San Francisco News Blog

Joe Eskenazi

Harley the boxer was a purse Chihuahua for Halloween. "Can't you tell?" queried her blue boa bedecked owner.

​Really, honestly, we hadn't meant to publish a short, picture-heavy article featuring San Francisco dogs decked out in Halloween costumes. But when you begin passing one dog after another after another made up to look like a pumpkin, a shark, or J. Edgar Hoover (just kidding; every bulldog looks like J. Edgar Hoover), sooner or later you just surrender and whip out the camera.

Incidentally, the doggie above, while dressed as a purse Chihuahua, was far less noisy than most Chihuahuas I've worked with (and been worked over by).

Today, our lunch break began with a terrifying encounter with a Specialty's delivery guy, Robert, who appeared to have sustained some serious injuries. That, or he bought fake scars and glued them to his face and caked it with make-up. "I'm just dead," he explained.

Robert, who called in dead for work

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Robert is not the first and certainly not the last to don costume a full 24 hours before the average trick-or-treater. In fact, our lunch break yielded a healthy numbers of early Halloween celebrators (and more than a few pre-ejack-o-lanterns).

​Around 12:30 p.m., this slightly lacking game of beer pong was on the move in front of the baseball stadium. (Ed.: Looks like the gent on the right toting the cane is dressed as Dr. House).

 

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Normally it'll at least take NLCS tickets to earn a smooch like this, you lucky dog

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Charges have been filed, and now the whole world can note that Finkelstein is a dead ringer for Dana Plato in her more youthful photos and an appreciable percentage of the nation can answer the real burning question (yes, she is).

If there were any incidences on Craigslist of trading coitus for Series tickets back in 2002 when the home team last ascended to the finals, it didn't hit the media. San Franciscans can be ashamed that suburban Pennsylvanians have out-risqued us. But we should be prideful that, when it comes to bizarre barter offers for tickets, we still have the rest of the world beat. For back in '02, an unknown denizen of Craigslist sought entry to the Series in exchange for "1,900 pounds of bananas."

I wish I could offer you a link -- but it's further gone than the memories of Bonds-Kent Giants teams coming within hailing distance of the pantheon. But this did happen, believe you me. I printed out the C'list ad at the time and posted it on my office's bulletin board.
 

Joe Eskenazi

​"I'm gonna clean up this city," was growing to be a hackneyed phrase even in the days when city residents were hop-scotching over mounds of horse shit as a matter of course. But cleaning and drying the city? That'd still be a fairly novel thing to do.

Sighting appliances littering city streets is hardly noteworthy. Yet this washer-dryer combo was spotted in the counter-intuitive locale of Van Ness and Oak -- not exactly a residential hub, and a well-traversed thoroughfare where the sight of people dumping several hundred pounds of detritus might raise some eyebrows.

Or, perhaps, this isn't a dumped appliance at all. Maybe it's one of those tiny condos we've read so much about -- a duplex, no less. Is this what you get for $199,000 in the city these days? It is a prime location. And we hear it has a washer-dryer hookup. 

Our guide in the spookiest room in City Hall-- the Board of Supervisors main chamber!

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 Attendees knew they were in for a hair-raising time when they were handed a scrap of paper with a long list of illnesses that might be exacerbated by the walk. Listed alongside maladies like angina and colic were pre- and post- menstrual syndrome. "But aren't all women either pre- or post-menstrual?" My friend shrewdly pointed out. We decided to take the risk.

City Hall, it turns out, is built on the site of an old cemetery. During its construction, the bones were disinterred and transported to Colma. All of this was done somewhat unceremoniously, according to our guide, as bones are unearthed whenever new construction projects are initiated in the area. In addition to the owners of the shafted bones, it was speculated that the ghosts of persons killed within the building also roamed the marble corridors.

D'oh!

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When it comes to navigating the streets of San Francisco, life isn't fair for avid bicyclists.

Take the case of a Wisconsin cyclist who apparently had the ride of the century planned when, in May, he sent a FedEx package through the San Francisco airport en route to a friend's place in Eureka, where he planned to move.

Joe Eskenazi

No Toto, though...

