and drive to the Bayview District—an area of the city that likely falls just below the Tenderloin on the list of spots to avoid when the sun is not up. But Valentina is undaunted—in fact, she lives in the Bayview, in a 7-person cooperative warehouse where she keeps all of her housemates fed for under $5 a day. She has been shopping at the wholesalers every Friday for years but this is my first time accompanying her. These are red-eye markets, opening some time around midnight and closing by 10am, so if you oversleep, you're out of luck.

I pull up in the parking lot, which is surrounded by a high chain-link fence, and recall Valentina advising me that Earl's is cash-only if you want to buy the deep discount stock. Outside the fence and across the street, an ATM blinks blankly at me as though asking whether I really want to pull cash from a machine on a deserted block in the dark. Fortunately, I spot a guard near the entrance to the bank and figure he'll notice if anything suspicious arises. He sees me cross the street and ambles my way, casually standing watch. Cash in hand I race back over, climb the ramp to the Earl's loading dock, and part the heavy clear plastic slats that hang down at the entrance.

Inside the chilly, 21,000-square-foot facility, I find Valentina chatting through the office window with the inventory manager about her recent trip to Chile. He's calling her "Tina"—a nickname I've never heard a soul use in the 12 years I've known her. When I arrive we get down to business. Several days in advance, Valentina had asked me for a list of the vegetables I'd require so that she could provide unit costs for me to factor into my budget (something she assumed I'd created, naturally, and which I hadn't, naturally). She emailed me a spreadsheet of standard offerings from Earl's. Spreadsheets make my eyes cross. I decided to make game time decisions.

Dealer's Choice

Valentina pulls out a handwritten list of her household's weekly produce requirements and another list of the things I'd need. She begins her requests in the A's, with alfalfa sprouts. "We have them," Josh, the inventory manager, tell her. "It's a case of six one-pounders." Sprouts don't last long. Valentina does not waste food. No alfalfa. "Sunflower?" she counters. No. "Pea sprouts?" They settle on pea sprouts. She works her way down the list to salad greens, which Josh regretfully informs us are in short supply this week due to rain damage over the previous three days. In recompense, he points out that organic mangoes are on special—a 10-count for $7.

All the while behind us, a patchwork of pallets in the middle of the floor has grown increasingly visible as the boxes towering on top disappear in the arms of deal-seeking grocers and restauranteurs. This is the island of major markdowns of which Valentina had spoken—organic produce on the verge of spoiling, priced to move. Dave, the master of the island, has a tougher demeanor than Josh. He's ready for negotiations. Upon arrival, Valentina had set aside a small mountain of Dave's goods—apples, carrots, lemons, portabellas—which, she informed me later, she was duty-bound to pay for once she'd laid claim. It was important to pull from that pile straightaway, she counseled, because it would vanish while we ordered everything else.

As we count bills to pay for our loot, Valentina spots a 45-pound box of avocados still sitting on a pallet. She ogles it like Carrie Bradshaw eyeing a pair of Manolos. Dave sees what she's thinking. "You gotta kill all those in five days," he says, "The bottom layer's gotta be turned to guac as soon as you get home. The rest might last a few days in the fridge." She takes it.

Josh loads everything onto a dolly and rolls it to Valentina's VW Golf. We pile it in and put the excess in the cavernous trunk of my '83 Mercedes. Josh goes to hug Valentina and I notice Jerry Garcia on the back of his sweatshirt, peering over round sunglasses. She tells him she'll see him next week.

Breaking Down

From Earl's, we drive a quarter mile down the road to Stanley Produce. Stanley's is not all organic but their presentation is nicer than Earl's. A thoughtfully arranged wall of wooden display containers features radicchio, fennel, winter squash, and fresh herbs. Valentina tells me her 100% organic household doesn't usually buy much from Stanley's but that their wild mushrooms pass the pesticide test, and when chanterelles are in stock, there's no cheaper place to find them. I think of the tiny bag of chanterelles I bought at Rainbow Grocery a few months back and the embarrassing amount of money I coughed up for them. I don't confess.

