San Francisco Gonzo

Come Feel Me Tremble

Thu, 01 Sep 2011 09:58:09 -0700

A few hours after the East Coast earthquake last week, we had an earthquake. It was small, only a 3.6, but I think it was a karma quake for laughing. The next morning, there was another 3.6. A few days ago, there was a 2.9. Nothing, barely noticeable. Earthquakes are nothing new for California, in fact, in my two decades of inhabiting this state, it’s something I have come to judge.

Even the big 7.2 last year in Baja California, which fell on Easter, didn’t really phase San Diegans. We talked about it, sure, but we went on about our business. This nonchalance towards earthquakes has completely changed since moving to San Francisco last year. Now, even the tiniest earthquake sends me into a tizzy. People slam doors and I think its a tremor. They are like constant reminders that the big one could happen at any time. Besides the obvious reasons for fearing Bay Area quakes, I have a little family history that increases the phobia.

In April of 1906, my great-great grandfather was a New York merchant on a business trip in San Francisco. He was staying at the Palace Hotel over on Montgomery and in true Myers form, he was still up drinking at five in the morning. Suddenly, the room started shaking. According to family lore, like any logical drunk person, his initial thought was “Wow, I’m really drunk. I should go to bed.” As soon as things started breaking, he realized that was not the case. An earthquake had happened and sealed a portion of San Francisco’s reputation. The Palace Hotel was evacuated, due to the fires across the city and he ended up in a refugee camp. He met a single mother and she allowed him to pose as her husband, because single males were obviously the least concern. After a few weeks, he ended up back in New York.

In 1989, his grandson, my grandfather, was living in the city while working for Transamerica. In October of that year, he was on his way out of the office when the Loma Prieta quake struck. No dramatic story for the Myers family here, just a fright and some commuting inconveniences.

Anyway, it skips a generation. Who is the descendent living in San Francisco? Oh yeah, me. Certainly, it’s nothing one can worry about, but it is a bizarre coincidence.

Unfortunately, one of my favorite things about living in San...

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 18:21:00 -0700

Unfortunately, one of my favorite things about living in San Francisco, the Red Vic Movie House on Haight Street, is closing tonight, after thirty years of operation.

I always seemed to go to the Red Vic on rainy Sundays, sometimes feeling a bit melancholy. (The exception? Midnight screenings of The Room, in which case I would go drunk and jolly as hell.) Without fail, I would emerge from the theatre feeling a little better.

Be it enjoying screenings of The 400 Blows, Breathless, or 8 1/2 with the luxury of the large subtitles of a movie screen, lonely Valentine’s weekends with Woody Allen and Diane Keaton or 4/20 with The Dude, the theatre could accommodate any occasion. Sure, these are movies people own, have seen millions of times, but the Red Vic offered community. Sitting in a room of old couches with strangers, knowing that even if you had nothing in common with the people to your left or right, that you all shared the love for a piece of film so much, that you were willing to pay $7 to see it on a big screen, even if the dvd was sitting on your shelf at home.

Partaking in the chaos of Saturday midnight screenings of The Room, the crown jewel of San Francisco (based?) cinema (Coppola, Hitchcock, Lucas, this includes you guys), filled with people falling out of Aub Zam Zam and girls smuggling bottles from Frank’s Liquor in their purses, was always a delight. The obvious intoxication of the crowd, much to the expectations of the emcee, “I think some of you may have been drinking tonight…”, the screaming lines at the screen, “YOU ARE TEARING ME APART, LISA!!” or “Hi, doggy!”, or improvising, “LISA, YOU FUCKING SLUT! HE BOUGHT YOU A GODDAMN DRESS!” and “HOW ABOUT YOU JUST GO FUCKING DO SOME MORE DRUGS, DENNY!”, throwing spoons and footballs, and hoping that maybe Tommy Wiseau may walk in for an unscheduled appearance.