​ While riding tornadoes over the rainbow is the preferred route to Oz, it turns out the Muni train is ever so slightly more reliable. And, as we've documented numerous times in the past, they'll even take your little dog, too.

Our eye-catching Dorothy Gale stepped on the train at Powell, followed the yellow-brick road only momentarily, and disembarked at Montgomery. We had time to ask her what was going on ("it's October!") but didn't catch her name. What a world! What a world! But at least she was on the Auntie M train...

It does make us wonder, however: If you were going to cast The Wizard of Oz with San Francisco characters, who would play whom?

Maybe it's something in the food?

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This poster was hanging up inside a pet supply store on Valencia and 18th Street. The 14-year-old boy in me thought this was hilarious. Also, did I just trot out a Friends reference? Oh, yes. Yes I did.

Joe Eskenazi

Meals on wheels?

​Just in time for mandatory composting, an inadvertent green statement has been made by a tippler waddling past this stripped-down motorcycle. Instead of burning fossil fuels, now the bike is serving as a recycling container.

And while the city likely won't be fining your ass for non-composting any time soon, riding this motorcycle would be no treat for your posterior either. It is currently sans its headlight, seat, and plenty of other parts those loose wires ought to attach to.

Finally, completing the green motif, not only is the cycle serving as a recycling bin, since the bottle is an Anchor Steam, it's also a locavore. 

Rick Hall

Lorelei Lee, left, seen here with fellow porn star Bobbi Starr, has put her San Francisco State undergrad degree to good use already

​ In 1995, San Francisco State professor Geoffrey Marcy, and his student, Paul Butler, created an ingenious optical device allowing them to detect evidence of planets outside our solar system. Since then, the team have discovered more than half the extra-solar planets known to man.

On Monday New York Daily News scribes Kerry Burke and Rich Schapiro, wrote a story about first-year New York University grad student Lorelei Lee, who is simultaneously pursuing a career as a serious writer, and holding down a 10-year career a as journeywoman porn star.

Marcy, Butler, and Lee share in common an affiliation with a school many erroneously perceive as one of the lesser members of the second-tier California State university system. San Francisco State University's lackluster reputation is further damaged by the fact the school never got around to changing its name to California State University at San Francisco, in the style of the rest of the system's schools. The oversight suggesting laziness, ignorance, boorishness, or a combination of the three. Additionally, the school once employed this writer to teach in its journalism department, further diluting SFSU's distinction.

Successful graduates such as Marcy, Butler, and Lee, however, appear poised to change popular perceptions.

Discarded!

​If yesterday taught us anything about San Francisco, it's that we all invest in really crappy umbrellas. I'm no exception. Within five seconds of stepping off the bus, my umbrella, which apparently was crafted from dental floss, newspapers, and tinfoil, was reduced to shreds. My 15-minute bike ride from the Mission to SoMa this morning was like grim tour of a corpse-strewn battlefield.

Flattened!

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Joe Eskenazi

'I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy' reads the pavement.

​The stretch of Steiner Street along Alamo Square with the Painted Ladies houses on its east side could be the most photographed section of this city -- or any city. Most camera-wielding visitors are not looking at the pavement, however.

If they were, they'd find this happy quote of disputed origin: "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

While no one knows for certain who coined this phrase -- and we'll get to that momentarily -- it is indisputably among the wittiest comebacks for any tippler forced to defend his or her behavior. It's much more eloquent, say, than replying "At least I'm something" when told "You're drunk!"

Joe Eskenazi

It's a van...

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San Francisco is a city where an art car apparently designed by H.R. Giger can roll by and no one bothers to look away from Navy jet planes roaring between the skyscrapers. And yet, the vehicle pictured here threw us for a loop.

From the front, as you can see, it's 100 percent van of the 1970s vintage favored by The A-Team, Scooby-Doo, and kidnappers. But from the back -- huh. It's a truck!

Joe Eskenazi

No, it's a truck...

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What the hell is going on here? What's more, if you peer through the refrigerator-sized, tinted-glass door, there was a couch-like seat, complete with a blanket tossed on top of it. Did this vehicle go through a device not unlike the one Jeff Goldblum rigged up in The Fly?

