Once a legitimate blog. Now just a collection of memes 'n menz.
WTF happened to my beloved city over the past twenty years?
Okay, it’s nice, but $5K a month?!
When I left SF in 2002, I was paying $1300 for a very nice 60s-era one bedroom place on Twin Peaks with a view of downtown, and even that was a stretch financially.
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Pet Shop Boys: Relentless  (1993)
I love this album, mainly because it was so different from what PSB had put out up until that point.
I will forever associate this disc with a little club I happened upon called The Playground in San Francisco in August of 1993 because it seemed they were always playing it.
I discovered The Playground after I had started boxing up my life to move back to Arizona—for the first time—after nearly a decade in The City. City life—and still pining over Rory—I knew it was time for me to cut my losses and start new.
Once I’d made up my mind to leave however—going so far as to give notice at work and on my apartment—as she is wont to do, The City pulled out all the stops to get me to stay. One evening I was out in front of my apartment building washing the car, and an absolutely gorgeous man happened by, struck up a conversation, and the next thing I knew we were upstairs doing the nasty. I started meeting guys left and right. And then my friend Rick came over one evening and started singing the praises of The Playground.
I was no stranger to sex clubs, having frequented the 1808 on a regular basis just after moving to San Francisco and spending many a rainy night wandering the halls of Mike’s Night Gallery many years later, but I’d drifted away from those venues because it was easy enough to find sex pretty much anywhere in the city if you really wanted it. So why pay for it?
In any case Rick’s full-throated (pardon the pun) endorsement of The Playground let me to check it out one night.
From the description in my Journal at the time:
There Ăs something very primal about the place, something that Ăs very much linked to our deepest (and yes, darkest) sexual fantasies. The owners have a gold mine in their hands, if they know how to keep the ambiance alive.
It s a converted warehouse on 17th Street between Folsom and Harrison. The building itself is at the back of a large parking lot. It’s all gray metal with yellow painted trim. At night there are two rotating yellow beacons located on the loading dock where you go in. When you first enter, to the right is the admission area. When you pass through that, you first enter the television and refreshment area. There are several sofas clustered about a lone TV. If you proceed back, slightly to the left, the next area you come to is the glory hole space. It’s a series of black painted cubicles surrounding a raised platform. Naturally, there are more than ample holes drilled between the cubicles and the platform. Immediately to the right of this area is what I’ve come to call “the drive-in.” There’s an English taxi (vintage unknown) parked there that faces a projection television that plays the same porn videos that are playing in the television area. If you continue back toward the rear of the building from the drive-in, you get into another area dominated by separate cubicles. These cubicles surround another, smaller room, and they have small holes drilled at eye-level, allowing you to look into the smaller room and see whatĂs going on. When you exit the peep-hole area and head again, toward the rear of the warehouse, you pass “the dungeon” on your left, where you’ll find a sling and various other equipment I could not identify. To your right is the restroom (and yes, people do have sex in there). Continuing back, down a set of stairs, are three more spaces: the jail, the infirmary, and off the infirmary, a small room with a bed and a single lone light bulb. There’s something very eerie about these two rear rooms, although exactly what it is, I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on. The jail, which opened only recently, is very hot. It consists of a large area surrounding four cells, complete with bunks and toilets.
After visiting The Playground several more times, combined with all the men falling out of the sky, I abruptly changed my plans to leave and ended up staying in San Francisco for another nine months. By then the downpour of eligible bachelors had ended and I was at wit’s end with the same aspects of city life that had initially prompted my thoughts of moving back to Arizona months earlier. It was then that I returned to Tucson for six months before the siren call of The City prompted my return.
A peek into my life at the architectural office where I worked for the vast majority of the time I lived in SF:
…of a typical night at Mike’s Night Gallery (Folsom Street, SF, 1991)
Oh, the stories I could tell.
…but having been a longtime SF resident, I giggled uncontrollably when it showed up on my feed.
Geez…where have I seen something like that before?
