Travels West

Where I was

2009-10-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

October 17, 1989, 5:04 P.M.

Twenty years ago yesterday.

I was on the 43 Masonic bus, which wends its way from City College of San Francisco through St. Francis Wood, through Forest Hill, down through the Haight and up Masonic Street to the Presidio. I was living near 3rd Avenue and Balboa at the time. From City College, I would alight from the coach perhaps on Haight Street and walk home. That was the plan.

I was coming back from my sabre fencing class at City College, taught by my mentor Joe Manzano. I was then an avid fencer and continued to be so for some years afterward. The bus was winding through St. Francis Wood, home to many lovely old houses, each in some borrowed historical style – mock Tudor, Mission Revival, classical Roman, Cinderella Castle and so forth. I have always admired them. A friend from my fencing class was with me, a U.S. Army veteran and a really nice guy. I am ashamed to say that, after so many years, I have forgotten his name.
The bus was crowded with students and lively. Some were listening to the World Series lead-up on portable radios.

As we were making our way through St. Francis Wood, I remember my friend pointing out some of the houses perched on the hillside. He was commenting on how lovely they were, but that he’d hate to own when “the big one hit.” I’m not kidding. He actually said that five minutes or so before 5:04 P.M., October 17, 1989.

At Forest Hill Station, where the Muni (that is, the subway) hits its deepest point underground and has a fine old station, we came to a stop to let more passengers on. They filed in and the bus got even more crowded. I was pointing out to my friend an apartment building that I admired. It was – and is – mock Tudor and stands next to the station, across the street from the North-bound bus stop. I always liked it, though today it is not quite the same. He agreed it was a nice building and, up in Forest Hill, one could feel as if one lived in Sherwood Forest rather than in the middle of the City.

Outside the bus was a large group of raucous high school students, doing what high school students do – shouting at one another and generally making noise. Then the bus began to roll back and forth, gently at first, and then becoming more violent. My friend and I thought it was these high school kids playing a prank on the driver, rocking the bus back and forth. I even shouted through the window, “Hey, you kids, stop rockin’ the bus!”

Then my friend pointed across the street and said, “Man, look at your building!” I followed his gaze to see my admired mock Tudor quiver. It was actually undulating, like a Thanksgiving Jell-O tower. Cracks formed along its sides, shooting down from its roof to its foundation. Masonry began to fall off of it, a piece here and a piece there. It was the damndest thing I ever saw.

People began to scream.

It was at that point that I felt what I can only describe as “the rising panic.” I will never forget it. I don’t know what I was thinking, because I probably wasn’t. I began to rise out of my seat. My friend, evidently sensing my move, gently put his hand on my knee and gave me one, simple, forceful command: “DON’T.” It stands the test of time as the single best piece of advice any person has ever given me. I sat back down.

This all happened in 15 seconds.

When the rocking stopped, and we were all alive, a great cheer went up in the bus. We high-fived one another.

The bus, being diesel rather than one of the electric trolley coaches, simply moved on. We wound our way down the hill, and that was when the gravity of what had happened at last hit us. One fellow bus rider on a transistor radio reported to us that the Bay Bridge had “collapsed.” To us at the time this meant that the whole structure had toppled over, crashing into the Bay, perhaps killing hundreds. We couldn’t know otherwise. Nearing Cole Street, we saw brick facades that had toppled, crushing parked cars. Windows were shattered. Dust was everywhere. The lights were out.

My friend said, “We need to get a drink.” I agreed.

At Haight Street, now nearing dark with no street lights, we got off. We went to Nightbreak, a punk club near Haight and Stanyan that served beer, wine and saki. I can’t say we had a bad time. Every cute, gothie-punkie Haight Street shop girl was in there, their shops closed for lack of power. In a way, it was kind of heaven. The only light was candlelight and, since the power was out, they had no cash registers. If you had a $10 bill, you gave it to them with the promise that you would drink $10 worth of beer. Sorry, no change. I don’t know how they kept track, but they did. (In those days a beer cost a buck-fifty, so you do the math.)

After we’d drunk our fill, it was dark, and my friend and I parted, gazing curiously at the glow of the fires coming over the hill from the Marina. I made my way home, stopping at a corner store to buy a bottle of cheap vodka and some orange juice. I remember one fellow was in a panic, screaming at me and the other liquor buying patrons that we should be buying water, not booze, and that we’d all be starving in a few days. With typical San Francisco aplomb, we ignored him. At one busy intersection – Arguello and Anza, maybe? – I directed traffic with another guy for about a half-hour until a policeman arrived. My room was a disaster: books thrown everywhere, my favorite lamp shattered. Eventually we were “yellow tagged” and had to move out, though to this day I think our landlord hoodwinked us to get us to move so she could up the rent.

