Cycling seems more dangerous, more hassle-filled, and generally more aggro than when I moved here. Why? Maybe it’s me. I moved to Berkeley recently, and I’m pretty close to having a lawn that I can tell kids to get off of. Maybe it’s that the city has changed a lot. There are more cyclists, more people in general (60,000!) and more density, especially downtown. On the other hand, there are more bike lanes and signage, and there’s more bike awareness among the pedestrian and motorist populations. You’d think that more cyclists + more cycling awareness + more cycling accommodation would have resulted in some kind of net improvement, but it hasn’t. Pedestrians seem more antagonistic to bikes; motorists of all types are much more antagonistic; and some of my fellow cyclists seem to be the most antagonistic of all. Why?

Felix Salmon has written a really interesting, and widely quoted, “unified theory” of cycling that touches on what I think is the heart of it all: That most cyclists think they’re pedestrians, when we’re actually more like motorists.

Bikes can and should behave much more like cars than pedestrians. They should ride on the road, not the sidewalk. They should stop at lights, and pedestrians should be able to trust them to do so. They should use lights at night. And — of course, duh — they should ride in the right direction on one-way streets. None of this is a question of being polite; it’s the law. But in stark contrast to motorists, nearly all of whom follow nearly all the rules, most cyclists seem to treat the rules of the road as strictly optional. They’re still in the human-powered mindset of pedestrians, who feel pretty much completely unconstrained by rules.

I really agree with this. I don’t know how to make it so, and I’m really not a law-and-order type. But I think that agreeing to follow the rules of the road would do a lot to make us all more predictable. Also, I’d like to add: Pass on the freakin left.

My old friend Michael Ramage has a hand in this installation in the Yerba Buena Center for Art’s Sculpture Garden. He’s designing and building a pair of domes, made from layers of bricks and mortar and styled on ancient techniques. The artist behind it is Jewlia Eisenberg & Charming Hostess, and the vision is that the domes will be an outdoor venue for music, contemplation, and mind-expanding activities throughout the summer. I visited on Tuesday, and I was struck by the ways that each dome’s oculus (fancy word for the open, circular window at the top of the dome) framed the surrounding sky and buildings. That perspective actually kind of made the generic buildings at 3rd and Howard appear to be somewhat cool. Didn’t think that would be possible.

Oh wow, our pal Greg Gardner put together a really nice collection of new music from local bands. It’s called In A Cloud, which describes the recent winter weather and the album itself is a time capsule of San Francisco sounds in 2009-10. My favorite song is a sweet little thing called “Baby Held” by the elusive and pseudonymous Jacques Butters; you can listen to it below. There’s plenty more on the album — a lovely track by Sonny & the Sunsets, a good one from the Sandwitches, a keeper from Kelley Stoltz. You can buy it directly from Greg’s label, Secret Seven Records. Yay.

Jacques Butters, Baby Held

Perched among the tall buildings in downtown San Francisco, my office can feel like a nest in a tall tree. Yesterday evening, the birds that live atop the Transbay terminal swirled up to, and around, the windows of our conference room, and the aerie-like feeling was stronger than ever. One bird even landed, briefly, on the ledge of the window. I have no idea what kind of birds they are, what brought them to us, or what they hope to achieve. But I am in awe of them.

My pal Greg Gardner is working on some night moves called Secret Seven Records. A few months ago, he released some friendly sounds by Mt. Egypt, and now he’s getting ready to drop some more home cooking: The Two Sides of Tim Cohen. It’s a solo album by a local rapscallion named Tim Cohen, formerly of Black Fiction, and it’s a real nice collection of foggy folk songs. I tend to favor the loose, spacey side of rock music, and this album is open and astral — but with rough edges that reminded me of Panda Bear minus the Beach Boys-ish harmonies. More Floyd, early Floyd. Saucerful of Secrets, soundtrack to “More” Floyd. Whatever the vibe is, it’s rough and quiet and psychedelic and probably has British roots. But I’ll stop before I say more because it’s better than I’m making it sound, and I’ll probably be on someone’s knuckle sandwich list if I throw around any more crazy notions. I’ll attach a song that’s more Leonard Cohen, or maybe mellow Replacements, than Floyd, okay?

