The places on Folsom and on 17th Street look much better now than they did when I lived there!
I Sometimes Really Miss Living in the Bay Area
From Diary of a Fat Slob:
…In the late afternoon, there was BS from a different direction. Four Jesus freaks started working the pedestrians at my corner, sharing their tall tales of what wretched sinners they'd been before Jesus H Christ made them such swell people. They didn't just stand at the corner, they wandered around, preaching at people near the corner, which included me. One of them leaned over my table to complain about the sacrilegious fish, and added that Jesus loves me anyway.
"I love Him too," I said. "Why, I've been a Christian for twenty years, and I teach Sunday School at the Nazarene Church two blocks thataway." A 24-carat lie, of course, but it was the best line I could think of to bluff his bluster, and it seemed to work. He looked at the JR 'Bob' Dobbs fish I was wearing on my hat, couldn't reconcile it with what I'd just told him, and walked away confused, to bother other people instead.
The four of them took turns standing on a milk crate, preaching to the heathens of downtown Berkeley, but we heathens weren't very interested, and I don't think they made any sales or conversions.
There was a great moment that started when a panhandler in rags flashed them the Satan sign (index and pinky fingers up, which I wouldn't have known if Sarah-Katherine hadn't shown me (and thank you, dear)). The Christians saw the sign of Satan, were greatly offended, and one of them started screaming at the panhandler, so he stood on a very sturdy trash can and started counter-preaching their preaching.
"The Bible is full of lies," he hollered, "and Christians have killed more people than Hitler." Probably true, though I haven't seen the stats.
One of the Christians started screaming at the homeless guy, "You don't deserve His love, but God loves you!"
And this shaggy, skinny, bearded man — in sandals, yet — screamed right back, "Don't listen to them! They're Christians, and Christians are fools!"
"Oh yeah, listen to a homeless wino instead," one of the Christians screamed back.
The wino hoisted his paper-bag-wrapped bottle above his head and whooped, "At least this is something real! Maybe I worship a bottle but you fuckers worship thin air!"
"We worship the one true God!" one or two of them shouted back.
"I'll drink to that," said the bum, and he did.
"He'll drink to that," said one of the Jesus Freaks derisively, and another said, "The only thing you believe in is that bottle!"
The bum lowered the bottle, looked at it lovingly, shook his head and said, "Praise the Lord."
All this quickly devolved into so many shouts — "Worship the whiskey" and "May God forgive you" and "He'll forgive me as he's licking my ass" — I couldn't take notes quickly enough. Four street preachers against one unbelieving bum, and after a few minutes the bum mellowed and went back to panhandling. Gotta make a living.
"I'm going to Hell," he said, "so I'm gonna be thirsty. Spare change for a beer?"
The witch vendor next to me said something disparaging about the guy, so I gave him five bucks, a cookie from my lunch bag, and a pat on the back. He said thanks and vanished.
Oh Michael… (NSFW)
This Reminds Me…
…of a boy who called San Francisco home at the same time I did. For all I know this is the boy, as the vintage of the photo—not to mention that 'stache—certainly seems on point. For the longest time I only referred to him as "Mr. Mustache" (for obvious reasons).
The night before the gay parade in 1988 I spotted him wander into The Detour as I was walking up Market Street. The Detour wasn't really my cup of tea, but I followed him in and after he'd made a circuit around the bar, he turned around and left. I don't know if he was looking for someone specifically, or if no one piqued his interest.
Undeterred, I also left the bar and followed him further up Market to where he'd parked his car. As he was walking a couple guys passed him and yelled, "Hey Chuck!"
Chuck. I could finally attach a name to the boy.
I ran into him again later that summer at—of all places—The Whispering Bushes at the end of Golden Gate Park. We didn't hook up, but we started talking as we walked along the main path and ended up crossing the Great Highway to sit on the sea wall bordering Ocean Beach to watch the sun set. As I recall he was having boyfriend problems and just needed someone to talk to. I obliged.
After the sun slipped under the horizon he thanked me for listening, and said he needed to get home. We exchanged names but not phone numbers, and never did hook up—although afterward he always greeted me with a warm smile whenever our paths crossed.