Riding it every day for sixteen years, it took less than a hot microsecond…
The SF MUNI would like a word… ????
It puts a smile on my face every time I walk in.
And many a summer’s day was spent there in the same state as this gentleman!
BTW sir, you have something dripping down your chest. ????
Nice to see that nothing has changed there over the years!
Click to embiggen.
1922
Today
…this beach remains just as fun as it was in the 80s.
…wandering through new age/crystal shops after taking the ferry from San Francisco across the bay to Sausalito during a balmy late autumn afternoon. It was one of those things you did with new boyfriends or out-of-towners after the obligatory walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. In fact, I believe it was in one of those new age shops that I bought my original copy of this recording. Never fails to put a smile on my face. Simpler times, fer sure!
Some memories of that trip to Sausalito…
I found this picture in my collection while looking for something else, and boy did it bring back memories. This is where—about a year after I moved to San Francisco—I sold my entire vinyl collection, because you know, compact discs! And it’s also where I simply left a box of records they didn’t want out on the street for the taking because I wasn’t going to haul them back home.
Ah, the stupidity of youth. Ironic because many years later, after realizing the error of my ways, it was the same location where I started rebuilding that same vinyl collection.
In the intervening years I bought and sold dozens of CDs at the same location as my financial situation ebbed and flowed.
Of course this led me down the internet rabbit hole as I attempted to find out what had happened to the store in the years since I left The City.
Apparently the store closed in 2016. The building (including two residential units on the upper floors) were renovated in 2019.
Now it’s a hair salon. ????
And speaking of places long gone where I spent copious amounts of money…
I was unable to find any photos of the interior of the Tower Records store on Market Street and these are the only ones I located of the exterior. I remember when the store first opened it was Mana From Heaven for music junkies like me. After Tower Records closed all its stores in 2006, apparently the building sat vacant for several years until CVS stepped in and the building was completely remodeled. CVS moved out in 2017 and according to Google Street View, it’s now Barry’s, a gym/heath & fitness establishment.
And while we’re on the subject…
The Record Rack was another of my hangouts.
Neil used to let me root around in the back room where they kept all the used stock that they hadn’t put out yet. There were boxes of records stacked on top of each other, loose records spilling onto the floor, unsorted shelves…I easily spent entire afternoons going through the mess and didn’t even scratch the surface.
Speaking of Neil, I present Neil Lewis: The Final Performance
What has this little trip down memory lane done? It’s reminded me that I no longer recognize the city I called home for nearly 20 years. I spent hours on Google Street View over the weekend visiting my old haunts downtown and all the way up Market throughout the Castro, and I scarcely recognized anything. Considering I’ve now been gone from The City longer than I actually lived there, this isn’t surprising. Time does move on, after all. But it’s still a little depressing, and really makes me wish I had taken more photos when I lived there than I did.
…from my last apartment in San Franicsco, January 2000
I wonder where she is today?
Don’t know what prompted me to post this on Instagram last night, but I figured why not do it here as well?
This was the first place in SF my ex and I shared after moving from Tucson. Â It was a building that was being renovated by a friend of the architect I was working for at the time.
Bernie and I had already gone our separate ways by this time, but we decided to try living as roommates to see how it went. We were still friends after all, and the parting had been amicable.
There are lots of memories associated with this flat, but one that stands out above all the others was the night the owner (who lived on the third floor) decided to clean oil stains off the new garage floor with gasoline.  Seeing how this was a recipe for disaster, we called the fire department and upon arrival the fire captain screamed at him for the stupidity. “We have a half dozen homes go up every year because of this kind of stupidity!”
Needless to say our relationship with the landlord went downhill from then. The following June, when we put a pride flag on the front of the house he demanded it be taken down because we had “modified the exterior” by attaching the flagpole to the exterior of the building. We complied, and then hung the flag in the front window.
When it came time to renew the lease, he raised the rent an exorbitant amount (3-unit buildings did not fall under the maximum 4% annual increase clause in San Francisco), and after discussing everything that had happened since the gasoline night (including his continually yapping rat-dog that he would put out on the back fire escape) we decided it was time to move on.