It’s a quiet, moody jam called “Warriors & Clowns.” A choice cut.

Photographer Robert Frank is known for a few things, primarily The Americans, a ground-breaking book of photography published in the late 50’s. He is also known for avant-garde film-making, e.g., Pull My Daisy, and his never-released Rolling Stones documentary with an unprintable name.

We checked out SFMOMA’s 50th anniversary retrospective of The Americans today, and I was astonished at another of Frank’s skills: Grant-writing. In order to fund the gathering of the photos that became The Americans, he applied for a Guggenheim Fellowship. I’ve pasted his clear, simple, two-part essay below.

Part 1: Frank’s brief summary of the proposal

To photograph freely throughout the United States, using the miniature camera exclusively. The making of a broad, voluminous picture record of things American, past and present. This project is essentially the visual study of a civilization and will include caption notes; but it is only partly documentary in nature: one of its aims is more artistic than the word documentary implies.

Part 2: The full statement of intent

I am applying for a Fellowship with a very simple intention: I wish to continue, develop and widen the kind of work I already do, and have been doing for some ten years, and apply it to the American nation in general. I am submitting work that will be seen to be documentation—most broadly speaking. Work of this kind is, I believe, to be found carrying its own visual impact without much work explanation. The project I have in mind is one that will shape itself as it proceeds, and is essentially elastic. The material is there: the practice will be in the photographer’s hand, the vision in his mind. One says this with some embarrassment but one cannot do less than claim vision if one is to ask for consideration.

“The photographing of America” is a large order—read at all literally, the phrase would be an absurdity. What I have in mind, then, is observation and record of what one naturalized American finds to see in the United States that signifies the kind of civilization born here and spreading elsewhere. Incidentally, it is fair to assume that when an observant American travels abroad his eye will see freshly; and that the reverse may be true when a European eye looks at the United States. I speak of the things that are there, anywhere and everywhere—easily found, not easily selected and interpreted. A small catalog comes to the mind’s eye: a town at night, a parking lot, a supermarket, a highway, the man who owns three cars and the man who owns none, the farmer and his children, a new house and a warped clapboard house, the dictation of taste, the dream of grandeur, advertising, neon lights, the faces of the leaders and the faces of the followers, gas tanks and postoffices and backyards.

The uses of my project would be sociological, historical and aesthetic. My total production will be voluminous, as is usually the case when the photographer works with miniature film. I intend to classify and annotate my work on the spot, as I proceed. Ultimately the file I shall make should be deposited in a collection such as the one in the Library of Congress. A more immediate use I have in mind is both book and magazine publication.

Frank was awarded a fellowship, which amounted to $3,600, and he used this to travel in a long loop around the US in 1955–6. That “more immediate use” that he refers to in the final sentence turned into The Americans, a stunning document that is every bit as interesting 50 years later. The exhibition is captured in an extended version of The Americans, including contact sheets and commentary.

If you haven’t been to San Juan Bautista, you need to go. It’s a little ways south of San Jose, an hour east of Big Sur, a long but not impossible trip from San Francisco. Mara and I were there last winter, and I keep meaning to spread the word. It’s a real getaway with good old-fashioned California heritage and big cacti and a nice bakery and a good vibe.

Chickens running around.

What can you say? SJB got style.

It’s also got a mission, and it’s in the heart of artichoke country. They say that hard times are when the big ideas really take hold. Maybe it’s time to get that marimba you’ve always wanted.

Photo: Joshua Lott

Last June, Mara organized a bake sale to raise money for Barack Obama. It was a typically chilly summer day in San Francisco, but we made a fistful of cash, AND we got our picture taken by a passerby who happened to be a professional photojournalist. His name is Joshua Lott, and he posted it on a blog called The Stumping Grounds, which features one photo per day from one of the many photojournalists covering the campaign. Ours was posted on June 24th.