What Was There…
Admittedly I experienced San Francisco long after Herb Caen had shuffled off this mortal coil, but nonetheless, SF of the mid 80s thru the end of the century still held the magic of which Caen wrote. Yes, we were surrounded by death in the 90s but that magic still seemed to permeate The City in the face of the abject horror that was decimating our community.
While I have not returned since I left in the spring of 2002, I have a good feeling from those who remain that a lot of that wonder has disappeared, fueled in no part by the ultra-wealthy moving in and taking over every inch of those 49 square miles.
Yeah, there have always been ultra-wealthy in San Francisco, but during my time there they were still ensconced in their mansions and towers on Nob Hill and Russian Hill. The rest of the city was still relatively affordable and I couldn't spend as freely as I'd like, I was able to make decent living and afford a one-bedroom apartment on my own on the $35-45K a year I earned during my tenure there. And parts of the city (while geographically undesirable to me for whatever reason) were quite affordable.
That's no longer true.
Do I miss it? In many ways yes, but in an equal number of ways, no. Will it always have a special place in my heart? Unquestionably, yes.
This Takes Me Back
Memories of sixteen years of daily commutes via the MUNI Embarcadero Station.
I'm surprised it still looks the same as it did the last time I rode the train in 2002…
I ran across these clips on Instagram after searching "Embarcadero Station San Francisco"—which led me down a whole new rabbit hole of adventures.
While so much of SF has changed over the last twenty years, via Instagram I was just as surprised to see how much has stubbornly remained the same as I remember.
Then and Now
Even I barely recognize this intersection any more, something that was an integral part of my life for nearly 20 years…
Scenes from Another Lifetime
"San Francisco is my home. I love The City and The City loves me back." This was a personal affirmation—my mantra if you will—for the first couple years I lived there because as much as I'd like to think I took to the city like fish to water, my ex is always quick to point out the transition was not painless…
I Wish I'd Taken More Photos When I Lived There
I suppose if I'd had today's cellphone technology in my pocket I would have. Alas, when I lived in The City I was limited to film photography and the associated expense that went along with it.
I Know That Beach!
And this pic that means this other one is definitely fake. Sigh.
A Repost from 2018
A Disturbing Realization
As most of my readers already know, I lived in San Francisco for approximately sixteen years, encompassing my late 20s through early 40s.
The other morning, while laying awake at 4 am, memories of San Francisco started bubbling up. I don't know if it was my age/hormone level at the time I lived there, or whether it is something about The City itself, but going over my memories of San Francisco I came to the disturbing realization that the vast majority of those memories—okay, pretty much all my memories of life in San Francisco—revolved around getting laid or trying to get laid…under the guise of looking for true love, of course.
Naturally, during my time there I worked. I made friends. I went to movies and plays. I took photos, made art, read books, acquired new skills, spent way too much money on way too much stuff, and explored the natural beauty of the Bay Area. But it seems all that was nothing more than background noise amid the unrelenting need to connect.
I would like to think that I fell into that lifestyle over the course of several years, but if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit it started almost the minute boots were on the ground.
While I did date and had several serial boyfriends, the smorgasbord of carnal delights and availability of potential sexual partners literally anywhere in the City is no doubt why so many refer to those 49 square miles as "Disneyland for Adults" and none of those relationships actually lasted. "Cruisin' the Streets" is more than just an old Boys Town Gang song. You could connect with someone on the subway, waiting for the bus, on your lunch hour downtown, walking home after work—and either go right to your/their place, make plans to meet up later, or duck into an empty stairwell for a quickie; literally anywhere. Buena Vista Park, North Baker Beach, "the whispering bushes" and the southern convenience station at the polo field at the western end of Golden Gate Park, the Hyatt Embarcadero, the 1808 Club, the Shaklee building, the 11th Floor of the Russ Building, The Playground, the Sir Francis Drake, Mike's Night Gallery, the Sheraton Palace…
You get the idea. There was a lot of action going on in The City. All. The. Time.
Inspired to start keeping a record of my life in San Francisco after seeing Prick Up Your Ears about a year after my arrival there, my journals read like an embarrassing, depressing erotic novel, full of saucy but ultimately empty encounters, littered with the names of men of whom I now have no conscious memory. (Oh, to have had cell phone cameras back then!)