Attempts to reach the owner of this amazing car truck van thing were unsuccessful. But a little Web sleuthing placed this unique set of wheels in New Jersey in 2005. But how the hell did it get out here?

Spencer Tunick

Didn't happen

​George Davis -- a former mayoral candidate known around the city as naked yoga guy --had pretty high ambitions for the second-annual Naked Olympics. Scheduled for Saturday, the competition was supposed to include barefoot races, ancient Greek and sumo wrestling, discus, broad jump, volleyball, touch football, and a kickboxing exhibition.

But the overcast, 50-degree Saturday didn't much appeal to the nudist crowd. When the games were supposed to begin, only eight stripped-down, goosebumpy guys had arrived. Among them was Rocky Angel, a beefcake who painted his face to look like a Mexican wrestler mask. But there was nobody to challenge him.

So instead of moving forward with a half-assed event, the host called it off.

It's tougher than it looks to get your hair to lay like this

​The other day, we declared Friday to be Comb Your Hair Like Gavin Newsom Day, in honor of our erstwhile mayor's 42nd birthday the next day. As we put it before:

Your participation in this experiment will, once and for all, answer the critical question that has plagued local social scientists and armchair political psychiatrists: Does combing your hair like Gavin Newsom make you behave like Gavin Newsom, or does behaving like Gavin Newsom induce you to comb your hair like Gavin Newsom?

Yes, we totally want your pictures. Upload them to SF Weekly's Flickr Pool or send 'em to me.

It turns out, however, that getting your hair to lay like Newsom's requires more than, say, falling down an elevator shaft or poking one's head out the window of a Concorde. We've been training. It ain't easy.

Joe Eskenazi

Say what, bird?

​One can sympathize with Clark Griswold's impulsive display of fisticuffs at the conclusion of Vacation. No one enjoys being told what to do by inanimate cartoon animals.That being said, we'll be less charitably inclined toward anyone who drop kicks these duckies (or are they swans?) informing drivers not to park on Fell Street.

As the sign notes, no one has been permitted to park at this spot since late August, and no one will be until Nov. 1. So it boggles the mind just a little that an ornamental can emblazoned with promenading avian figures was selected for the long haul.

Here's a close-up of the birds in question, below. Help us out here -- duckies or swans? 
 

Props to the master

​In honor of our erstwhile mayor's 42nd birthday on Oct. 10, SF Weekly has declared Friday, Oct. 9 to be "Comb Your Hair Like Gavin Newsom Day."

Your participation in this experiment will, once and for all, answer the critical question that has plagued local social scientists and armchair political psychiatrists: Does combing your hair like Gavin Newsom make you behave like Gavin Newsom, or does behaving like Gavin Newsom induce you to comb your hair like Gavin Newsom?

It's the classic chicken-and-egg, nature-vs.-nurture dilemma -- except L'Oreal hair gunk is involved.

Sam Hamady

​This tree, which offered a view of the Star Stage at last weekend's Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, was usually stocked with hippies. But at one point it was occupied by a nimble Border Collie (we think.) While the dog seemed not at all freaked out, prancing around the branch and then jumping off on its own accord, we suspect Rover had some help getting up there in the first place.

Or maybe he's just a big fan of Neko Case? 

​Warren Hellman may have fancied himself opening up America's hearts to music with his bigger-than-ever, three-day Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival. He also helped famed San Francisco eccentric Frank Chu open city visitors' minds to opaque theories about an alleged intergalactic political conspiracy.

Greenskeeper Joseph Frankel tees off in his backyard

​Since we first covered the "funemployment" phenomenon in a June cover story, we here at SF Weekly have been pleasantly surprised again and again by the productive uses to which jobless young San Franciscans are turning their idle hands. From blogging to designing funemployment flare, folks in this city seem inexplicably hellbent on doing creative and useful things instead of turning to drink, television, and despair.

Time to add another all-star to the funemployment hall of fame. His name is Joseph Frankel. He's a 25-year-old resident of the Inner Richmond, via New Jersey, where he grew up. Since he was laid off from a beer distributor at the end of last year, Frankel has actually built a golf course in his back yard.