I had to include this; it’s the current photo, and it’s awesome. It was taken by Scout Tufankjian, and her site is well worth a look. She’s posted a series on the Secret Service which is both revealing and kind of scary.

Long ago, someone spray painted “US out of North Dakota” on the wall of the Cave, a little bar in the basement of a Carleton dorm. It was directly above the stage, a stage where I saw a lot of good bands (Walt Mink, FIREHOSE, Phish, and probably others). So I spent a lot of time staring at it. It made a deep impression on me. I still think about it. Which reminds me: Secession. The counties of Northern California and Southern Oregon tried to secede from their respective states in the 40’s. True story. So anyway, it makes me really happy that Justin took this photo of a Duster in his neighborhood in Berkeley. Dissent! It’s your patriotic duty.

The classiest fam in Hollywood loves Mara’s barrettes; this time Violet rocks them. Nice. Buy em here, and pass it on.

File this one under: Holy crap. It has come to the attention of the tabloid-reading world that Jennifer Garner was seen wearing red barrettes! But, wait, there’s more. A certain barrette-making friend of ours made them. By hand. In San Francisco.

This is from Just Jared, and I must say: If the blog really is just a guy named Jared writing about celebrities, my hat is off to him. He publishes some tidbit of celebrity gossip roughly every 5 seconds. That’s dedication, homes. If you’re interested in the barrettes, you can buy a pair for yourself at Little Something; if you’re concerned that they’ll make you look like Jennifer Garner, you can ask Mara for some guidance in the proper way to wear them.

I’m glad that the barrettes got the full paparazzi treatment. A couple of photos just wouldn’t have been sufficient. Better get 17 and be safe. Check em all out.

(Congratulations, you big loser).

A couple of weekends ago, I visited the site of an Airstream trailer that Yoshi and I shared outside Stinson Beach, California. The trailer is long gone, but the spot is still the same: Overlooking the Pacific Ocean on a scraggly lawn at the end of a farm road. We spent many a night sitting on a homemade couch out under the stars, listening to an increasingly crusty Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain tape, hanging out with farm people, and getting into adventures. They were simpler times, so the adventures were simpler. One time, police showed up and asked Yoshi if he knew anything about the ritual animal sacrifices happening in the area. Naked toddlers often woke him up by tickling his eyelashes with wildflowers.

Look at our boy now! Gourmet Magazine. Articles about obscure vegetables. Lunches, brunches, interviews by the pool. What’s next? Condos in Queens? Indo for weeks? Sold out seats to hear Yoshi Yamada speak?

The article is vintage Yamada, reminding me of the many excellent, excellent letters and postcards that I’ve accumulated over the years:

I have not put ramps in my pipe, but I have smoked them—and also roasted, sautéed, blanched, pickled, braised, and puréed them. I have eaten them raw and dirty, and I have cleaned so many in a row that I almost wished for winter again. This year I may take a few home to put under my pillow, just because … my precious.

Not sure that I’ve eaten a ramp, but I bet they’d be tasty with a ritually sacrificed animal. Mmm. Ritual sacrifice.

I always meant to write about my close encounter with public television fame — the only kind that’s worth pursuing, if you ask me — but somehow I got waylaid by summertime, its various parties and good ol times. But I’ve got a sec, so I should just spill it before the good times take hold again.

Time spent combing hair: zero minutes. Time spent ironing shirt: zero minutes. Number of heart attacks my mom would have if she saw this: countless.

Check, Please! Bay Area is a restaurant review show on our local public television station, KQED Channel 9 (what!). On each show, three Bay Area residents sit around a table and discuss their thoughts and feelings about three local restaurants. At the beginning of the process, each person gets to choose a favorite¹ restaurant; then, each participant goes to all three restaurants; THEN, everyone assembles at KQED studios to discuss them in front real TV cameras.

So, yeah, it all started back in June.