I can't help but think that in the wake of 9/11 and the added security everywhere that followed, most of those locales have long since been locked down, but I know how industrious and creative horny men can be, and despite the authorities' best efforts, trysts will still happen somewhere.
Before I moved to San Francisco, when my friend Kent (who had arrived about six years earlier) once related how he stopped to have sex with some guy he met while on the way to a date with another, I was appalled. I could not understand how such a thing could happen, much less that anyone would actually partake. Note I said before I moved there…
While that particular scenario never happened to me, it was apparently not that uncommon, and I had plenty of other equally lascivious encounters during that decade and a half to make up for it. To this day I'm still amazed that I made it out alive, somehow remained STD/AIDS free, and didn't end up with a police record.
From the Analog Archives: CD Record Rack, January 1998
From the Analog Archives: Point Bonita Lighthouse, October 1996
From the Analog Archives: Around the Hood (and Beyond)
San Francisco, September 1993
Early Digital Photography: My Morning Commute
A photographic record of the morning commute from my apartment to the Levi Strauss Corporate Headquarters, San Francisco October 2000. Taken with a Sony Mavica digital camera that used a floppy disk for storage (hence the poor quality).
I didn't take the underground with this gig because the surface trolly would basically drop me at Levi's doorstep. I would, however, often transfer to the underground on the way home.
Did I ever mention that on one of those evening commutes, while still on the trolly (coming as it was from the tourist destination Fisherman's Wharf), Mark Hamill—Mr. Luke Skywalker himself—and his family were on board? AND HE FLIRTED WITH ME?!? I think I displayed an incredible amount of self-control and respected his privacy by not asking for an autograph. Were his family not there, however, who knows what would've happened? It might've been a story for the ages!
From the Analog Archives: Golden Hour
Views from Kite Hill, San Francisco September 2000
From the Analog Archives: Church Street Station
San Francisco, July 2000
From the Analog Archives
Since I had to go digging for that photo of Rosie's in the last post I'm on a roll…
Some views of downtown San Francisco from the Mandarin Hotel skybridge, July 2000
1886 Burritos
As promised, a story I promised some time ago…
I stumbled upon Rosie's within months of arriving in San Francisco in 1986. I was in the Castro on a Saturday morning, looking for a place to grab lunch and as I walked down 18th Street I came across Rosie's and it looked intriguing. I remember I ordered the California burrito, and from that first bite I knew I was in love.
San Francisco burritos (no matter where you get them) are a very distinct and unique breed. Some say they're the best burritos to be had anywhere. Not having lived that many places over the course of my life, I can say unequivocally however that they are the best burritos I've ever had. I've found a few that come close, but fail to meet the San Francisco standard.
Over the course of the sixteen years I lived in The City, I must've conservatively eaten at Rosie's 1886 times, based on 1-2 times a week for those entire sixteen years. I used to joke I would want a Rosie's burrito to be my last meal.
Rosie's in long closed (now longer than the entire time it was originally open), so I'll never have another opportunity to enjoy a meal there, but it doesn't matter. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can taste those delicious burritos. (To be honest, everything on the menu was excellent, but I gravitated toward the burritos more often than not.)
The owners of Rosie's also had a burrito shop on Haight Street (the name escapes me at the moment)—which, for some reason I never knew of until I started going to Amoeba Records. I often ate there when I was in the neighborhood, but it wasn't quite the same.
Only San Franciscans Will Appreciate This
Memories
I regret that I did not start recording my adventures in San Francisco for posterity until more than a year after I arrived, so you'll have to forgive me if my memories of my first visit to the Russian River are a little hazy. Specifically, the name of the hot guy with the mouthwatering uncut cock who first took me there completely eludes me. (It's odd the things we do remember, isn't it?)
I'd spent most of my first summer in San Francisco at the beach; officially Marshall's Beach, but unofficially "No Name" or "Boy" or less commonly, "North Baker" (photos here). It was a strip of clothing-optional sand north of Baker Beach and south of the Golden Gate Bridge where men of a certain persuasion would go to get some UV (and if they were lucky, slobber) on their naughty bits.