(Forgive me if I’ve posted something similar to this in the past. I’m too lazy to actually go searching through a decade and a half of posts.)
Picture it: San Francisco 1988 (or maybe 1989)…
I learned of The Whispering Bushes at the end of Golden Gate Park long before we moved to San Francsico via Tales of the City. It wasn’t until sometime after our arrival that I actually went exploring there, and I’m here to tell you. It’s all true. (Or at least it was.)
Over the years of cruising the venue, I had more experiences than I could ever relate (and for some reason, generally did not record for posterity in my journals), hooked up with guys who I became friends with, and fulfilled more than one fantasy (see: Jeff York). Despite AIDS ravaging the gay community, sex was still to be had, and amazingly everything I saw or participated in was considered “safe” sex. Police patrols were rare. I recall only one instance when I pulled up to park before hitting the trails and saw several police cruisers had beaten me there. Naturally I turned around and went home.
Oh, the stories of Golden Gate Park I could tell…
This picture reminded me of one afternoon in particular: It was the day Al Parker relentlessly pursued me up and down the trails until it reached a point where I had to leave the park simply to get away from him.
That picture is also pretty much how he looked that afternoon.
When he first started following me I thought, “Well that’s interesting. Al Parker. Chasing me? Yeah, he is. I’m flattered man, thanks. I really am, but I’ve seen where your dick has been and no thanks!”
Now I know that many of my readers would’ve jumped at the opportunity to service Mr. Parker any which way, but even in his prime, he never pushed any of my buttons, and frankly at the time this happened it was common knowledge in the community that he too was battling advanced HIV. So yeah…no.
After about 30 minutes, it was obvious he wasn’t taking my hints, so I ended up going back to my car and driving off.
San Francisco, June 1988
20 June 1990
Yesterday I finally got around to getting that card/photo thing together to send off to Bill Poole. I found a cute card that had an image of a guy stepping off a cliff; down below were hungry alligators. The caption read something like, “A new romantic steps out into the world” or some such thing. I covered the inside with a burnt-orange zip-a-tone. On top of that (on the left side of the card) I pasted the photo of me in the phone booth (the only one I had an extra of), and on the right, a little note. It read as follows:
Hi…it’s Mark. Yeah, like I was saying the other night…our paths keep crossing, and our eyes keep meeting, but its hard to tell if he’s flirting or just wondering why I’m staring at him. I can’t help feeling that I’ve known him before. Like another life or something. When our eyes meet there are all these unresolved feelings. Pretty weird, huh? Yeah, I know. Guess I should have said something on one of those occasions…but it never felt right. Still…I dunno. Hell–I didn’t know who he was until I happened to turn on Channel 35 a few weeks ago and caught some show called Electric City. You’ve seen it? Oh, well I hadn’t. His name’s Bill. Call him? He’s not in the phone book. And even if he was, what am I gonna say? “Hey, you don’t know me but we’ve flirted on the street and in Safeway several times? No, he’ll think I’m a lunatic–and he probably gets thousands of cruises every day anyway–how’s he gonna remember me? Any suggest-ions? The BBS? Hey, that’s a good idea… someone’s bound to know him there. Maybe I can get an address for the program so I could send him a card or something. Maybe a card with a photo. Kinda tacky but at least he’ll know who I am that way. But it can’t just be a card with a photo. It’s gotta be something different. What? You gotta go? Okay guy…I’ll catch you later. My number? Whadda ya mean don’t have it? It’s 861-4039. Call me sometime…
I popped it in the mailbox that afternoon. Well, I got a call this evening around 5:35 pm from Bill. It kinda threw me off at first cause he said that it was Bill….and that I’d sent him a card yesterday. That made the connection. Seems he’s been very aware of me as I have of him. We’re meeting in person tomorrow evening…
22 June 1990
Last evening was very interesting. Bill called promptly at 5:30 just as he’d promised night before last when he called. I was already standing in the shower when the phone rang, but still made time for a brief chat. He came over a bit past 6:00, dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and black leather motorcycle gloves. Can you say, “Hey Daddy?”