That night, I sat on the roof of my flat with my roommates, sipping screwdrivers and watching the dark, silent night, our only light from candles, the helicopters overhead and the eerie glow of the fires away Northward, wondering if we were all going to burn.

Days past and things happened. I made $200 cash – a fortune to me at that time – guarding my workplace, the vintage clothing store, American Rag, then on Bush Street, against looters for two nights, armed with a sword. No joke.

When I look back at this event, my story isn’t much compared with that of others’ who really suffered. But it’s the one I have. And I will never forget.

This post is dedicated to the men and women of the San Francisco Fire Department, who do yeomans’ in this town every single day.

Sky High

2009-10-09T11:21:00.000-07:00

In which we zoom-zoom

The U.S. Navy Blue Angels as they rehearse over North Beach, San Francisco, for the annual Fleet Week air show, taken from the roof of my 7th floor apartment, looking down Kearny Street to the North.

2009-09-11T09:22:00.001-07:00

Sunday Blather

2009-07-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

In which we talk newspaper

It is considered a faux pas in the blogging world to link to articles in "the newspaper." However, two stories in today's Chronicle caught me eye and are worth a mention.

The first is by the inimitable Carl Nolte, who writes the "Native Son" column each Sunday. In it, he talks about how native San Franciscans identify one another by place and social status by the high school they went to.

"Two old San Francisco types meet by chance at a party, maybe in Marin, or the mysterious East Bay. They don't know many people at the party, but somebody across the room looks vaguely familiar. So they start a conversation and it goes like this:

"Hi, howareya? Don't I know you from someplace? Whereya from?" The other person is a little wary; everybody seems to be from somewhere else these days. "From?" the other person says, "I'm from here. From the City."

"Oh yeah?" the first person says. "Where didja go to school?" Though the other person sounds like a San Franciscan - talks fast, runs words together, refers to San Francisco as the City - the question about school is the key. It doesn't make any difference if the person has a Ph.D. from Harvard, or used to be the president of Stanford. What we want to know is where you went to high school.

This is the way San Franciscans of a certain age recognize other San Franciscans; the password, the secret handshake. It tells everything: class, status, maybe religion, who your family is and who your friends are."

Read the rest...

The second talks about the Chronicle's presses' last day. The last Chronicle rolled off the old, 50-year-old presses that were owned by the newspaper early this morning. Henceforth, an outside firm will handle the printing. The good news is that the new presses will allow for a more colorful and "crease-free" read, and may allow the company, which lost $50 million last year, to save enough cash to continue operations for a few more years. I hope it does, because I don't look forward to the day when I have to do without my local daily. The bad news is that a lot of long-time Chronicle press men are now out of work.

Brave new world? Feh!

Have You Heard About the Bird?

2009-05-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

In which we get all Audubon

My friends' kitchen window in the O-Town Hills looks out under a driveway deck up against the hill. Not much of a view except that several pairs of birds appear to have nests there. This little chap (above) and his wife seem to planning a family under the rafters nearest the house. What kind of bird is that, I wonder? He's got a very bright and colorful chest.

Remember the Fallen

2009-05-25T12:58:00.001-07:00

That is all

Comin' Up! Comin' Up, Aye!

2009-05-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

In which we relate a Coast Guard adventure

Speeding across the Bay

Our Coast Guard Auxiliary crew met at 0800 and tripped over the Golden Gate Bridge to the Presidio Yacht Club, where the Auxiliary vessel Sunrise awaited us. We were under orders to assist the regular Coast Guard in a Helo Ops (helicopter operations) training mission. Helicopter teams must perform a certain number of training exercises each year in order maintain their flying status.

Today we were to assist in cage drop rescue operations, in which a cage is lowered onto a boat from a helicopter, simulating an emergency evacuation of a sick or injured person.

This was my second on-the-water training, and my first Helo Ops exercise. Any initial nervousness I felt was quickly allayed by the professionalism of our Auxiliarist crew – Flotilla Commander Dave, our Coxswain, Rae, and my fellow crewmen, Leonard and Bill. Honestly, I can't say enough about how much these mentors are patiently teaching me about seamanship. They are truly amazing .

After readying the Sunrise, a beautiful, tricked-out 38-foot cabin cruiser complete with sirens, emergency “cop lights,” radar, depth finder, GPS, etc., and after we had hoisted the Coast Guard ensign, we set off for our rendezvous in the Eastern half of San Francisco Bay.