It was there that one afternoon I hooked up with a British ex-pat who, after we were done making the baby Jesus cry, asked if I'd ever been to the nude beach at the Russian River. I told him I knew of the Russian River, but except for passing through Guerneville, I actually hadn't been there yet, and certainly not to the nude beach.
We made a date for the following weekend, and drove north. We turned off of River Road and onto Wohler, winding our way through wineries until we came upon Wohler Bridge. We drove past the bridge and parked on a spur of pavement just north of the turnoff. Judging from the number of cars parked, this was definitely the spot.
It was a little bit of a hike to the beach itself; something that my 29-year old body handled with ease. (It would probably kill me if I attempted it now.) A well-trodden trail led through a beautiful grove of trees until it dumped us out in an expansive field (pictures 1 & 2 above). We crossed the field, and after passing through another small grove of trees, found ourselves at a small rock-strewn beach (pictures 3, 4, & 5) on the river—already bursting at the seam with naked and semi-naked homosexuals. There was no place remaining to lay out our towels, so we headed back to the field and found a spot in the grass where we could spread out and get some sun.
I don't remember what ultimately happened between me and my British ex-pat, but I will forever remember him as the guy who introduced me to this magical place. I returned by myself several more times as the years passed, discovering that naked boys in the forest were there for reasons other than simply enjoying the sensation of wind on their bare skin…
Rumor had it that the property at the time was owned by Fred MacMurry, who apparently had no issue with cute nekkid menz traipsing around his field and forest. Even though the property was posted as "private" no one had ever been hassled for trespassing.
In recounting this, I headed over to Google Maps to take a peek at what the place looks like now. I was devastated. There is now a gate barring access to the area from Wohler Road. The one-time grassy field is gone, now dotted with trees and shrubs. A road has been constructed to the west of where the field had been, leading to some kind of maintenance building, and while there appears to still be a footpath through the former field leading to the river, the beach is nowhere to be found. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. It has been 33 years since I last visited, and Fred himself has been dead since 1991. Changes to the property were bound to occur…
Memories
"No Name" or "Boy" beach, San Francisco, 1988
This Brings Back Memories
[via]
I did this myself in back the early days of home video. Sadly, the DVD I burned from the original video tape (as well as the tape itself) were lost in the fire last year. One. More. Thing. Gone.
Nighttime cable car rides are the best. They're magical.
The Earth Shook, The Sky Burned
(With apologies to William Bronson)
October 17, 1989
Jack and Nick (my bosses, and co-owners of the four-person architectural firm where I had been working for the previous two and a half years) had left the office earlier that afternoon to "discuss business" at the pub a few doors down the street. I wasn't feeling particularly inspired to do any work, and since the only other member of our little professional family, Neill, was absent for some reason, I made the executive decision to close up shop at 4:30 and head home. I had received the repaired video card from my computer in the mail that day and was anxious to get it put back in so I could enjoy the newly purchased NEC "Multisync" monitor I'd picked up at a computer show that previous weekend.
It was a typically balmy autumn afternoon in San Francisco, and I enjoyed the two block walk up 2nd Street to Market, where I went downstairs to MUNI and caught one of the K, L, or M cars outbound which would deposit me at the Van Ness Station for my four block walk home to 12th & Folsom. (Yes, I lived "right around the corner" from the SF Eagle and yet I had only ventured in a handful of times over my tenure at that location.)
After getting off at Van Ness and walking down 12th just past Mission, one of my contact lenses decided to ride up on the top of my eye. As I paused to try and dislodge it, the ground started moving. Having been on the earthquake simulator platform at the Academy of Sciences numerous times, I knew exactly what this was and struggled to keep my balance. At the same time, my contact lens slid back down and I looked across the street to see the billboard above the parking lot at the corner—one of those cantilevered things that was supported on only one end—start bounding up and down. I heard glass breaking, a few people screaming and then, as soon as everything started, it ended.
The stop lights at Howard and at Folsom were both out. When I got home, I quickly saw that power was out there as well. My housemate Frank—who had moved in with me several weeks earlier and whose constant presence (he had just lost his job) was already putting a strain on our relationship (another story for another time), seemed nonchalant about the whole thing and was busy mopping up water that had spilled out of the aquarium.