Though there are other great theaters of this kind in the city like the Roxy in the Mission or the Clay in Pacific Heights (where the midnight Room screenings are continuing), the Red Vic will always be the first movie theatre I really fell in love with, one of the institutions that made my transition from the beachy suburbs of San Diego to San Francisco not only an easy one, but one that felt right.

Any patron of the Red Vic should find this news heartbreaking, but not exactly surprising. Sure, it could pack a theatre during Room screenings and special events, but typically the house was pretty empty. As a collective, it seemed inevitable that its time would come. I, for one, am happy that I have been able to witness the charm that made the Red Vic distinctly San Franciscan.

Showing the Last Waltz (for the title, duh, and its place in San Francisco music history) and, more importantly, Harold and Maude as their last two films only seems appropriate. It’s comforting to know that the last frames projected on the screen will be of Harold, skipping from the rugged Bay Area coastline, banjo in hand, to the music of Cat Stevens.

A Prozac Prescription and an E-Meter

Tue, 21 Jun 2011 17:11:00 -0700

Growing up in the South Park generation, I, like many of my contemporaries, have had the privilege of being somewhat familiar with concepts that may have escaped the preceding generations. By this, I obviously mean Scientology.

I guess, per my father, Scientology was well known in Los Angeles in the seventies and eighties, where he was attending college. He even had a friend who sold her car in order to fund her auditing sessions. However, on a national scale, it seems that it suddenly became a topic of conversation when Tom Cruise went apeshit on Oprah. I may be wrong, but this is what I observed. My big recognition of Scientology and its lunacy came from South Park.

To this day, the episode is responsible for the majority of the knowledge I have about Scientology. Aside from that, lines from the episode still float around my head. When my Jack Russell Terrier goes and sits in my closet, I often think to myself, “Dad, Opie won’t come out of the closet.” But, I digress.

Because of South Park, I’ve always wanted to get my thetan levels checked, audited, whatever. We’ve all seen those booths, “Free Stress Test”, filled to the brim with copies of L. Ron Hubbard books, that local Scientology chapters set up on the street. I never accepted their offer. When I would joke about it in high school, my dad would always cautiously order “Stay away from those people!”, so I somehow got it in my head that the little handles on the E-Meter machines would inject me with some kind of Scientology loving serum. That would not do. Nobody likes Scientologists, except for Beck. He rules.

However, a few days ago, at the urging of one of my best friends, Ethan, I became versed in the makeup of my thetans. There was a booth that looked like Dianeticspalooza at a little street fair we were visiting.

Ethan: “Can I get my thetan levels checked?”

Me: “Sure!”

Ethan: “You should, too!”

Me: “Ehh, I’ll just come with you. I want to, but it mostly freaks me out.”

Ethan: “Emily.”

I’m easily persuaded. I filed behind Ethan in line. All seemed fine. I felt fine. Some girl from the church singled me out of the line and talked to me. Of course. She asked me what I knew about Dianetics, L. Ron Hubbard, blah blah blah, she was very careful not to mention the word “Scientology”, but we both knew what was behind this “stress test” facade. I looked to my right, there was this girl finished with her test, and she was sobbing, clutching her new copy of Dianetics. Ahh, the serum. It’s true! Five minutes on an E-Meter and she was a convert! My always neurotic inner monologue started. “Maybe I shouldn’t do this. Maybe I should go to Mass more often. I forgot to take my Prozac today! Should I take it in front of these people just to piss them off? No, that would be bad. And disrespectful.” I’m next.

A woman named Dani was my gateway to this intergalactic religion. I glanced over at Ethan, he looked calm and not drugged. I, on the other hand, had already worked myself into such a tizzy, that I was almost shaking. Not calm. I took the handles and began my “stress test”.

Personal relationships? Meter went crazy. “Tell me about your love life.” I told her I have no love life. Family? Meter went crazy. Health? Meter went crazy. School? Work? She wanted me to elaborate on all these things. No. Way. I went to a psychiatrist in high school. I doubt this lady has a Ph.D from UCLA. I’m not talking. Besides, I’m not stressed with my life. But the E-Meter indicated otherwise! Maybe it could sense my five year and counting Prozac habit? Perhaps the Scientologists wanted to rid me of my mood stabilizers and then take me in as one of their own.