Mara and I were at Pauline’s Pizza, eating dinner with some friends when we saw Leslie Sbrocco, the host of Check Please. We’re Check Please superfans, so we couldn’t resist the urge to approach Leslie and creep her out with our extensive knowledge of the show. Later, Leslie and her dining companion (who turned out the be the producer) stopped by our table and asked us to apply to be on the show. Somehow, I was the one who applied, even though Mara would have been 10 times better. Somehow, I was accepted, for reasons that are still unclear to me.

As I mentioned in the footnote, I chose a taco truck as my favorite restaurant, and this was a slight — SLIGHT — departure from those chosen by my cohorts — a fancy Noe Valley bistro, and a classic Financial District steakhouse. Therefore, my entire preparation for the show involve crafting arguments about why they needed to give the taco truck another try. “The ecology of taquerias is rich and diverse,” I would instruct them; “each one has its own specialty, a thing it does better than all others, and it takes time to fully explore this richness.” (Anyway, you can read more of this BS in my review on KQED’s website).

Turns out, my cohorts loved the taco truck. I was speechless, really. I had nothing productive to say to people who agreed with me. It could have been the wine. (IT’S REAL, by the way). And I drank too much of it, too much for a non-wine drinker, too much for 11am on a weekday (when we taped it), too much to generate extemporaneous bon mots worthy of PUBLIC TV.

Why even bother describing it? You can see for yourselves. It’s all over the Internet.

My YouTube debut: Tipsy on public TV. Awesome. Doesn’t get better this. Get used to it, America! You haven’t seen the last of me.

If you’re curious about what the blogosphere had to say about my taco truck recommendation, you need only get a load of this review from a guy named Ely, also from KQED’s site:

Dont eat from El Tonayense, I had a beef burrito that made me sick! The meat was too oily and mix in with fatty fat peices. The burrito was tiny and the ingridients had little favor.

My bad.

¹ Check Please kinda repeatedly implies that each restaurant reviewed is the “favorite” restaurant of the person who suggested it. I chose a taco truck.

You may recognize me from somewhere, somewhere like YOUR TIVO.

Pretty much the only thing the director told me: “Don’t look at the camera.” Dang.

More on my explosion onto the local public television restaurant-reviewing stage sometime soon; until then you can check out my episode of the Check Please Bay Area here.

Via Burritophile, an awesome resource for all things burrito.

Last Friday night was just another night in the penthouse of the Fairmont Hotel for Mara and I. We relaxed in seal-skin robes, shuffled around in baby polar bear ear fur slippers, snorted the finest powdered snow leopard pancreas, fed Kobe beef to the pigeons who delivered the New York Times piecemeal in tiny scrolls tied to their feet, and generally killed time. (While enjoying the Cooper holiday party).

When we emerged from a blissful reverie, we noticed that the walls were covered with an unusual world map.

It was painted in 1927, by a guy named Robert Boardman Howard. A little poking around on the Internet reveals that his work is scattered across Northern California — sketches at the Merced post office, a design for the phoenix on Coit Tower, a relief in front of the Livermore post office.

The Smithsonian did an interview with him in 1964, where he talks about another good NorCal project. “Then there was a small theatre up at Guerneville that I decorated. They gave me a free hand. I painted all the natives of Guerneville, their portraits, including the village dog. That was quite interesting. Good experience.” Amen, brother.

Lots of intriguing stuff at Clare Rojas’s opening at Gallery Paule Anglim tonight. Woodland creatures, naked dudes in tai chi poses, an excellent video of Peggy Honeywell playing a slow sad song at a raging frat party filled with beer bongs and keg stands, Amaze, Barry McGee, and much, much more. Worth it.

I call this one “It’s Hard Out Here For a Penguin.”

I think this one is untitled, but it should be called “Untitleable.”

Gallery Paule Anglim is at 14 Geary in downtown San Francisco.