The manager—a middle-aged guy in a heavy rubber apron—stands behind the counter while his crew moves goods around the platform. Valentina slips easily into Spanish, chatting with the employees, who seem to know her well. We run through the remaining items I need for my party, including endive, broccolini, and leeks. At Stanley's, you don't have to buy everything by the ton. I'm allowed to break a 25-pound case of red bell peppers and take just five pounds. The small bag looks almost like something a normal grocery shopper would buy, leaving me with a feeling of bulk-purchaser inadequacy.

Abundantly Clear

I depart having spent $48.45 on vegetables that will feed the 80 people who've RSVPed to our event. I enjoy a self-satisfied moment knowing my early morning dedication allowed me to pull this off for $0.61 per person.

With our cars loaded, Valentina and I drive back to her warehouse to unload. Her makeshift industrial-style kitchen features a border wall composed of a rotating array of cardboard boxes. We rebuild the wall with what we've brought home. She immediately breaks into the box of avocados, which I am certain she can hear calling out to her, begging her to mash them with cilantro and lime stat, lest they perish. It's 8am. We eat avocado on toast for breakfast.

We've barely made a dent, but over the course of the week, the seven residents here, along with their significant others and lovers and friends, will make their way through all of this food. What they don't finish, Valentina will juice or freeze or bake or zest. Not a seed or rind will be wasted.

For all this seeming scrimping, none of my friends' homes have a greater sense of abundance than Valentina's. Anyone who visits can partake of the supply and it's not a burden on anybody's wallet. It's not easy to build such a land of plenty—Valentina has bulk food distributor codes cataloged in her head the way the rest of us once had telephone numbers before cell phones permitted our memories to atrophy. Eating both healthy and cheaply in San Francisco takes some work, but it's worth the glimpse you get into the unseen world between the farm and the table, and the challenge of finding five hundred ways to eat beets.

Do It Yourself

Suddenly thirsting for five gallons of freshly squeezed orange juice? The Bayview is waiting for you. If you can drag yourself out of bed, places like Earl's Organic and Stanley Produce will sell you all the produce you can handle. Forming a purchasing group of neighbors or friends—you can even call it a co-op—is a great way to share the assets as well as the savings.

Design and Illustration by Graham Hicks

My Chemical Romance

Sarah Han — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 07:00:14 -0800

I didn't consider myself a perfume kind of woman. Although I've tried wearing fragrances over the years, I've never felt comfortable enough to incorporate it into my daily routine. Perfume for me was like a Halloween costume, a special occasion dress, or an ill-fitting outfit - something that's worn once, maybe twice a year, but usually buried in the back of the closet.

Nevertheless, something about perfume has always fascinated me. Maybe I'm influenced by movies and TV that show perfume as a glamorous, magical elixir that enchants and charms people with its beguiling smell. A gentle squeeze of the bulb atomizer and you've got the world under your thumb. As appealing as that fantasy sounds, I didn't think it appropriate for me, someone who's more awkward than elegant, tomboy than sex kitten.

But my feelings about perfume changed when I discovered the work of San Francisco perfumer Yosh Han and her fragrance line, Yosh Olfactory Sense. I first stumbled upon her scents at Gravel & Gold, a store in the Mission that sells her experimental and limited edition Kimia line. I was intrigued by these unusual and intoxicating perfumes that didn't smell like the average flowery and fruity fragrances. They were sophisticated, yet quirky, feminine, but a bit earthy. They smelled like something I would be comfortable wearing. And yeah, I'm not just saying that because she has an awesome last name.

What makes Yosh's fragrances different than any other is that she uses a combination of intuition (Did I mention that she's also a clairvoyant?), her extensive knowledge of spiritual energy (perhaps I should call her Chakra Han?), and her expert sense of smell to create eclectic blends of essential and perfume oils that speak to individuals of every ilk. Using a technique she calls 'vibrational perfumery,' Yosh has created collections for small boutiques and high-end department stores, and custom blended concoctions for opera singers, literary figures like Nick Hornby and William T. Vollman, and normal people like me.

The key to Yosh's unique style of perfumery is her talent of uncovering scents that resonate with their wearer, physically, but also psychically; she aims to bring perfumery back to its spiritual roots.