When the test was over, shocker, “You are a very stressed and unhappy person. I think this book could help you.” I told her I couldn’t afford it, so she gave me a DVD and an invitation to the next meeting at the Scientology center.

I walked over to Ethan who had already finished and was waiting for me.

Me: “How did it go?”

Ethan: “Great! According to them, I am not stressed at all! They didn’t even try to get me to buy something. I guess I’m not what they’re looking for. How did you do?”

Me: “Apparently, I’m an ideal candidate for Scientology.”

It totally figures.

Please Tell Me I Was Not Like That in High School: A Week in Bay Area Music

Wed, 13 Apr 2011 15:16:00 -0700

I thought maybe since it’s been a while since I’ve written on here, I thought I’d give some commentary on the two shows I went to this week. Saturday night I saw Twin Sister at the Clift Hotel and last night I saw Bright Eyes at the Fox Theatre in Oakland.

Saturday started like any other Saturday. After a night of avoiding men wearing grills in the Richmond, I reluctantly crawled out of bed at some ungodly hour (meaning before eleven am) to get a bagel and coffee. Followed this with watching Skins until, embarrassingly enough, my friends called me to get dinner. The plan was to go to Beauty Bar, but that quickly changed when we found out that Twin Sister was playing for free at the Clift Hotel. I hadn’t heard of them, but I read they had toured with the Morning Benders, so I knew they would be good. So I went off to change my clothes and get ready for the evening.

We had a few drinks and a “Sweet Caroline” sing along (bup, bup, bup!) at the Gold Dust. After that, we headed to the Clift Hotel to see Twin Sister. After waiting in the line for a while, getting out to go the the restroom only to discover my friends had been let in while I was gone and convincing the bouncer he had already let me in, I was in. The band was awesome, super dreamlike. I always love bands with one female member, maybe just because I’ve always wanted to be the cool chick in a band. This theory would explain my love for Jenny Lewis and Kim Gordon. Anyway, I dug Twin Sister, but I’d be lying if I said I was paying full attention to the band, as I was already a few drinks in. If it’s any consolation, even in my gin and tonic daze, when I came home at two in the morning, I downloaded Twin Sister’s Daytrotter session. Good stuff.

When we headed to the Redwood Room, I was in full Sex and the City mode. I had my ladies, I had a cocktail, I was wearing Ferragamo peep toes, I was set. I looked over and noticed a gaggle of drunk girls stumbling to get to a table in the corner. “Hmmm”, I thought to myself and for some unknown reason, I walked over there. I remembered seeing that the Broadway show Rock of Ages was playing in the city, and the guy at the table looked like Constantine Maroulis of American Idol and Broadway fame. What did I do as a drunk girl? I talked to him. Granted, I’ve never really watched American Idol, and although I’m a pretty big Broadway fan, I know who he is all thanks to Joel McHale and the Soup. He asked me about the band who was playing, I relayed some info. I introduced him to my friends. I asked if he’s here for Rock of Ages, he is. He leaves for Indianapolis tomorrow. Then:

“What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“Emily, I’m Constantine.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You’re really beautiful. You’re dimples are adorable.”

Hilarious! But, thanks for the compliment. Off to bed.

Last night was Bright Eyes! I had been looking forward to this show for a while, even though I just saw Conor in October, I had never seen Bright Eyes. Another first for me was that until last night, I had never been to Oakland. I had driven through Oakland, but never gotten out of the car. It has always just been on the way to somewhere else. I also never liked ranch dressing until yesterday, but clearly, that is irrelevant.

My friends and I get to the theatre early to get the best standing room. Mission accomplished, right up against the partition, holla. However, I was shocked to be surrounded by fourteen year olds. Surrounded. I tried not to care, I really did, because I was that kid at shows. I would always overhear young adults saying “Why are they here?” directed at my best friend and I, mostly during out freshmen year of high school. We vowed never to be those people, but some things last night were too funny for me not to notice and mock.