Remembering what I'd been told about things to do after an earthquake, I grabbed my pipe wrench and headed down to the basement to turn off the gas. I initially turned our's off, but after a couple hours, with no one in the building smelling any gas, I went back downstairs and turned it back on so we could at least cook dinner.
Obviously the power didn't come back on, so I didn't get to enjoy my new monitor, but we had candles, and Frank had a battery-powered radio so we were at least able to stay abreast of what was happening and counted ourselves very lucky as the spotty reports of the damage starting coming in: the Bay Bridge, the Marina (we could see the smoke rising from our living room windows), and the Cypress Freeway in the east Bay. I thought back to all the times I'd driven that freeway that had pancaked…
I phoned my mom to let her know I was okay within minutes of arriving home. After I hung up with her, I phoned my dad to make sure he was okay (he was also living in San Francisco at the time). He was fine as well—a little shaken but okay. I was glad I called Mom when I did, because when I tried to call again about fifteen minutes later, I got the perpetual "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later," message each time I tried.
As night fell over the city, it was indeed very dark. The only lights seen on Twin Peaks was the dim flickering of thousands of candles. By 10 pm, they were mostly all extinguished and the light of the just-past-full moon was illuminating the city in an eerie glow I'd never seen before.
Neither Frank or I were overly concerned. We and the cats had plenty of food in the house and we stayed out of the refrigerator and freezer to conserve the cold until the power came back on. It was a little odd sleeping without the constant din of the traffic on Folsom or the quiet whirring of the bedroom fan, but I managed.
The next morning there was still no power. I held out hope it would be on sometime that day since Dad told me his—and in fact, much of the city's—electricity had been restored sometime during the night. I was able to get hold of everyone from work, and they were also okay. I was told to not attempt to come downtown. Jack and Nick had returned to the office right after the rumbling stopped and discovered the office was a mess. They couldn't get the security gate at the entrance to our suite open, but they were able to go through the entrance of the structural engineering office next door. They peeked over the partitions and saw that all the not-fastened-to-the-wall bookcases which had lined the entire south wall of our space had toppled, and while the building itself was not (yet) red-tagged, they didn't want to risk having anyone in there; the cleanup could wait.
Frank was in a pouty mood because of the power still being out, and since I didn't want to deal with it, I ignored my employers' recommendations to just stay home and I headed out to explore.
Hoping to find an open restaurant to grab a bite to eat, I walked up to Market Street hoping to catch a train to the Castro. Surprisingly, the underground MUNI was running—albeit with only limited service between the Embarcadero and Van Ness stations, so riding a train to the Castro wasn't an option. I hopped on a bus, and while not unexpected based on what Dad had told me about the rest of the city, power was on in the Castro, but every restaurant that was open was mobbed. And quite unexpectedly, there was a strong, bizarre sexual electricity in the air; it seemed like every beautiful man in the city was out cruising and looking to get laid. I finally gave up hope of getting something to eat, and left went back home, stopping to grab a sandwich at Ted's Market on Howard Street.
By the time I arrived home Frank was gone, also out exploring.
The next day—with the power still unrestored—and myself now caught up in that weird sexual energy and horny as fuck, I went downtown looking for trouble and was surprised to discover that most of my usual haunts were open, and let me tell ya…they were hopping.
I can quite honestly say that I wasn't frightened during the ordeal. It was more exciting than anything else. And despite the inconvenience of being without power for what turned into 36 hours, I can say it was quite a break in the day-to-day monotony of my life. Granted, it wasn't quite as big a break as if giant UFOs had appeared over the world's cities, but it came damn close.
Believe It Or Not…
Believe it or not, I once dated a porn star. Okay…a "male adult model." He wasn't a top-tier or well-known by any means. He didn't do any films (that I know of), and only appeared in one issue of Advocate Men, but from the moment I first saw him on the cover of that magazine in June 1986, I knew our paths would eventually cross—even though at the time I had no idea where or when that might happen. The bio in the magazine said "Justin Banks" was a landscape architect who lived in San Francisco. I was still living in Tucson, and while the cogs were definitely in motion for my eventual relation to SF, nothing was yet firmly in place.