Whenever a Coast Guard power boat accelerates, the Coxswain calls out “Comin’ up!” and the crew answers back, “Comin’ up, aye!” so that he knows everyone’s prepared for the sudden acceleration. It’s a smart protocol that helps ensure no one falls overboard, but it’s also one that gives the operation a sense of community, like a church ritual.

While awaiting the rendezvous, we underwent a drop anchor / raise anchor drill. It’s not as easy as it sounds.

The Dolphin comes in for a low pass

We were to assist four different helo crews – each consisting of a pilot, co-pilot and an engineer (in charge of lowering and raising the cage) in two different types of cage drops, plus observe a few man-in-the-water drills, helping ensure the safety of the diver.

The day was warm and calm – the Bay almost like glass in the morning – and we quickly grew hot in our “Mustangs” – flotation/survival suits Coast Guard crews are required to wear during on-the-water missions.

We didn’t have to wait long before our helo, an H-65 Dolphin short range recovery aircraft, radioed us, signaling that they were ready to come in. The Dolphin is a beautiful, powerful 9,500 lb. beast, with two Turbomeca 2C2-CG Turboshaft engines boasting 934 horsepower. It has a top speed of 160 knots per hour (184 mph) and a rescue hoist capacity of 900 lbs. It’s a freakin’ high performance demon.

The Dolphin's engineer moves the boom into place and makes ready to lower the cage

The Dolphin came in for a low pass, circumnavigating our boat as per protocol to check out our overall situation and make sure we were safe for a cage drop. The helo crew then radioed the Sunrise that they were coming in for their first drop. This was to be a straight drop into the cockpit of our boat. I observed while Bill showed me how it was done. There isn’t a lot of finesse to a straight drop: The cage comes down and you catch it and haul 'er in. On humid days, the protocol is to let the cage touch the hull of the boat first in order to discharge any static electricity, which can cause serious injury.

Unlike other helicopters, the Dolphin doesn’t make that “whop-whop-whop” sound but, because of its turbojet engines and because the tail rotor is encased in a cowling, it makes this cloyingly loud buzz, like a giant, angry hornet out of The Land That Time Forgot. It’s so loud, in fact, that when it was right overhead at perhaps 20 feet it seemed to give me an auditory hallucination, as if I could hear voices whispering underneath the din. Damned strange, that.

Getting ready to bring in the cage

Then the real work started. Bill and I teamed up to handle the line-drop exercises. This entails the helo engineer dropping a weighted line while the pilot edges the Dolphin toward the boat. One man catches the line and tosses the weight to the other man. As the first man gently brings the line in, the other coils it so that it doesn’t get caught up in anything. At the last second, the hauler pulls fast and hard as the cage is dropped, bringing the cage into the cockpit of the boat – usually banging the hell out of the transom or fantail in the process. (Sorry, Rae!)

It’s rough and potentially dangerous work – everything is in motion: the aircraft, the boat, the waves, and the cage, which is just heavy enough to knock you out or overboard if you are not careful. At one point, as the cage was being raised out of the cockpit, my leg got caught in the line. I had a moment there when I was sure I was going to get pulled up and out, leg first. Luckily, I untangled myself in the nick ‘o time. Whew!

In all, we did 20 cage drops with four different air crews, two in the morning, two after lunch. We also did man-overboard drills and I was taught radio protocol and manned the helm to boot.

Dropping the cage

Our second-to-last helo team of the day was so pleased with our performance the pilot buzzed us by way of salute, coming in so low I thought he was going to scratch our paint.

Then we observed the man-in-the-water drills, in which a diver leaps from the helicopter at a height of perhaps 20 feet and is then plucked out of the water on a rescue line. Talk about drama.

Hauling in. I recommend gloves next time.

I’ve done a lot of things you could call adventurous in the last 20 years – surfing, snowboarding, skydiving, etc. – but this takes it. That’s because this is real. There is no script, no groomed runs, no lift chairs, no beer in the lodge at noon, no sexy girls on the beach. You’re doing an important job at service to your community and your country. It was one whole hell of a lot of work, but I loved every second of it. It's about the most fun you can have with your pants on.

Lifting the diver out of the water

And, in the unlikely event that I happen to be aboard a vessel in need of a helicopter evacuation, I’ll likely be the only guy on board who knows how to do it. That's a pretty exhilarating feeling.

Quake Day Cameo

2009-04-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

In which we're in the news

Attended the 103rd memorial of the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 Saturday morning at Lotta's Fountain on Market Street at 5:15. Quite the festive occasion, with re-enactors, Clampers, politicians, siren-blaring fire trucks and various and sundry San Franciscans with a historical bent. The local TV news media was there, of course, and it appears that both yours truly and my friend, Gregory, made it into a little cameo on the b-roll.

