How many San Franciscans does it take to change a tire?

6th and Harrison

My friend came out of class around 7:00 pm at the Academy of Art to find the tire on her Jeep flat. She got out her jack and raised it to its max only to find that the max was not high enough. After 40 minutes on hold with her insurance roadside assistance, she had still not talked to anyone who could help so she drove on her flat to the nearest Chevron. I got word she was down there and decided I would be a man and go help. I literally ran through the Tenderloin to get to her and her Jeep at the Chevron in Mid Market. I actually stopped and walked the last half block so I could catch my breath and look like I had not run. I was there only a few minutes before the professional tire changer arrived in his semi-sized tow truck. We looked on as he walked back and forth between his rig and her Jeep. He did not seem to know what he was doing at all. Twenty minutes passed and he had still not touched the flat tire. He had backed up his truck and pulled it forward and backed it up again. Then he rigged up the jeep to be towed. We really thought he was just going to tow her Jeep away. Then he raised up the front of her jeep as high as he could with the hydrolic lift. He piled up a bunch of wooden blocks under the back axel and then lowered the Jeep on them. The blocks creaked and shifted and barely raised the Jeep up at all. Definitely not high enough to remove the tire. He tried this over and over and over before finally admitting (after some strong prodding in Spanish) that his jack had been stolen and he was just trying to come up with an alternative. We admired his creativity, but at this point it was 10:00 pm and the homeless people were swarming us. The tire man called in his friends. 2 more professional tire changers came in another giant semi-sized tow truck. They had a floor jack. I thought we would be on the road in no time. 1 hour later, after all 3 of them working together to figure out the jack and piling up more wood on top of the jack to get it high enough, the tire was changed. But by this time, one of the homeless people had become very concerned for us and started screaming expletives in Spanish at the poor guys trying to change the tire. I should have just given him the dollar for beer that he asked for up front. Instead I engaged him in a big discussion about how I had more debt than he could ever hope to have and how my friends insurance was paying for the whole thing so he did not need to worry. I sounded like such a freaking lawyer. We got on the road about 11:30 and I got dropped off back at my tower in the loin. Outside I can hear fighting and glass breaking. I am not sure if its bottles or car windows and honestly I don't care. Just dont ever get a flat tire in San Francisco, unless you happen to have 2 semis, 3 professional tire changers, a homeless man to curse at the workers, and a friend to keep you company.

Reflections on Mia's Muni Birthday Party

3/21/10
N-Judah
Last time I rode this line it was Mia's 19th birthday. She wobbled on the laps of her friends, clumsily sweeping her bleach blond hair and adjusting her halter top to keep her boobs inside. Everyone on the train knew it was her birthday, but I'm not sure anyone sang along with her inebriated harem. It was a harem in search of a man. And I happen to be sitting across from the perfect man. He heard the sirens call and walked back to the party, presenting a key-chain sized rubix cube as a birthday offering. Mia swayed wildly on her friends laps, rotating the cube in her hand as deliberately as her drunkenness allowed. Frustrated, she began shouting expletives before announcing her inability to perform the task at hand. Despite her make up and cleavage, she was impotent when it came to the rubix cube. Luckily for Mia, no one was judging her for her skills.

Excerpt from a letter to a friend

Fall 2009
I am currently looking out my 14th story window. Literally straight in front of me, across two cities and a bay, is the Oakland temple, just a pointy white dot symbolizing eternity. If I could go by way of crow, I could be there in minutes, but limited in my capacities, I will have to find another way. Rising from the streets to my window, the city echos with sirens and the schizophrenic arguments of the resident scavenger population. You could film a zombie movie here without any makeup. The staggering stumbling drunkenness, the crazed crack induced muttering. The violent outbursts over park benches and drug money. This is where I live, in a horror film of humanity.... but really that is just the surface. There is alot of good to be found on these streets.
From the same window I can also see Bloomingdales, nordstroms, Union square with Prada, Gucci, and Berk's favorites, Zara and H&M. 2 blocks away to $500/night hotel rooms and thousand dollar handbags. Sometimes the locals here will wander there to do their daily gathering (Most of them stopped hunting millennia ago), but by and large, invisible boundaries keep people in their place. Still, the only real difference in the two worlds is the price of the self indulgence, not the emptiness its masking.

Wikipedia says of my neighborhood (the Tenderloin): “"In addition to its rich history and diverse community, there is significant poverty, homelessness, and crime. It is known for its immigrant communities, single room occupancy (SRO) hotels, restaurants, artistic community, and large homeless population."

"Squalid conditions,homelessness, crime, drug sales, prostitution, liquor stores (more than 60 in 2008), and strip clubs give the neighborhood a seedy reputation."

"The extension of the Tenderloin south of Market Street in the vicinity of Sixth, Seventh, and Mission Streets is known locally as Mid-Market and is "Skid Row," or sarcastically as "the Wine Country," an allusion to "winos" (street-dwelling alcoholics)."

"The Tenderloin hosts many dive bars, including some left over from when the neighborhood housed large numbers of merchant seamen such as the 21 Club[4] and the 65 Club."

"...there is evidence of a community living here several thousand years ago, and when the area was excavated in the 1960s for the BART/MUNI subway station at Civic Center remains of a woman dated at 5,000 years old were found." (proof that early inhabitants of the tenderloin did indeed hunt)

"There are a number of stories about how the Tenderloin got its name....Another is a reference to the neighborhood as the "soft underbelly" (analogous to the cut of meat) of the city, with allusions to vice and corruption, especially graft....Yet another story, also likely apocryphal, is that the name is a reference to the sexual parts of prostitutes (i.e., "loins")."