You don't exactly have to be Tiger Woods to make it on the green in one at the Richmond Country Club, as Frankel and his roommates have dubbed their idyllic golfing enclave, which was previously a fenced-off dirt lot not much bigger than a garage. The club now features several sets of turf for teeing off from different distances, a strip of lawn serving as a fairway, and a rolling green with multiple holes, each of which can be capped when not in use. Frankel has even laid out some turf on the roof of his building, where players can take a swing at their wiffle golf balls (the only kind used at Richmond CC) from par-5 range.

​When you're buying drugs, all kinds of bad things can happen -- but losing your clothes usually isn't high on the list of concerns (particularly when you are buying your drugs in Pacific Heights).

At 1:30 this morning, a 27-year-old guy trying to score drugs from two older men on the 1800 block of Pacific Avenue instead got pushed to the ground, beaten with an unidentified object, and stripped of his clothing.

San Francisco Police Department spokeswoman Sergeant Lyn Tomioka wasn't sure why the clothing was stolen. Could have been that it was fancy, she said.

​Nose, right? It's nose.

​ ​ ​As reported in today's Chron, Troy Smith's 2006 conviction in the theft of $4.5 million in jewels has been upheld. Mark Zimmelman, the owner of Lang Antique and Estate Jewelry where the jewels were yanked, is still walking free, regardless of the strong suspicions that he was involved.

 Should you wish to glean more about all this, check out SF Weekly's cover story, "Gem of a Caper," which laid out the whole case back in 2006.  

Also highly recommend: this NY Magazine story about what it was like for an arts writer having Smith's brother, Dino (another fugitive diamond thief), as his roommate. The tag line: "He found me on Craigslist. I found him on America's Most Wanted."

Awesome. 

Joe Eskenazi

Massive -- but safe -- phallic symbols

​Fair enough. Those aren't really condoms. But the pair of  20-foot-long water pipes protruding from this forklift sure do look like they've been draped with the world's largest jimmies (Galactic Prophylactics, you could say).

These tubes will soon have city water running through them; this is part of the ongoing Water System Improvement Program currently tearing the Lower Haight to shreds -- on the heels of the very same block being traumatized by Trauma.

The nice gentleman operating the fork-lift (whom we once saw competently doing his job while eating a bowl of oatmeal) told SF Weekly that the "condoms," fittingly enough, were placed on those pipes for "extra protection."

And if that isn't a perfect answer, we don't know what is.

​Just when you think you've had a tough week, something like this shows up. And you realize it's all worthwhile.

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To: The Editor, Editorial Board & Ashley Harrell

From: Grateful Citizen

Subject: Thank You! Your Sept. 9 - 15, 2009 issue: "Gavin Newsom: The Wrong Stuff" ["United We Stand" Sticker affixed]

Thank you to have the credible critics together to expose GN & his god father, Willy the Witch, destroyuctive acts.

Thank you for speaking up for all the good citizens, victims, under their reign of terror. That witch has established his grass roots e-networking up to the minute, while sabotage other's communication systems. Please watch out, also their spys.

We should organize to have victims/witnesses to testify their evil plots, with evidences, & expose them in front of the media.

Please stop that witch training & promoting his GN & his next mayor of SF -- BD/District 10 (with his root connection). Please reach out to all fractions for our common candidates: AG JB for Governor & ?Quintin M for Mayor.

God bless SF Weekly -- together with other media save San Francisco

Save California!

Sept. 16, 2009

 

​Several minutes before 6 p.m. yesterday in Civic Center Plaza, San Francisco writer Lars Russell read the final sentence of James Joyce's hilariously incomprehensible novel, Finnegan's Wake. Then, still gripping the tome, he executed a forward flip into the shrubbery, inadvertently ripping the cover.

Russell had been reading aloud for 29 hours and 15 minutes, sometimes by himself, sometimes surrounded by food-bearing friends and the occasional stranger. He had done this because of a proclamation he made at Finnegans Wake Popcorn, a recently dissolved Finnegans Wake reading club in the Haight. If he had no job, Russell explained to the members one night, he would attempt a comprehensive, public reading of the novel.