Joke's on Buckley in Latitude 30

2009-04-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

In which we chortle

Not sure what prompted this letter to Latitude 38, the sailing magazine, but the magazine's editors sure had fun with it. William F. Buckley Jr. liked to fancy himself a great sailor. Latitude 38's editors didn't think we was all that.

A Helpful Prescription

In his series of books on sailing and chartering, the late William F. Buckley, Jr. concluded that a vessel could only have one captain, and that it was best when he, Buckley, was it. Well, we've seen a lot of bossy male crew over the years, and have been leaving more and more of them back at the dock when we make our sailing trips. We've found that Swedish nurses, on the other hand, make excellent crew. We advise that anyone leaving on a voyage take at least one Swedish nurse with them.

Erik Westgard
Minnesota

Erik — We're a little fuzzy on the logical connection between William Buckley saying a vessel should only have one captain, preferably him, and you and the rest of your crew recommending that one or more Swedish nurses be brought along on all sailing trips. But whatever.

Ironically, Buckley, who often chartered Ocean 71s, sisterships to Latitude's Big O, apparently wasn't the most careful of skippers. According to the captain of one of the Ocean 71s Buckley chartered, the author of God and Man at Yale not only drove the boat onto a well-charted reef but, along with his friends, spilled red wine all over the salon cushions. The ever imperious Buckley told the captain to just send him a bill, missing the point that there was no time to get the cushions cleaned or replaced prior to the arrival of the next charter party.

We editorially stuck it to Buckley from time to time because we thought his sailing books were pedestrian and because we thought he comported himself like an arrogant ass. As a result, we were pleased when Buckley, who suffered from delusions of erudition, and having missed our point entirely, referred to us as "dyspeptic" in one of his sailing books.

San Francisco No. 3 City for Guys

2009-03-31T11:16:00.000-07:00

In which we claim braggin' rights

I wrote a San Francisco profile piece that appeared today in AskMen.com's "29 Best Cities for Guys to Live In" series, which was also written up in today's Insider in the San Francisco Chronicle by Heather Knight and is getting good pick-up elsewhere, including the HuffPo.

Not everyone agrees with some of our recommendations, however. I'll continue to update reactions to this post throughout the day.

Character Satisfactory!

2009-03-29T10:54:00.000-07:00

In which we talk up the Ancient and Honorable Order...

So it turns out that one of my mentors in the United States Coast Guard Auxiliary, Rick Saber, is an important member of the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, also known as The Clampers. Rick plays the role of Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico (that's him above) at Clamper ceremonies, called "Doins'." I have technically been a Clamper since my initiation at San Quentin in 1995 (no, I was not an inmate but a guest of the warden at that time, who was also a Clamper.) Variously described as a historical drinking society or as a drinking historical society, The Clampers' raison d'etre is to commemorate the forgotten annals of Western history. They do this most prominently by placing plaques at various historical sites around the West. These aren't usually the sort of history one would read in a textbook, but rather peoples' history. The Clampers will commemorate the house of a well known Belle of the Evening, or a fight with Indians, a bawdy house, a prison breakout, a gunfight, or a famed saloon (The Old Ship and the San Francisco Brewing Company are two San Francisco landmarks plaqued by the Ancient and Honorable Order.)

I was inactive for some years, however, and so my name fell off the Great Rolls of the Order. I've been interested in re-upping my membership in recent years, and meeting Rick was a double boon. Not only is he a highly competent brother officer in the Auxiliary, but he also helped me get re-instated as a brother Clamper.

So yesterday was my first Clamper doin's in many years. And what a homecoming it was. The event was the unveiling of a monument -- called, in Clamper parlance, a "plaquin'" -- that commemorates the very last stage coach hold-up in San Francisco Bay Area history.

The monument

The hold-up occurred in 1905, on a lonely stretch of highway now known as Crystal Springs Road in San Mateo County. The stone plaque takes some text from a San Francisco Call article that appeared shortly after the event. It reads:

Near this spot on August 17, 1905, a masked desperado described as "nine feettall and armed with a small canon stopped the Half Moon Bay stagecoach and angrily demanded driver Ed Campbell throw down the Wells Fargo Co.'s treasurebox, Levy Bros. strongbox and the U.S. Mail bag. No valuables here but the five passengers hid their gold and only gave $4.30."

A "poet," Michael Williams, later commemorated the event:
Huzza! romance returns again,
Once more as in the days of old,
Disdaining banks or Chu-chu train,
A robber stops a stage for gold,
And meets adventures manifold!
Hurrah! Such news is great, immense -
But softly, what is this I’m told?
This robber robbed for thirty cents!