When we were chatting on the phone while I was standing in the tub, we’d discovered that we were both from Phoenix. He wasn’t a native, but had been there since high school (1978), and had arrived in San Francisco only about two years ago. I had a feeling that he was a newcomer, but couldn’t put my finger on anything specific. Supposedly he even knew Steve Golden, but alas, even he did not know his current whereabouts.
After he arrived we talked of many more things, but the conversation was punctuated with long periods of tongue-tiedness. I sensed (especially as time drew closer to 7:00 pm—when he had to leave to pick up his lover) that he really wanted to jump my bones. Frankly, I would have loved it if he had, but at the same time, I want this to be something more than a sexual liaison, however impossible that request may be. There is an undeniable attraction in operation here, and though he doesn’t admit to any “I’ve known you before feelings”, he slipped by saying that it must have been Phoenix where he knew me from. Quite unlikely, considering his age and the various bars he hung out at during his tenure there.
It was an awkward parting. We hugged goodbye and that was enough to give both of us a bit of discomfort in the jeans. He turned to face me as he stood on the deck; his discomfort was quite discernable. I told him that since it was probably going to be days and days before I saw him again perhaps he had better come back inside so I could at least kiss him goodbye. He readily agreed. I didn’t want to stop or let him go. In fact, we kissed twice. The second time I patted him on the butt and told him he’d better get going or he’d be late picking up his husband. As he left, he said, “Thank you for making a fantasy come true.”
There was no second rendezvous and I never really heard from Bill again, although we did cross paths for several years thereafter.
San Francisco 1997-2002
A few weeks ago I posted a photo that summed up the twisted, unreal San Francisco that often appears in my dreams. I was scrolling through social media the other day and ran across another; one that perfectly envisions my dreamtime forays to the Mission District (unlike that other photo, my visits there usually occur during the day, with a thick blanket of fog hanging over the city).
In my dreams, Mission Street is narrow, flanked on both sides by multi-story Victorian buildings. You can understand why I caught my breath when I saw this—complete with an old-style MUNI car that was in use during my time there.
…my memories of San Francisco in December
45 years ago today, SF Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone were shot and killed inside city hall by former Supervisor Dan White. Milk was California’s first openly gay elected official and a pioneer in the struggle for LGBTQ+ rights worldwide. Moscone was a first-term mayor and former California state senator.
The shootings were a turning point in San Francisco politics, sparking widespread public outcry. Dianne Feinstein, who was then the president of the Board of Supervisors, was subsequently sworn in as the city’s first female mayor.
Dan White was charged with first-degree murder, but was ultimately convicted of voluntary manslaughter. This lesser sentence ignited public outcry anew.
Below are captions for the above photos in order of appearance:
1. Mourners hold a candlelight vigil for Moscone and Milk.
2. Left: Dianne Feinstein bows her head for a moment of silence. Right: Dan White is taken into custody by the SFPD.
3. The body of Harvey Milk is carried out from city hall under a white cloth.
4. Mel Wax, press secretary for Mayor Moscone, announces to reporters that Moscone and Milk were shot and killed.
5. Rebecca Moscone is consoled by friends after learning that her father, George Moscone, had been killed.
6. Thousands gather with candles in front of SF City Hall for an impromptu vigil.
7. People hold signs and candles at a vigil.
????: Getty Images
It’s a sad commentary and a reminder that you’ve gotten old when your own photographs start looking like the shots you see in faded magazines.
And you may be wondering why I’m posting all these analog archives things. Well, I ran across a forgotten folder on my drive called “scans (to be sorted)” and it’s full of scanned slides that I’d created when I had a slide scanner (well before the fire and never replaced) with the intent of swapping out the poorer-quality scans in my virtual photo albums that I’d made from photo prints. Obviously life sidetracked me.
So hell…why not post them?