Less than two weeks later, he parted ways with his job as an editor at SPIN Earth, a San Francisco-based world music Web site  tied to Spin magazine. Russell's commitment to carry out the public reading was so freshly made that he was pretty much obligated to follow through.

So on Wednesday morning, Russell donned multi-colored socks and a pair of jeans inscribed with a red-ink excerpt from one of his own works of fiction and headed to Civic Center Plaza, across from the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library. He stayed all day and all night and all day again, surrounded by piles of sweaters, bags of food, a record player box for change collection, bottles of water, sunscreen, and a pair of fingerless black gloves.

Leader of the pack: Madam President Tegan Hetzel-Dobbins

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On a recent Saturday night, we donned a leather jacket and boots and crashed the 105th anniversary party of the San Francisco Motorcycle Club (SFMC). We maneuvered between the dozens of hogs parked outside the 19th and Folsom clubhouse in the Mission, and two men in official club biker vests welcomed us at the door and said first beer was on the (club)house. I liked this SFMC place already.

The SFMC traces its origins back to 1904, and has the vintage photographs on its wood-paneled walls to prove it. Members claim it's the second-oldest bike club in the country after the Yonkers Motorcycle Club in New York, which edged out their West Coast counterparts by starting one year earlier in 1903.

Inside, biker dudes from clubs around the state milled about and slammed back beers at the bar, identifying themselves by their leather jackets: Capital City from Sacramento. East Bay Rats. The Mad Dogs from Oakland. The Pasadena Motorcycle Club.

Some have argued that Joyce, who spent 17 years writing the book and went blind in the process, intended it as an extremely elaborate joke.

​Last year, we awarded the Finnegan's Wake Popcorn reading group (which meets each week in the Haight and reads aloud from the Joyce novel) "Best Pretentious Book Club." The club considered the award an honor and kept right on reading. In fact, each time it finished off the 628-page mindfuck, it simply started over.

But tonight, the club will finish off Finnegan's Wake for the third and last time, according to an e-mail from founder Brett Lockspeiser. "I'm partially saddened to say, Finnegan's Wake Popcorn will be going on hiatus," he wrote. "I've been very impressed with our tenacity in reading this nonsense every week in the last two years."

One reader apparently isn't ready for the magic to end. Lars Russell, a San Francisco-based writer and blackguard, announced today that he will read the entirety of Finnegan's Wake, out loud, starting tomorrow (Wednesday) at noon at the Civic Center Plaza across from the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library. He didn't say why. But Lockspeiser seemed to understand.

He just did it, all right

​A few years back, several track athletes got some ink because of their ink -- they featured ostentatious Nike tattoos on their biceps. The notion of the billion-dollar corporate entity's brand being essentially soldered onto the bodies of its low-level associates as if they were fast-moving, bipedal cattle wasn't thrilling for everyone watching. But, then again, they weren't our biceps.

So, if there's some corporation for which San Franciscans feel the need to provide free advertising for the rest of their lives -- and, depending upon how well your mortal remains are preserved and how widely the crime-scene photographs are disseminated, possibly even in death -- a nascent Web site wants to hook you up.

MyBrandz.com has declared Sept. 7 to be "Free Tattoo Day in San Francisco." But there is a catch. You will only receive a free tattoo if you choose to be branded for life with a corporate logo. (If anyone organizing this is aware of the irony of offering people the chance to serve as unpaid walking advertisements for large corporations for life on Labor Day, he or she isn't letting on). Locals intrigued by this offer are invited to leave their information on the Web site; the company promises to set up appointments at "professional tattoo studios" throughout San Francisco (no amateur operations in old Dodge Ram Vans here). 

Oh, the humanity!

​The ice cream purveyors (and SF Weekly tattoo models) at Humphrey Slocombe can think of a symbiotic method of cooling you down. You pay them for ice cream -- they make money, you cool down. Everyone wins.

That's a stark contrast to the scenario pictured here,  which was captured by the creamery's employees and tossed onto the Web. Everyone comes out the worse; the ice cream parlor is forced to wash that chair after a sweaty stranger feels the need to plant her bare ass on it. The general public, to be kindly about this, is ill-served. And the woman is captured on the Internet at a less than optimal moment.