I’ve reveled in the tales - like you -
Of Daring Dan and Nervy Nat,
And others of the gallant crew
Who on the highway passed the hat,
And spent robbed fortunes on a bat -
They were the boys of no pretense -
You never heard it hinted that
Such robbers robbed for thirty cents!

Oh, pshaw, tut, tut, alas, alack!
From out the dreary East I came
To get upon Adventure’s track
And view the “Woolly West” aflame,
With deeds that should go down to fame -

Now must I sadly hie me hence
From out a land where bandits shame
Their art by taking thirty cents?

L’Envoi

“O princes of the gallant game
Of standing folks up for their pence!
What words are harsh enough to blame
Robbers that look like thirty cents?”

Two of Hillsborough's finest pose with a motley crew of brother Clampers. The big one on the right demanded an application to join on the spot. That's good; we need more big Clampers.

His Majesty Norton I poses with Her Excellency, Mayoress Christine M. Krolik of Hillsborough, who is hot

Oddly enough, the prime mover for this event was not a Clamper at all, but none other than the celebrated futurist, Paul Saffo, who lives on the hill behind the site and who had been researching the stage coach robbery for some years. I had spoken to Paul on a number of occasions years back while working for Upside and Business 2.0 magazines. He was so out of context that I at first did not recognize him. When he started his speech, however, I quickly realized that this Paul and that Paul were in fact the same Paul. Paul was initiated into the Clampers later that afternoon and we had a nice chat and promised to catch up.

Big Smokey: A Brother Clamper lights a stoagie.

Here is the test of Paul's speech:

"The last stagecoach hold-up in San Mateo County took place on August 17, 1905 on Crystal Springs Road in what is now Hillsborough, near the bridge west of the Woodbridge intersection close to the old Casey rock Quarry now occupied by SF Water’s tunnel facility. The Levy Brothers Stagecoach had left the Occidental Hotel in Half Moon Bay at 6:30am and was heading east down the canyon towards San Mateo when a highwayman leapt from the brush and demanded they throw down the strong-box.

Though the robber appeared formidable -- one passenger declared that he was “nine feet tall and armed with a small cannon.” -- the robbery was interrupted by the arrival of a passing wagon driven by a local gardener, and the event quickly devolved into a comedy of errors. Though shots were fired, no one was injured and the hapless robber made off with a mere $4.30* collected from a reluctant hat-passing among the passengers.

When the stage arrived in San Mateo just after 9:00am, word of the robbery attempt spread and a motley volunteer posse took off up the canyon in hot pursuit of the fleeing robber. As the San Mateo Weekly Times described the event two days later:

“Bartlett with his graceful wobble, Boland with mighty strides, and Sheehan with the kangaroo hop of Bob Fitzsimmons, turned their faces westward. They were accompanied by a motley crew of volunteers. Postmaster Byrnes carried his perennial smile along and Weller began mopping his brow before Taylor Park was passed. Jack Pease was there with his head well to the front, Ben Race grim and silent, Frank Corbett swinging his arms like a professional sprinter, Underhill using his club like a baton (all these) with a large assortment of other detectives and thief-takers took to the timber and the robber would have died of fright had he seen the formidable gathering.”

The robber was never caught, and for all we know, may still be at large in Hillsborough today...

As this suggests, even before the posse returned to town, the robbery quickly passed into county history as a charming farce, memorialized in a poem published in a San Francisco paper a few days later."

Strike up the band: Music at Clamper doin's is always good.

World's cleanest mountain man

While some Clampers wear historic costume (as above), others wear outlandish outfits. This ensemble elicited this comment from one wag: "Hey, Mister, there's a man standing under your bird!"

You can see many Clamper plaques across the American West. Many look just like the state historic plaques one finds in out-of-the-way places. Look for the legend at the bottom, "Dedicated... by the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus."

Credo Quia Absurdum!

Literary Privateer

2009-03-18T21:47:00.000-07:00

In which we hail a local celeb

So I went to go see a movie on the Lumiere's postage stamp-sized screen and, alighting from the 47, checked in at the 101 Bar on Van Ness avenue to see who was stabbing whom. First person I see is the man with the eye patch and the Basset hound, hunched over a big stack of papers, which he's marking up.

I said, "Always good to see you, Mr. Hinckle," and we shook hands, even though I'm sure he doesn't remember that we ever met before. (I've bought him several drinks at various bars around the city over the last 20-odd years, but then so have a lot of other people.) I asked after the dog and he said, "He's alright," and proceeded to feed the sad-sack-looking but happy pup bits of hot dog.