One of my friends forgot to get a wristband (I seriously don’t know how), so I went off to grab a beer for her and myself. When I asked her what she wanted, I heard one of the young girls next to me assure her friend, “Don’t worry. Since I turn twenty-one four months before you, I’ll buy you all the alcohol you want. Don’t worry, anything you want until you’re twenty-one. We’ll be drunk all the time.” Precious. Not annoying, but funny.

What was super fucking annoying were these two fifteen year olds in front me for the first half of the show. The girlfriend was my height (5’2”), so no big deal. Her boyfriend was over 6’. Not a big deal, that’s how it goes when you’re small. However, do they have to graphically make out during the entire show? Writing about in the crowd to obstruct my view? I seriously thought they were going to start fucking when Conor started playing “Poison Oak”. I’m not being insensitive. I had a serious boyfriend my freshmen through junior year, but you better believe we had the good sense to behave in public. Especially if it was the last Bright Eyes tour. Seriously kiddies, you can fuck all you want after the show, and the day after, and they day after that, how about you enjoy the music. Give the artist your respect.

Regardless, the show was amazing. One of the top three shows I’ve been to in my life. New stuff (I was almost crushed to death during “Jejune Stars”), plus older stuff (I mentioned “Poison Oak”, but also “Hot Knives” hell yeah), an awesome political rant (“BE AS BRUTAL AS THE TEA PARTY!”) and a smashed Gibson SG from Conor (“Sorry for my fit of anger.”) And after that, Conor came down to the partition and shook hands and hugged us all. Yeah, my friends and I touched him. Great success.

Tonight my friends are going to Broken Social Scene at the Warfield, however, I am declining. I’ve had a good run the past few days.

Behind Enemy Lines: Los Angeles

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 15:46:23 -0700

Oh, Los Angeles, how you baffle me.

Really, I’m quite confused by your existence, which is strange since I am no stranger to your city limits. Right now, I’m sitting in the Tower Bar of the Sunset Tower Hotel (fuck yeah, I’m on my MacBook. I’m a guest of this hotel, as far as I’m concerned, I can do whatever the hell I want. Also, I’m in a secluded spot, no one can really see me, or be bothered by me being reclusive on my computer), engaging in a cocktail of activities including, but not limited to, eavesdropping on industry types (“She could have had the sixth lead in the new Spielberg film! Sixth lead! But she clearly fucked it up” and “He has to be gay. We all know it. He’s playing straight for his career”), shamelessly scanning the dim room for celebrities (pathetic, I know, but I’m only looking for good celebrities! I just want Jenny Lewis or Jeff Bridges to walk in. And, okay, I’ll admit it, a Kardashian would be nice, because I have an irrational love for those girls) and silently judging the (obvious) starfuckers in their platform shoes and metallic skirts as we all dine in a room over looking the Los Angeles skyline.

*Breaking news* An important looking man who looks vaguely familiar (like a lame version of John Cale and wearing sunglasses at 10pm) just walked in holding a bichon frise (the worst breed) accompanied by a man I overheard having this conversation with the front desk clerk today as he was checking in (as was I).

British man: “Hello!”
Clerk: “Welcome back, Mr. (I, regrettably, forget his last name), we have your room ready. We noted that last time your sleep was disturbed by a billboard from the Strip shining into your room, we took care to make sure your room is on the other side of the building. Also, we have your (whatever) series Jaguar waiting in the garage whenever you are ready to go out. We know it’s your favorite.”
British man: “Thank you! I’m sure the room will be lovely. You know, last time I had the penthouse, but that was only because I was hosting a grand party, you know.”

I zone out and continue to go about my business of checking in, dropping my purse, and checking on my foot, which due to the heels I was wearing, was causing part of my foot to bleed profusely. I zone back in.

British man: “I am going to have drinks with him here tonight. Although I now think we have some dinner to go beforehand.”

Now, perhaps you see why I am interested in who the man with the dumbest breed of dog is.

