Why I Don't Like San Francicso

  San Francisco is a mean city.

There. I've said it.

Oh, yes, it's beautiful allright, and culturally rich, eclectic and diverse. It's home to some of the country's great restaurants and wonderfully eccentric geniuses. You already know I love Tales of the City -- which is to say I love that idealized view of San Francisco. But I can't get beyond the notion that this is a tough town and these are mean streets.

The first time I went to SFO was in the early 80's. E and I stopped off there on the way back from a convention in Hawaii. I was so excited to see this place where so much of the music I loved was made. What I remember is a great meal and being cold . . . very very cold.

Then, I returned in the early 90's for another convention. My colleagues and I were staying at the Hilton off Market Street and just a block or two from the Tenderloin District. Two of the women I worked with were with me one night. We wanted to go to dinner someplace close enough to walk and checked with the Concierge for a recommendation. He gave us directions to an Italian place a few blocks away and cautioned us to be careful to turn in the correct direction when we left the hotel. If we turned left instead of right we'd be in a very rough neighborhood.

We went upstairs and relaxed for an hour then met again in the lower lobby to go to the place. 'Remember, I said to Jeanne and Allison, 'We're not supposed to turn left.' They agreed and we took a right as soon as we hit the sidewalk. All was fine and we were lost in conversation as we walked along. We came to a stop light at a corner and waited for it to change to green.

As we stood there, we began to hear shrieking curses coming from across the street. We looked over and there, on the corner, stood a crazy man looking right at us and pointing. He was yelling at us. 'You God Damned Motherfuckers! ' he called to us, 'I'm gonna cut off your heads and shit down your throats!'

The three of us exchanged nervous glances. We didn't feel threatened: he was on the other side of the street and there were too many other people around. But it was creepy and at least unpleasant.

'Come on,' I said, taking the girls by their arms and swinging them into a left turn. 'Let's go this way a block or two; then we'll cross.' And down the sloping hill of that street we walked. This was a dark place. Many of the buildings we passed had no lights and seemed abandoned. This darkness was punctuated regularly by the garish light of a bar or cheap eatery. We go to another corner and waited once again for the light to change so we cold cross.

Across the street on the next corner was a bar. The entry was cut at an angle to the rest of the building and we could hear hot soul/blues muffling out into the night. Just then the door burst open. A man staggered through and out into the street. Another man and a pack of other patrons came right behind him. The second man immediately cocked his fist and hit the first man full in the face. I swear I saw a tooth fly. The other man continued to stagger backwards towards us, but suddently regained his balance and went after is adversary. So, here we are, an innocent trio of co-workers out for a stroll and a nice dinner, being threatened by a lunatic and almost engulfed by a barroom brawl.

'We must have taken a wrong turn,' I said, once again manuevering us to the right (this  time) and away from the fight. 'Don't worry,' I reassured, 'I'm armed. We'll be ok.' 'Armed?' cried Allison, 'What do you mean, 'Armed?'' "i'm carrying a weapon, ' I replied. ' I can take care of us.' Although she and Jeanne seemed to accept this, I could tell that they had significant though silent doubts. I was a notorious flower child, pacifist and leftist lover of mankind. I'm sure they thought my assertion was complete horseshit. Moving away from the noise and light, I pulled us to a stop.

'Look,' I said,' I think we're in the Tenderloin. I'm sure this is not where the Concierge sent us. We must have turned the wrong way out of the hotel.'

'No,' replied Jeanne, 'We turned left, just as he said.'

'Yes, but, ' began Allison, ' we went out the lower lobby. The concierge was in the big lobby upstairs . . . . and, come to think of it, the entry up there is on the opposite side of the building.'

I pictured what she was saying and realized immediately that she was right. 'Ok,' I said, glancing around. 'If I remember right, everything in this area slopes down to Market Street. If we justafollow the slope downhill we'll eventually get there. We'll be safe on Market Street and can hail a cab.' Jeanne and Allison looked back at me with doe eyes. Allison, much more the princess, was obviously more frightened than Jeanne, but Jeanne and I were both a little warry as well. 'And really, don't worry,' I continued, 'I'm armed and I can protect us.' I paused for effect. 'I don't want to do that but I will if I have to. I promise.'

'Let's go,' Said Jeanne. We turned left again and began the trek downhill. At the next intersection, we glanced to our right. There in the next blook was a crowd in the street outside a bar. Bright light poured from the place illuminating a woman in bra and panties only grinding against a lamp post in time to the music coming from inside. She was surrounded by a semi-circle of about 20 others, mostly men, whistling, clapping and egging her on.

