BlackNotBlack.com

San Francisco Magic

San Francisco was proving to be a most interesting place. It had been a long time since I’d explored a city as jubilant and weird, as labyrinthine and challenging, as baroque in its riches yet as blighted by homelessness and poverty. I was reminded why it is considered one of the world's great cities, and also why greatness is often seen through rose-tinted glasses. There was still more to see—through my friend Steve I’d caught wind of San Fran’s yearly carnival, an event that heralded the real beginning of summer in the Bay. Steve flew up from San Diego and we planned a series of activities designed to last into the depths of the a.m. First problem—the day we chose dawned gloomy and cold, and the clouds refused to burn off. I was worried whether people would turn out for the carnival. But we had a baseball game to attend first and, after checking out the statues of great Giants past, we watched Barry Bonds drill homer 745 through blustery skies.

Steve is the ultimate baseball fan, and so I felt I’d recieve an informed answer asking him what the deal was about steroids. In all the high-decibel denouncements I’d heard, nobody ever explained why exactly they’re illegal in the first place. As they relate to performance enhancement, I didn’t get it. When an athlete who is overheating takes intravenous fluids during halftime of a game, isn’t that performance enhancing? What about cortisone shots in the elbow for major league pitchers? What about those 300-pound behemoths sucking oxygen on the sidelines of NFL games? And how about Tiger Woods and other athletes going under the (laser) knife for corneal surgery? I mean, if your eyes aren’t good enough for pro sports, isn’t getting surgery the definition of performance enhancement? And there are many supplements and chemicals that remain legal. What of those? Steve nodded through all this. Then the most informed sports fan I know said, “You’re right—it’s all arbitrary bullshit.”

That mystery solved, we adjourned to the carnival, leaving in the 7th inning of a game the Giants eventually won. San Fran’s amazing ballpark is in Potrero and the carnival was a short drive away in the adjacent district of Castro. The weather hadn't changed—it was chill and grey and gusty, and I was more worried than ever this Chernobyl climate would keep people indoors. But I learned that San Franciscans aren’t even remotely deterred by a little cold and wind. As you can see from the photo below, the locals were going to celebrate Rio-style come hell, high water, or hypothermia.

San Fran’s carnival will never dethrone Brazil's—let’s be straight about that. There’s no way it could—Brazilian carnival has an apocalyptic quality, as if it’s the last bash at the end of the world. They party with such supercharged finality that, come Fat Tuesday, it wouldn’t be a surprise to see a nuclear explosion on the horizon instead of sunrise. Seeing carnival in San Fran reinforced the truth that Brazil’s celebration is one of the few guaranteed life-changing experiences on this planet.

That said, the San Francisco version was excellent. Eight blocks of Harrison Avenue had been closed and, in this expanse, four band stages had been erected, as well as pavilions for drum circles, dance classes, and sports. There were food booths, beer tents (first stop for us) and capoeira demonstrations, and tens of thousands of particpants taking part. We edged our way through the crush until the sound of congas drew us down a side street. On a stage at the end of the block a samba band was playing. They were called SambaDa. Their music was a rugged and percussive amalgam of reggae and samba, and before I knew it, I was dancing. I really began to feel like I was in Brazil when a couple asked me to pose with them for a photo. This actually happens to me a lot, but I'll discuss that in another post. Anyway, just when I began to break out my authentic samba moves the fest shut down. It was 6 p.m.

But we had planned ahead—we had tickets to an early pool party at Bambuddha in the famous Phoenix Hotel. The Phoenix is a San Francisco landmark, sort of a north coast version of L.A.’s Chateau Marmont. Pop culture luminaries such as Keanu Reeves, Joan Jett, Vincent Gallo and Little Richard have called it home. We must have been radiating quite a bit of leftover carnival energy, because our cabbie asked us if we were a rock band. Since I was actually in a touring indie band for years, this was old hat for me, but I know it made my friends feel pretty cool.

When we arrived at the Phoenix, Marques Wyatt was spinning. Marques's name hasn't been enshrined in the pop lexicon just yet, but he’s a star—one of the great deejays in the game right now. I’d resisted the eight dollar ballpark Heinekens so I’d have cash for later on. Later on had finally arrived, and I wasted zero time—the drinks flowed fast and furious; shots appeared and were consumed. We danced in the front room near the fireplace and watched the beautiful people. The guests looked so cool, so perfect, and so diverse, yet nobody seemed to be trying too hard. It was an amazing crowd. All the hipness must have rubbed off because, after a while, we felt like beautiful people ourselves. The music went on and the fire burned and the drinks kept coming. Bambuddha finally died at eleven and the night was still young.

We wandered the mean streets, headed for a carnival afterparty somewhere, anywhere. Homeless men loomed in the cold like specters, or were huddled in dark doorways. Rubber gloves and bottles were strewn in the gutters. I got the shot at left through the wrought iron security gate of a rundown apartment building. San Francisco was at its most fantastic and stark. I loved it—big, glowing, kaleidoscopic, but dark and overwhelming too, like something out of William Gibson. Clouds racing overhead in the gunmetal sky. Marvelous and horrible. Magical and hellish. Loved it, but I could never live there.

Charlie said, “What about this place?” We were outside a bar called the Ambassador. We went through the doors and the place drew us in like we were longtime regulars. We didn’t even consider leaving until the lights came up. A staffer herded us toward the exit and we weaved through the night toward our hotel. I can’t remember the name of where we stayed, but it was a good place—traditional, venerable.

Sometime in the night one of the males in our group got up and went into the bathroom. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him. He missed the toilet, totally drenched the bathroom. The Irish car bombs had affected his equilibrium, obviously. The next morning I was wondering what to say. What is the best way to tell your friend he hosed down the bathroom? He solved the problem for me. Getting dressed, he picked up his socks. He felt them, looked at me, and said, “Why the hell are these wet?" I laughed. “Well, my friend . . .”

Labels: barry bonds, marques wyatt, phoenix hotel, san francisco

posted by Egan Ehlers @ 12:20 AM