"He doesn't mind cold hot dogs," Hinckle growled, grinning.

"What are you working on?" I asked, pointing to the stack of papers. "Are those proofs?"

"Yeah... It's my book on Hunter S. Thompson," he replied. "They cut the hell out of it, of course... "

We will stay tuned for said tome.

The movie was "Harvard Beats Yale, 29-29," about the famed 1968 game. It's an excellent renter if you can stand to watch a football movie. (Actually, football documentaries are often better than the real games.) Several of the players were models for Gary Trudeau's "Doonesbury" cartoon characters, including B.D. The Hollywood actor, Tommy Lee Jones (No Country for Old Men, etc.), was on the team that year, and another one of the players dated Meryl Streep. (Must be kind of awkward now.)

Pictures from a Bike Ride

2009-02-27T16:23:00.000-08:00

In which we go for a pedal through the woods and over the bay

A hummingbird explores the outside of an old bunker at Battery McKinnon-Stotsenberg

Took a chance in between rain storms the other day and went on a bike-and-hike to the Marin Headlands. I pedaled up the hill along Arguello past Senator Diane Feinstein's old place and stopped in at the Presidio Golf Course Grill for a spot of lunch. (The food is superb there.) Afterward I rode up through the woods and over the hill along Washington Blvd. past some military housing that has been converted civilian apartments.

A historical photo of Battery McKinnon-Stotsenberg, courtesy the Nat'l Park Service

I looked right and noticed for the first time a row of old concrete bunkers behind a block of apartments. I rounded the corner for a closer look. This, I found out later, is Battery McKinnon-Stotsenberg, which around the turn of the century was home to the battery of enormous 12-inch mortars pictured above.

Outside the gate I noticed a sign reading "Presidio Wine Bunker." I wondered if this was a historical site -- was this where the Presidio's commanders stored wine for the Officer's Club? The gate was open so I ventured in for a look around.

You've heard of swords to ploughshares? Here we have gun barrels to wine barrels

I found a little portable kiosk inside the gate knocked on the door. A man answered and I asked about the wine bunker. He said that it is a private business started after the U.S. Army had quit the base. Wineries and individuals pay to use the bunkers as a cave. Seems like nice work, if you can get it.

A steel ring rusts away on the bunker wall

A container ship passes into the Gate past the Point Bonita lighthouse

I pedaled on over the Golden Gate and through the tunnel and down Bunker Road into the headlands. I alighted at the Marine Mammal Center and hiked up the Coast Trail on foot.

I hiked up the trail to Battery Townsley, built in 1938 in preparation for the then still-gathering storm.

The Headland cliffs looking West-by-North-West

Pebble Henge

Wandering the hills I found someone's idea of Stonehenge. The arrow points due North while the rock opposite seems to indicate South. I decided to call it "Pebble Henge."

Does dining down by the site of the new Marine Mammal Center

Park Update

2009-02-22T16:21:00.000-08:00

In which we keep you abreast of threats to civilization

It was a very busy day before the Parks & Rec Commission at City Hall last week. There was some very noisy and controversial business – something about the Dept. of Parks & Rec wanting privatize certain functions – that overshadowed the parking meters issue. Nevertheless we parking meter naysayers made an impressive showing. Several of us showed up in our croquet outfits – white dresses, seersucker suits, navy blazers – and made quite an impression in the room and at City Hall in general. When the parking meter issue was brought to the fore, my old friend Eileen, who previously lead the charge so that people could enjoy a glass of wine in the park without fear of arrest, spoke. Here are her remarks, taken from her notes:

Good afternoon. My name is Eileen Hoyt and I live in San Francisco.

I am here to protest the proposal for metered parking in Golden Gate Park.
The Park we know has been free to visitors. It has always been free and should remain that way. Paid parking will make certain parts of the park inaccessible to scores of low and fixed income residents. The threat of a parking ticket is too severe for many families to risk for an afternoon outing.

Please keep Golden Gate Park accessible to all.

Thank you.

(Read also the brief and, er, interestingly-written piece in the Chronicle about it.)

In the end, the Commission voted to install metering kiosks in the Eastern end of Park, in Balboa Park and at the Lincoln Park Golf Course. These kiosks are the kind that allow you to pay with a credit card or coin for a fixed number of hours of parking. That’s great, I suppose, assuming you have a credit card or enough change in your pocket at the time. But it adds yet another hassle that San Franciscans, already hassled enough, have to deal with, and in a place where they shouldn’t have to deal with it. And they are yet another aesthetic blight on our cityscape.