At her vibrational perfumery workshops, groups of up to six people learn more about the connection between olfaction and one's physical, mental, and spiritual well being. After learning some perfume making basics (all perfumes consist of top, middle, and base note fragrances) and how different scents affect our chakras, or our bodies' energy centers, each participant sniffs a slew of fragrant oils and concocts his or her own blend. If DIY isn't your thing, Yosh can do the work for you to create a custom blended signature scent.

Being the hands-on type, I was all about the DIY-aspect of the perfume-making workshop. Though I'd missed a recent one I was able to meet up with Yosh for a one-on-one session at her studio.

Before I arrived, I imagined her studio to look like an old-fashioned apothecary shop, but instead of beakers and test tubes filled with medicines, ointments, and balms, it would be stocked with soothing, aromatherapeutic yellow and pink oils. I was surprised when the address she gave me brought me to a residence. Her studio was in her home, an elegantly decorated flat in Pacific Heights.

Though I was wrong about the setting, there was still an old timey medical feel about the materials for our session. Once settled inside, Yosh placed several amber glass vials filled with fragrance oils, a Pyrex beaker, and several pipettes in front of me. She asked me to categorize them into four groups: ones I loved, ones I liked, ones that I didn't like, and ones that piqued my interest in a curious way - what she calls 'X-factors.' X-factor scents are ones that make you who you are, and usually allude to things you either keep hidden, or are yet to be discovered.

One of my X-factor scents was patchouli. Growing up, I strongly disliked the scent which I thought smelled of dirt, and which I associated with dreadlocked white reggae fans. Lately though, I've found that in small amounts, it's grown on me. It didn't get me fiending for Bob Marley, but when I inhaled the patchouli oil it smelled comforting and earthy - not girly, but womanly.

Sniffing the French way - from left to right, then right to left again - I used my gut reaction to categorize dozens of oils. Although totally based on my own preference, at times, I wasn't sure if I really liked a smell or not. Some scents were nice but tickled my nose funny; others were noxiously cloying. I put these in the 'no' pile. Still others I couldn't place, but liked anyway, like an abstract painting you appreciate without really knowing why.

When I finished smelling all of the vessels, Yosh weeded out the ones I didn't like and had me re-smell the scents that I said I loved and some of the scents that were borderline love and like. She explained that fragrances often smell different a second time. She was right; I decided I didn't love a few of the ones I initially did, and I liked a couple of them a lot more on a second whiff. To these, she added in those curve ball X-factor scents, which make the final product more complex and unique.

Many of the scents I picked out were base note fragrances. Base notes make up a perfume's greatest molecular weight and resonate the longest, but Yosh warns against having too many of these in one perfume. She compares base notes to dinner party guests who stick around to help wash the dishes, but who also have a tendency to overstay their welcome. She suggested editing a few base notes out, so that the lighter, ephemeral top notes and balancing middle notes could also shine through.

The reverse birthday candle breathing technique is another trick Yosh uses to further edit down a scent. She had me stand up and line up the oils before me in one straight line. Just as the name suggests, instead of taking a deep breath in and then blowing out, as you would to extinguish the candles on a cake, I exhaled all the air in my lungs and then breathed in deeply through my nose while walking my nose up and down the line of vials. This technique allows you to smell the scents in combination with each other; off-tune fragrance notes jump out. In my case, peppermint and basil, two scents I liked, didn't mesh with my blend so I removed them from the pack. After a few passes and a final edit, I was left with six aromas: pink grapefruit, jasmine grandiflorum, gardenia, carnation, cardamom, and patchouli.

Yosh created a formula and let me decant each of the six oils into a 15 ml glass container using pipettes. Normally, for custom scents, Yosh does this step, but she let me do the honors. When the last oil was added, I gave the whole thing a good shake and applied it onto the back of my wrist and inhaled.

The final product was an unlikely combination of spicy and floral, topped off with a bright citrus pop. On my skin it smelled fresh and sweet without being saccharine, piquant without being overwhelming; on Yosh, who says she has 'spicy-smelling' skin, it still smelled good, but less sweet and zesty. Perfumes smell different on different people, but she claims that a custom perfume will always smell the best on the person it's made for.