'Just keep walking,' I said. Each of them had hold of one of my arms. We presented a solid front as we moved down the sidewalk, like the defensive line of the Fourty-Niners. The next four blocks were relatively serene, yeilding only a smattering of homeless and drunk souls for us to weave through. And then we were on Market.

We crossed the street and looked back up the hill. We could see the top of our hotel off to the right. We had turned the wrong way somehow, and it could have been disasterous.

'Whew!' signed Allison. 'Thank God that's over!' We nodded in agreement. 'I'm just glad you had a gun, Jazz,' she continued.

'Well, I have a confession: I don't have a gun.'

'So why did you say that you did?'

'So we could all relax and figure out how to get outa here. The way we were going we'd have all been hysterical by now, otherwise.'

'You mean you're not armed?' asked Jeanne.

'Oh, no,' I came back, 'I'm armed. I ave two good arms, one on either side of my body.'

'But you said you had a weapon.'

'No, I didn't; I said I was armed. And I am. I'm armed with my rapier tounge and whip-like wit and with my four limbs and my head. I'm a complete fighting machine.'

'Yeah, right,' said Allison.

The next day, going back and forth to the convention center, I was overwhlemed by the pain and suffering I saw on the street. Homeless where everywhere. They were pitiful and aggressive. I felt that we were running some kind of Purgatorial gamut . . . and suddenly I didn't want to leave my hotel room.

Since then I've been back for a couple of gay adventures on Castro, Folsom and Polk Streets. But I don't care for the scene there. Like the streets, gay life in San Francisco is tough. Leather seems to be the uniform of choice and much of the scene seems to center on daddy's and their boys, submission and domination, fantasy manifestation and tough guy drag. It's not that wholesome vanilla gays like me are non-existant . . . but we're certainly in the minority.

Once I went to the Halloween festivities on Castro. It was an experience . . . somewhat unpleasant, but an experience nonetheless. I have never  been trapped in such a crowd. Robert Rivera and I were wedged into this mob, pressed on every side. Soon we had to surrender our free will and allow ourselves to be carried by mini-steps to wherever the crowd was going. And hour later we were both worn out from the crush of humanity and took refuge in a drag bar . . . Lipsitx? or something like that.

I've also been back for a couple of meetings . . . and still it seems a mean place to me. Why are there so many homeless in San Francisco? The damn place is cold even in summertime. And it rains there, too, a cold soaking rain. It must be miserable to be on the streets competing with dozens of others for a quarter here and a dime there. And why do the regular citizens of the city seem stressed, aloof and overly tough?

Walk the streets: you'll see no smiles except on the occasional tourist. I know I blaspheme against what some call the only real city in America . . . but I don't understand how it is that New York and Chicago manage to be bigger and still retain a spirit of good will and optimism. New York is far warmer than San Francisco, the people are friendlier and even the homeless are more benign.

San Francisco: I round the corner and almost run into a toothless guy in filthy rags  with a bag ina bottle in one hand and the other held out palm up. 'Gimme a Dollar,' he demands.

New York: In the wee hours of the morning, I'm leaning up against the building that houses Virgil's Restaurant. I spot a homeless guy on the sidewalk across the street. He spots me and immediately heads my way. He is smiling and I know what's coming. But, just as he reaches my curb, I look him in the eye and ask, 'Do you have a dollar I could borrow?'

He stops and knits his brow. He's not puzzled or surprised . . . he's thinking.

'Well I don't think I have a dollar but I have some change and you're welcome to it.' He pulled his fist out of his pocket to reveal 67 cents in change.

I was blown away. I took his hand and wrapped it around the money. 'Put that away,' I said. 'No, No,' he came back, 'It's yours if you need it.' We sat on the curb there for the next 40 minutes talking about his history and how he came to be homeless in NYC. It was one of those rich conversations I seem to attract, and I cherish it. As I got up to leave, I reached in my wallet and found a $10. 'Here, buddy,' I said. 'Hope this is helpful to you.' 'Thank you!' he replied. 'I hope I see ya around.' See the difference?

Comments

[Jazz]

I just re-read my own post. What a woosie! I know: I was being overly concerned and cautious (as I should have been)because I had Allison and Jeanne with me. But I have personally hung around the same kinds of scenes in a number of cities, not the least of which is New Orleans. In New Orleans, I'm likely to be the one in the bra and panties grinding against the lamp post!