I should note that while there were many voices raised against metering, not a single voice was raised in favor. (I wonder where the supporters were?) It was clear that the Commission had already cut a deal prior to its unanimous vote in favor of the resolution, and that the public comment portion of the proceedings was just the usual circus.

Now to our critics
A fellow San Francisco blogger going by the name of Sam Spade – no kidding – commented my original call to arms that:

William Hammond Hall was a state engineer who designed much of Golden Gate Park. Mr. Hammond, who was born in 1846 and did [sic] in 1934. Hall did not include vehicular parking because public transportation and NOT vehicle parking was preferred by the people of San Francisco at the time. It is entirely unlikely that Hall would approve of Golden gate [sic] Park being used as a daily parking lot for out-of-town commuters.

(I love how this guy, by stating Hall’s birth and death dates, tries to set himself up as an instant expert. It’s on Wikipedia, for Pete's sake.)

So Hall included no vehicular parking? Really? Are you sure? Because, as the Museum and San Francisco notes:

The legacy of Mr. Hall can still be seen and felt in Golden Gate Park because he deliberately designed roads and pathways with curves and bends to discourage fast horse-and-buggy drivers, and to shelter visitors from the wind.

And, another writer wrote a few years after the park was opened it was:

"…traversed by promenades, bridle paths and drives, invites the pedestrian, equestrian, or driver to follow their mazy windings into the labyrinths of hedges and borders."

One wonders where these horse-and-buggy drivers were to meant alight once they had found their ideal picnicking spot.

Of course, as Mr. Spade notes, public transportation was the “preferred” way of getting to the park in the 19th century, because there were few roads good roads out to the Outside Lands, most families could not afford a carriage-and-two to drive on them, and these conveyances were besides a rather risky way of navigating the hills between downtown and the Park.

Interesting to note that road races were once held in the Park.

I also think Mr. Spade is overstating the case when he suggests that the Park is “used as a daily parking lot for out-of-town commuters.” It isn't. I live quite near the Park and luckily have the luxury of being able to bike through it on many weekdays. Monday through Friday, there are surprisingly few parked cars to be seen on John F. Kennedy Drive, except near the major attractions, and it’s all but deserted toward the West end. Think about it: Very few out-of-towners are going to park their cars in the Park and then spend another bumpy 50 minutes on the 5-Fulton just to get to their offices downtown.

The tireless Mr. Spade goes on:

It is even more ridiculouas [sic] to suggest that John McLaren, who spent a lifetime in disapproval of automobiles in general and the emerging automotive lifestyle that existed during his lifetime. McLaren was born in 1846 and died in 1943.

(Again with the birth and death dates.)

I think I understand what Mr. Spade is trying to say, despite the sentence fragment. But, for more than half of the Park’s history, automobiles have been around in San Francisco and have been used to get to the Park by families on outings. Parking meters are not the answer to urban traffic congestion. Sound public transit policy and good urban planning are, and I believe that McLaren, were he alive today, would concur. If you want families to take public transit to the Park then extend BART to the De Young Museum basement.

And, for the record, I don’t even own a car and rely on public transit, my trusty bike and the occasional cab to get around.

And Mr. S., yet again:

Herb Caen would be horrified to hear that M2 so grossly misunderstands Herbs [sic] life. I knew Herb caen [sic] personally and I knew him for many years. Herb hated cars, congestion, traffic, smog, and everything associtated [sic] with it. M2 just plain doesn't have a clue what he is talking about.

(But what were Herb's birth and death dates?)

Yes, Herb Caen hated traffic, but not enough to give up the Jag, right? I wasn’t as chummy with Caen as Mr. Spade, but I did know him a bit and even fed him items on occasion from behind the plank at Enrico’s, and I know that along with congestion, traffic and smog that he also hated parking meters, parking tickets and meter maids. They were frequent targets in his column.

Parks & Rec. believes it can glean $500,000 per year from these metering kiosks. I hope they are right. It’s just too bad they have to get it by further vulgarizing the City and making scofflaws of its residents.

Save Golden Gate Park

2009-02-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

In which we take up the cause of civilization

San Franciscans! Man the barricades!

The San Francisco Board of Stupidvisors is meeting today to consider installing parking meters in Golden Gate Park in an effort to balance the City's budget and "encourage" use of mass transit.

This is the worst idea I've heard in a long while in a city famed for bad ideas.

Ever tried to ride the bus with a large picnic hamper full of nosh and wine -- and then carry it through the park for a half-mile or so to your picnic site? It ain't easy. How about parents with kids? It is completely unfair to the people who need the Park the most -- City families with little or no outdoor space to call their own. And how are you supposed to enjoy a relaxing stroll around Stow Lake while worried about feeding a meter?