"[Boedder Park] is often unused by children and is commonly occupied by drug addicts and intoxicated people during the daytime."

I wish Wikipedia were wrong on this account, but unfortunately, my daily eye-witness confirms the editor knew what s/he was talking about.
I live here because the rent is an affordable $1215/month for my small studio. Add that to my $40,000 annual tuition and I am suffering under undo amounts of debt. Fortunately for me, debt is really fashionable right now. Its the perfect all-purpose accessory. It pretty much goes with everything you want and all the hip people have it. I fear I have always been a hipster at heart. This is just quantitative proof.

Gauntlet of Humanity

Nov. 21, 2009

Powell and Market-
Not far from me, a man is locked in one of those self-cleaning restrooms San Francisco copied from Europe. He is screaming. Hardcore style, like Converge or Countervail. A group of tourists stopped to see if he was alright, but the mangy midsized smoker guy passing out flyers in front of the bathroom told them to go away, "Oh him? He is fine. Don't worry about him"
I wasn't worried
Walking here from my place is a gauntlet of humanity. Man talking to air. Women fighting over cans in the trash. Man holding up Snoop Dogg poster, "Isn't this beautiful? This is beautiful, just wonderful". "Got change?" "Bra, you got change?" "Hey, can I bum a cigarette of you?" Oh gross, human poop. I only live 2 blocks away, and those are only the things I failed to avoid. I forgot to mention the countless streams of urine that flow with the mortar lines on the brick sidewalk, from the walls of vacant buildings to Market Street. San Francisco's grand boulevard.
Midsized mangy smoker man with fliers is chasing the teen couple that just emerged from the escalator. "Wow, this is cool" says teen boyfriend. "we're late," says teen girlfriend. "I don't care, this is really cool." TARGET. Midsized Mangy Flier guy swoops in. HIT. You gotta move fast around here. Keep moving. Look deliberate. I put my hood on. I sing to myself. I keep my scruff. I am almost immune. Is that a good thing? hmm. Think about that. I am off to Walgreens to get some candy to sneak into the movies.

As Far West as I can Go

11/7/09

How quickly the sound of waves can heal. I'm at the Marina, way out by the yacht club. The bay is inexplicably rough today--- blue sky, no fog-- light steady breeze. The Golden Gate Bridge- firm and strong.
I woke up comparably early this Saturday- as the 4 Brits I let crash at my place slept off their hangovers. Not my favorite couch surfers so far.
I couldn't study in the library. It felt too empty, even when people started streaming in.-- I couldn't sleep there either. -- So I left, to wander, 49 bus down Van Ness to Union.
I couldn't enjoy the boutiques & cafes- empty with vanity. Another day I might have thought it quaint or hip or local and classy. Today- even organic dog treats and upscale fair trade kids clothes seemed predictable and tired--- rather than laughably absurd.
I just want to swim with the sea lions, pop up and bark and honk and be found endearing, and then cloak myself in the dense damp deafness of the bay.
The waves just got bigger. The timing synced to maximize the power, revving up and charging the steep beach- colliding with the sea wall, foaming at my feet, naked in their Chacos.
On the way here, in front of an apparently forgettable, but no doubt cleverly named boutique, a well made-up middle aged Asian woman was trying to wash off the dog poop smeared across the the sidewalk.... by spraying Windex on it. She stood a few feet away, half bent, spraying vigorously. Her immigrant forbearers should be proud. Their progeny is truly a San Franciscan... in the most stereotypical way.
There is a boy, maybe 6 years old, only 20 feet down the cobble stone wall from me. He is cleanly kept- missing two teeth- and squirming excitedly- watching the waves. His sister keeps talking to him, trying to get him to play, but he cannot be bothered. Each wave is some kind of adventure. If my Spanish were better and the waves not so loud, I could tell you what he is saying, but it doesn't really matter. He is enthusiastic about the waves and their power.. and the more he watches, the more he is learning... In 40 years, he will use a hose to wash down his sidewalk.. or a bucket of soapy water- a wave of cleaning power. He too is a San Franciscan... although possibly most overlooked.
The sun is starting to set over the Presidio. Autumn shadows stretching into an early night. I miss the desert, but I can make this home. This is a beautiful place to call home.

-Pete

Before I Begin, I Must Remember

July 18, 2009

On a small cliff above a cascading waterfall dropping down into Yosemite Valley, the lower part, where the road forks. Merced? Fresno? Berkeley? Where am I going? Back to Upward Bound. DON'T THINK THAT THOUGHT- just let your legs dangle over the cliff- look out- the lowering sun lighting up a granite crag jutting from an evergreen forest. The water smashing against stone on both sides of me almost completely masks the sound of tourists cruising in their cars on the bridge above me. One arch, supporting a series of arches, supporting a plane, covered in asphalt and oil stains. -People- we always want access. I am trying to relax my jaw- stop clinching my teeth- Relax damnit! You are in nature! -Nature- what is natural? What is real? Water carving stone. Was ice. Was clouds. Was ocean. Was the stuff keeping the pilgrims afloat until they washed up on these shores and marched and moved and cut and grooved and now.... on my one day off, I'm here. Under a bridge, above a waterfall, looking at a canyon and wondering why college is so important after all. After all the neurons firing, after all the paper pushing, the pens writing, the keys typing, the lasers printing, the glasses magnifying, the push push push, after all that fades away, the most beautiful things will still be rocks and water and trees and breezes.