Posts tagged san francisco

One of the greatest aspects of city living is what I’ve come to think of as stumblability — the quality of certain places where just by drifting through them, you come across sights and sounds of such glorious wonder that merely walking down the street becomes a favored pastime. 

A couple weekends ago some friends and I were walking through Golden Gate Park when we heard emerging from beneath a bridge a voice of such gentle sadness that I stopped in my tracks. Literally! I froze in place, captivated by what turned out to be a very handsome young man playing “Still Ill,” from the Smiths’ self-titled 1984 debut. A friend was filming him, and when he was done I introduced myself and demanded to know who he was and where I could buy all of his music.

As it turns out the artist’s name is Chris Daniels, and he is just starting out as a singer-songwriter in the city. He has a Facebook page, which he shared with me, and when I went there today I was delighted to discover that the video I had seen recorded was posted there for all to see. Singer-songwriters can be tough to get excited about; you think you’ve seen all their tricks, and maybe you have. But there’s always room for a voice that knocks you over, and Daniels has one: low and haunted, patient but urgent. Facebook says he is now recording his first CD of original material. I can’t wait to hear it.


My favorite piece about what it means to live in San Francisco

“Living in San Francisco means never leaving the house without wearing layers. Having just one wardrobe. Owning lots of hoodies. Owning lots of scarves. Owning lots of hoodies and scarves for your dog. It means having pale legs that get sunburned every time it’s warm out. Calling in sick to work because, for once, it’s 80 degrees and you want to drink a 40 in the park. Enduring the cold summer months and savoring the warmth and festivities of Indian Summer. It means being worried that the term “Indian Summer” may not be politically correct.”


Fake Tales Of San Francisco - Arctic Monkeys
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Fake Tales Of San Francisco

Arctic Monkeys

I’m heading off to my future hometown this morning to check out some neighborhoods. While I’m away, please enjoy the snarkiest song the Arctic Monkeys ever wrote.  

There’s a super cool band yeah
With their trilbies and their glasses of white wine
And all the weekend rock stars in the toilets
Practicing their lines

Back Monday.

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Two years ago this spring, I visited San Francisco for the first time since I was in high school. I took the train in from Oakland, and when I emerged from the underground onto Embarcadero I felt a peculiar flash of inspiration. I’m going to move here, I thought. It was a strange feeling, one I’d never experienced while visiting New York, Chicago or Los Angeles. With my suitcase in one hand and a coat in the other, I watched throngs of people making their way toward the Ferry Building and felt certain I would someday join them permanently. 

I’ve visited several times since then, and every trip only bolstered that first premonition. I felt it when I rode a bike one sun-kissed day across the Golden Gate Bridge, and again when I visited the pirate-supply store at 826 Valencia. I felt it when I dined at the Google cafeteria as the guest of a friend, piling my plate high with lobster and Kobe prime rib, and later when I drank the best rum of my life at the Hangar One distillery. (The owner told me that he hated rum, and wanted to try his hand at making some he would actually enjoy. The taste was indescribable, and the rum still isn’t available for purchase.)

Later in that year, 2008, Milk came out, and I felt that yearning once again: Old Harvey had taken the intoxicating sense of possibility he felt in the Castro, and turned it into something real and forever.

I began to look for a job that would take me to a place that, as foreign as it remains, felt oddly like home — and now I’ve found one. Next month I will pack up and move to the city, where I will crash in the guest room of a kind friend until I find a place of my own. The picture above, which has for some time served as the wallpaper on my computer, will now become a thing I see every day as I make my way around town. That feels good.

Life can be hell on your dreams. The sense of limitless possibility that propels you through adolescence dissipates over time. Maybe you fail; more likely, you compromise. It can take a change of scenery to snap you out of it — to put you back in touch with that younger, world-beating self. You step out from a strange subway and catch a view of yourself from a different, more flattering angle. The city looks good on you. And so you take a deep breath, and cross the bridge. 


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