Of course all that changed in the blink of an eye and I found myself a resident of The City two months later…and not six weeks after that "Justin" and I passed on the street as he and some friends were leaving the Midnight Sun. Our eyes locked. I smiled. He smiled back. I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder, but he kept walking down the street with his buddies. And that was the end of it.
Or so I thought.
The following February a friend and I were at a toy store in Corta Madera called The Imaginarium, where we spotted "Justin" working behind the counter. So much for being a landscape architect…
His eyes lit up when he saw me and immeidately came over. He definitely remembered our two-ships-passing moment, telling me that after he'd dropped his friends at their car that night he came back to try and find me, but I'd already disappeared into the night. He introduced himself with his real name (Michael Rose) and gave me his phone number. "Call me."
The rest is now ancient history, but we ended up dating for a few months. And all I can say about that is Michael taught me a valuable life lesson: NEVER date porn stars—excuse me, "male adult models"—not even the B-Listers.
Then and Now
6th & Market, San Francisco CA
1963
2021
Not the best "now" photo. It was grabbed from Google Street View and it was either this one with the UPS truck parked illegally, or another one with an even bigger delivery truck blocking almost the entire scene…
Le Sigh.
Wayback Machine
This picture was posted on Instagram yesterday by @robzstuff57 and it immediately took me back to my first few years in San Francisco.
Sometime in 1989 I ran into Al Parker at the Whispering Bushes at the end of Golden Gate Park. He took a liking to me, following like a lost puppy. It was obvious he wasn't going to give up the chase and I ended up leaving the venue altogether just to ditch him.
I can hear you all now: "You turned down AL PARKER?!" Yes, my faithful readers. I did. I thought, "No way Al—I've seen what you've done with your dick and where it's been and NO THANK YOU!"
Around the same time, I was at aThai restaurant on 24th Street in Noe Valley one evening and Will Seagers (of L.A. Tool & Die fame) walked in with friends. We locked eyes and spent the rest of the evening flirting. Nothing came of it, but it was definitely an ego boost.
To this day I am gobsmacked that I survived the 20 years I called San Francicso home and somehow managed to come out of it alive and HIV negative…
Of course, it was also there that I probably came in contact with HPV and the resulting laryngeal cancer that sprang from it, so I can't say I was completely unscathed.
Throwback Thursday
A typical morning commute for me, October, 2000:
Who dis? New phone…
I Never…
…went to the tubs because I wasn't that kind of boy in my 20s. Drop to my knees at the gloryhole at the Univeristy of Arizona Main library yes, but go to a bathhouse? Never!
Until we moved to San Francisco and I discovered the 1808 Club.
The 1808 wasn't a bathhouse per se. The 1808 was among the first of many "sex clubs" that rose up in the City following the closure of all traditional bathhouses in the mid 80s. It differed from a bathhouse in that there were no private rooms and the only acceptable (and yes, it was monitored) interaction between patrons was jacking off, but it was still insanely hot. Lots of very hot men more than willing to lend a well-lubed hand when needed.
From an entry in my August 1991 Journal:
It's been an interesting evening. I went to the 1808 Club. I hadn't been there in over four years, and it was like becoming reacquainted with an old friend. Some things had changed, but for the most part it's still the same as it was. There wasn't anyone there I especially wanted to set up house with, but there were a few hunks running around; none of whom wanted anything to do with me. But that's fine. It's one of those places where you can still stare at 'em and whack off anyway; like live porn.
I don't know especially why I went…I just had a need to get naked with a bunch of naked men. Probably some sort of unconscious male-bonding thing. Yeah, right. I wasn't especially horny, but the thought of spending another Saturday night at home didn't appeal to me, and neither did going to the Night Gallery.* I sure as hell didn't want to deal with attitude and smoke in some Castro bar. Sure, there was attitude at the 1808, but at least you got to look at all the wonderful glistening naked bodies and throbbing cocks! It was kinda magical and the music was excellent.
*a.k.a. Mike's Night Gallery, another story for another time…