I left Yosh's studio feeling elated. Aromatherapy is said to help you improve your mood, so the perfume was definitely vibing with me. But really how could I not be happy; I had finally found my signature scent and it was so me.

Create your own signature scent with Yosh of Yosh Olfactory Sense at one of her Vibrational Perfumery workshops ($250) or make an appointment for her a custom perfume session ($500).

E-mail her at info@eaudeyosh.com or call (415) 626-5385.

Design by Andy Warner

The Life Aquatic

Andreas Trolf — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 07:00:14 -0800

Hipster bashing is to the 2000-oughts what yuppie bashing was to the 1980s, and the stereotype of Mission-dwellers (though rapidly digressing into self-parody) is a shiftless and jaded hipster. The average Marina-dweller, by contrast, is seen as a vapid and materialistic yuppie. And ne'er the twain shall meet, correct? You'd think so, but you'd be wrong. Given a good decade of gentrification, many residents of the Marina have become intimately acquainted with the various parts of the Mission that have been designated Marina Green Zones on weekends.

But Mission folk make much less frequent excursions into the Marina, so I was curious about the well of mutual contempt shared by inhabitants of the Mission and the Marina. Did the rivalry actually point out fundamental divergences in weltanschauung?

I decided to confront my own stereotypes about the neighborhood by enlisting the help of a local. The idea was to secure a Marina-based Virgil for my Mission Dante, if you'll forgive me the clumsy comparison. This wasn't meant to be some undercover exposé or ethnography; at best I'd be a tourist.

Walking through the Marina, the late-afternoon sun catching the remnants of an earlier rain in the still-leafy trees, I got a sense of a deep calm in the folks I passed. I hesitate to draw conclusions based on something so intangible, but there seemed to be a sort of Panglossian self-assurance in the air. The snippets of conversation I overheard betrayed an easy contentment.

I was for sure the most shabbily dressed man on Chestnut Street. I felt a growing sense of defiant smugness: in a sea of pleated khaki, I was the freethinking outsider. I was instantly taken back to high school when my hood rat friends and I decried the jocks and the rich kids, priding ourselves on non-conformity. Except now I wasn't sure how much of that I believed and how much I simply wanted to believe. Still, feeling a tinge of bohemian condescension, I noted the conspicuous racial homogeneity. But then, I'm as white as they come.

It was an hour or so before bar-going time, so I strolled around the Palace of Fine Arts taking in the Mediterranean splendor. The words bucolic and idyllic came to mind as I sipped furtively from my flask.

I wondered how it would go. How did they socialize in the Marina? Would I be stymied, overwhelmed, overcharged, and repulsed? I felt suddenly unprepared. Checking my phone for a message from Virgil, needing reassurance, I discovered instead that he was flaking. Panic. Should I try to reschedule or make a go of it sans guide, against all odds and common sense? Remembering dispiriting encounters with Marina residents in my own neighborhood, I called my friend Henry and proposed that we return the favor.

We headed over to Bar None, which, given its reputation as a fraternity holdover, seemed to be the bar most readily identified with the Marina. Bouncers in the Mission are usually the opposite of intimidating; the bouncers at Bar None, however, were the no-nonsense type – dudes I've feared my entire life. I won't pretend to be unbiased, and the appearance of several beefy bouncers never portends anything fun and pain-free for me.

Inside, Bar None held few surprises: commercial hip hop, scantily clad barmaids, beer pong, and SportsCenter. But judging a bar based on personal taste is shortsighted – don't we all want the same things? A relaxing drink, to shoot the shit with friends, and maybe to get laid? These things are as near to a universal law as I can imagine. I prefer to judge bars based on whether or not the patrons are enjoying themselves. And from the Tap Out bros to the Appletini girls, everyone seemed to be having a ball.

Putting on our coats with an eye on the door, a heavily made-up girl approached and handed us flyers advocating marijuana legalization. "Isn't that a moot point in San Francisco?" I asked her. "Legalize it!" she said with a blinding smile. Henry asked her name and she was surprisingly receptive. I asked if advocating for drug reform was her regular job. "What?" she asked, so I repeated myself. "I don't get it," she said. "You know," I explained, "do you advocate for the repeal of marijuana laws?" She seemed to understand and nodded enthusiastically before saying, doe-eyed, "What's 'advocate' mean?"