I’ve said it before: I don’t like Barry Bonds. So it may seem strange that I wanted to be there when he hit home run number 756. But consider this: I love baseball; the record for career home runs is, like it or not, one of baseball’s hallowed milestones; Bonds plays in my city; the Giants were beginning a home stand as he was poised to break the record. Too many stars were aligned for me to NOT try to get into a game. I could always boo, right?

So, on Tuesday, August 7, I rode my bike to AT&T Park, hoping to get lucky and figuring that I wouldn’t. Immediately, I got really lucky, scoring an amazing ticket in the club level (a $70 value) for the price of two AT&T Park beers. At that moment, I had a good feeling. A couple of hours later, Bonds faced a 3–2 count, and I decided to join 45,000+ other fans in pointing my digital camera at the plate. Up to that point, I made sarcastic remarks about mediating the experience in that way. Now I’m posting my crappy version on the Internet. Why? I don’t know. Anyway, a moment later, Bonds drilled the pitch into deep, deep center field and the stranger next to me grabbed my arm and started jumping up and down.

Here’s the video that I shot with my digital camera. (Warning: It’s bad. And bouncy).

For the next five minutes, I high-fived a lot of people, and someone gave me a hug as I was filming the celebrations. Fireworks exploded over McCovey Cove; streamers rained down; the Nationals left the field; Hank Aaron congratulated Bonds asynchronously through a pre-recorded video. It was surreal, but festive and exciting.

Of course, there was also a weird vibe. People seemed to feel personally gratified that they got to witness history, but few seemed really, truly happy for Bonds. Few people said: “Wow, good for Bonds.” Those who did were either people who possessed amazing capacities for forgiveness and seemed genuinely happy, or younger guys with way too much bitterness who saw Bonds as a kindred spirit. The rest of us said: “Wow. I can’t believe I saw that. Wow. This is really weird.”

After hitting the home run, Bonds left the game. It was the 5th inning, and the Giants had a 5–4 lead; the Nationals came back and won. My question: Who does that? Hank Aaron? No. Dimaggio? Never. Ted Williams? God no. Sort of a perfect ending to a conflicted, surreal night.

This weekend I got an incredible book about San Francisco called San Francisco in Maps & Views. I usually avoid glossy coffee-table historical books because they’re so often filled with disappointments — bad color, bad printing, messy layout, uninspired writing, PLUS they’re really expensive. But THIS ONE. This one is different. The maps are very well-reproduced, high-res and colorful, and all are supported by detailed and surprisingly engaging commentary.

After I got over the initial thrill of using it like a flip-book and watching my neighborhood evolve, I started to notice smaller trends in land-use evolution — a plot labeled “orphan asylum” became “hospital;” many things labeled “cemetary” became “park” or “civic center.” “Dunes” become “the Sunset.”

I was also intrigued by the use of public places as refugee camps after the big one hit in 1906. Apparently, SF carpenters sprang into action and built thousands of makeshift cottages for the earthquake/fire refugees, turning many well-known SF public spaces into refugee camps, including South Park, Dolores Park, and Precita Park, and lots of the then-outlying, undeveloped areas, like the Richmond and the Sunset.

A shack on Bikini Ridge would have been puh-retty sweet. (This is Dolores Park, believe it or not). Photo: Western Neighborhoods Project

As the city began to return to normal a year later, a few of the refugees decided to use the cottages — or, “shacks” as they were commonly known — as more permanent residences. Some industrious people combined multiple shacks into one residence. Incredibly, a few shacks are still around, and naturally folks have organized to preserve them. (Here’s a 2002 Chronicle article about efforts to save some shacks in the outer Sunset).

I believe that this is the house that is listed as 300 Cumberland on the Western Neighborhood Project’s list of known shacks. The crazy thing is that this is at the top of an insanely steep hill, like un-bike-ably steep and long, so it must have been built there rather than transported from Dolores Park. On the other hand, who knows? People were crafty back then, right?

Finally, here’s a map of the locations of the known existing earthquake shacks. Seems like a good project for a weekend afternoon.