Anyway, the reason I’m baffled by L.A. is because I have things I really like about the city, but it seems more so, things I really hate. I like trendy restaurants that play dumb, Top 40 hits and then randomly play a Pearl Jam song (also, ones that serve truffle tater tots). I love staying at historic hotels in my favorite architectural style (art deco) where Truman Capote once lived. I like the Whisky A Go-Go and thinking about Jim Morrison. I like the canyons and the hills. I like driving down La Cienega and listening to ‘La Cienega Just Smiled’. I like being scornful towards UCLA (I was bred to attend UCLA like my father, legacy unfulfilled). And I enjoy straight up hating USC.

But, I hate that it takes an hour and a half to get from 5th Street in Santa Monica to the Sunset Strip (nine miles). I hate, to mirror Holden Caulfield, all the phonies. I hate that this is not the city that was once magical in the sixties and seventies. I hate that its polluted like nobody’s business. I hate that it just doesn’t feel like San Francisco. I hate that it doesn’t have the amount of culture that New York and San Francisco have in one city block, even though the people I’m surrounded by right now feel Los Angeles is the only place to be.

But I don’t hate Los Angeles. It’s nice for a few days. It’s always entertaining.

It’s just not for me.

Et Cum Spiritu Tuo!

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 15:44:49 -0700

Note: This was posted a few weeks ago on another blogging platform.

As all good (and bad) Catholic girls know, Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten Season.

I’ll say this right off the bat, I’m not very religious. I’m the epitome of the two-day Catholic. Although, I suppose with Ash Wednesday, that would make three. Anyway, for some reason, I’ve always liked Lent. Even from a young age (even during the times my mom got pissed at the church and dragged me to Protestant congregations), I always tried to observe it. I gave up the usual things as a child, candy, soda, ect.

Last year was the first test of observing Lent as an adult. I gave up alcohol. Now, many feel that Lent is to give up something you depend on, well, I like to think it’s giving up something you have an affinity for, but can live without. That being said, I didn’t give it up because it was something of dependence, but because I’m that girl who has a Facebook profile picture holding a glass of wine (or beer, or vodka cranberry). Okay, so I’m a little of a party girl.

Not only did Lent fall on Spring Break last year (essentially known as “Binge Drinking on the Beach Week for the ages of 18-23″), but also St. Patrick’s Day. As an Irish-Catholic, I enjoy St. Patrick’s more than the average revelers. But whatever, I successfully remained dry for those forty days and forty nights and resigned myself to being my friends chauffeur as I dragged their drunk asses around town. It was a Lent that my liver thanked me. Although, I’m still waiting for my handwritten note from Pope Benedict XVI commending me for being the best Irish-Catholic ever for watching my friends get shitfaced off of Jameson while I just sat and watched.

Wednesday, it appears that I’ll be attending Mass at St. Ignatius Church to get my annual ash cross. However, it also appears that I still cannot think of anything to give up. My friends (none who are particularly religious) are pressuring me to give up the one omnipresent thing in my life, Diet Coke. Well, that’s not happening. Sorry, Jesus. My best friend who lives in San Diego, taking advantage of the lack of romance in my life, suggested, “How about you give up your dignity and fuck everybody?”

At this point, it doesn’t seem like the worst idea.

The Romantic Egoist

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 15:40:48 -0700

I have a Facebook. I have a Tumblr. However, it appears these two outlets have not provided me with enough self-indulgent, web-based publishing space. I told myself I wouldn’t do it, but alas! I’m here.

I have justified this addition to my online life by realizing that I don’t have the time that I did in high school to just write. I was always on the newspaper or in a creative writing class, so I was forced to set aside time exclusively for writing. Maybe this will make me sit down and put fingers to keys.

What I have also realized is, unlike in high school, my life is a bit more interesting now, and my interests more refined. Besides, it’s also good practice for my future vocation.

So, I present San Francisco Gonzo, a place where I will share my adventures in my lovely and crazy city, as well as my thoughts on the issues of the day. Now that this dry and awkward first entry is finished, I hope I can amuse you in the future.

¡Salud!

Emily