The next night I tried again to meet up with Virgil, but he'd left town on short notice. We'd planned on casual drinks and social anthropology, but again I found myself invading the Marina as an outsider. I managed to rope Henry into accompanying me once more, and before long we'd lost all semblance of objectivity and had become indignant and drunk.

Over beers at the Hi-Fi Lounge, I pointed out some businessmen chatting up co-eds as though it highlighted a distasteful breach of convention. Four drinks into the night and I'd become surly and my judgment was astonishingly poor. I casually lobbed attitude at the bartender, but in return I got only a polite smile and quick service. I couldn't begin to tell you what exactly my problem was, but if I'd been compelled to explain it I'd have muttered something about personal dignity. I wish I'd called it off right then, but several bars and drinks later we were walking around believing ourselves to be operatives in enemy territory.

I thought it prudent to exact some tiny and pointless revenge. Standing outside of one or another of the countless bars we patronized, I leaned on a freshly waxed BMW and smoked furiously. Two men approached and the one holding car keys said, "Hey, get the fuck off my BMW!" I flicked my cigarette at him. "Or what, asshole?" I shot back. I stepped unsteadily onto the car's fender and the two men quickly got in and locked their doors. I exhorted them to get back out so that we might discuss things, but the driver started the engine and I gracelessly leapt to the street as they turned into the street and sped away. This proved absolutely nothing and left me feeling hollow and ashamed.

Much later, after a kind bartender bought us several whiskeys, I lay on my floor trying to pawn off my drunken shame on that flaky Virgil. At the time it made perfect sense: I'd been duped into going to the Marina! Left to my own devices, I was pride-bound to act out. I'd been abandoned in a strange land not knowing the customs and civilities. I recalled the e-mail introduction to my would-be Marina guide: "a self-proclaimed hipster hater," our mutual friend claimed. In a follow-up e-mail, Virgil disavowed the description, claiming to be "just a skinny jeans hater." But that was enough to validate my own prejudices. "How closed minded those people are! How judgmental and superficial! How dare they!"

And as I moved from incoherent to semi-conscious to blacked out, I knew that any meaningful interaction between Mission and Marina crowds would fail. We were simply separate without being equal. I'd gained the moral high ground. I'd shout down their smugness and intolerance from my soapbox. I tried my best, at least I felt that I did, and come not one whit closer to understanding them.

Two nights later, I was again in the Marina. Making my way to the Horseshoe Tavern with some friends, I expected more of the same. I carried my indignation like a Roman standard. After some drinks we began concocting insulting stories about every person in the bar and felt that our crudity was well placed.

"That dude's a date rapist!" I said about a guy in a shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest. "That girl acts in upscale European porn!" my friend indicated in the direction of a spray-on tan. Nothing reinforces solidarity so much as a common object of derision; and these hapless bar-goers were stand-ins for everything we drunkenly felt was wrong with the Marina. Then the date rapist walked up to where we stood and shoved five bucks into the jukebox. After a moment he turned to us and asked if we'd like to pick out some songs, too. That single gesture of kindness and inclusivity made us feel like total dicks. We asked to hear the Rolling Stones and he replied that he loved the Stones.

Again drunk, but with waning belligerence, I reconsidered what I'd mistaken for fact. I was as guilty as anyone. For all my griping and indignation I'd played exactly to type, which was underscored by the tiniest of olive branches: a jukebox credit. The key to keeping things on an even keel is probably moderation coupled with good manners. At times I've had neither, and for those I apologize.

Regardless of where you live, you're sure to prefer some neighborhoods to others. Why not examine that bias by getting out of that comfort zone? There are bars, restaurants, parks, and a myriad other attractions all over the place. You could start by picking the furthest neighborhood from your own and planning an afternoon there. You may or may not feel uninvited and it might not be worth visiting a second time, but don't let that stop you. Don't give in to cynicism. But don't wear out your welcome either.

Images: Jill Clardy, snackfight, magerleagues, CanadaPenguin and Egan Snow

Design: Kari Stevens