Besides these obvious drawbacks, parking meters in the Park are simply barbaric and completely outside the spirit of what the park's original champions, William Hammond Hall and John McLaren, had in mind.

Do not let the Board of Supervisors or the Department of Parks and Recreation brutalize Golden Gate Park for the sake of a few pennies.

Please join our well-dressed protest at City Hall today, Feb. 19, 2pm, Room 416 -- or call or write your Supervisor!

Don't Call It...

2009-02-16T06:08:00.000-08:00

In which we talk city

My Pops, over at the Yolo Papers, collects and deals in, among every other kind of junk, paper ephemera. Recently he purchased a photo album that included the snap above. Evidently, the "Linebarqer Bros" went on a long hike -- mayhap for charity? -- all the way from Fort Worth, in Texas, to "Frisco."

The sailor's term "Frisco" has historically been much maligned among San Franciscans. The late great Herb Caen even wrote a book called Don't Call It Frisco. But even he came around to the term's charm before he died. I have decided that I am fond of it and even use it on occasion. What bugs me more is the appellation "San Fran," usually intoned with a nasal Midwest accent.

But whatever. Apparently, the previous owner of the photo album was a die-hard San Franciscan, because the hand-written note at bottom of the photo reads "I don't care how damn cute your dog is, don' t call in Frisco!"

View Finder

2009-02-15T09:17:00.000-08:00

In which we ogle the urban scenery

The San Francisco skyline, taken from my friends' home in the Oakland Hills.

Rainbow Detection

2009-02-13T09:51:00.000-08:00

In which we enjoy what passes for Winter in San Francisco (suck it, East Coast)

Snapped this rainbow over Ashbury Heights early this morning while cycling up to the gym. My next post will be all about puppies and unicorns.

200

2009-02-12T11:21:00.000-08:00

Who is in charge? The man in the big hat.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the dock my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

--Walt Whitman

A San Francisco Sort of Day

2009-02-07T18:13:00.000-08:00

In which we revel in the eccentric city... just a bit

This day was actually a few weeks back when the weather was still good. But it's still worth sharing.

- 2pm: Lunch with old friends at Sam's (Est. 1867); martini, real sourdough bread, Sam's Fillet of Sole, glass of Sauvignon Blanc

- 3pm: Tour of the Cable Car Museum and Winding House (I'd never been); a fascinating, underground look at how the world's most profitable and efficient public transit system works

The cables on the wheels they go round and round, round and round, round and round...

- 4pm: Cafe Americano and chat with friends at a cafe across the street from the Winding House; watched gripmen replace a worn grip on a Hyde Street Line car

- 6pm: Attended memorial for P.J. Corkery, author of a bio of Johnny Carson, Hollywood writer, and a sometime SF Examiner columnist. Speakers included the Honorable Willie Brown, the eye-patched and hound-toting literary privateer Warren Hinckle, restauranteur Ed Moose, Mrs. Dewson (the infamous hatter) and writer and gadfly Bruce Bellingham.

- 9:30pm: Date with an adorable Asian chanteuse; went to burlesque night at Annie's Social Club; late night cheap dinner at The Grubstake.

It's like therapy.

Goodbye to All That

2009-02-06T10:48:00.000-08:00

In which we hail the last survivor

Read in today's colorful new San Francisco Comical that Herb Hamrol, the last survivor of the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 died yesterday, aged 106. Hamrol, reporter Kevin Fagan's warmly written obit noted, was also the world's oldest grocery clerk, who worked at the Andronico's on Irving Street right up to the time he was hospitalized for complications from pneumonia last week.

Back when I lived out in the Richmond I went to Andronico's frequently and had often seen Herb working in the store. I didn't know he was an '06 survivor. I remember wondering what dire circumstances the fellow was in that he could not retire. Evidently, none at all; he just liked to work.

Fagan relates Hamrol's advice for young men:

Don't spend every dime you get
Stay away from wild women
Don't smoke, drink or do drugs
Wear a tie when you go to work, also a nice shirt

Next April 18 at 5:18 a.m. I'll be at Lotta's Fountain, ignoring rule three as a lift a glass of sparkling wine in ol' Herb's honor. Afterward, I'll ignore one and two for good measure.

(Photo courtesy the San Francisco Chronicle, used entirely without permission)

Philadelphia

2009-01-18T11:40:00.001-08:00

In which we visit the City of Brotherly Love, yo?

Christ Church spire alight amid the gloaming

Took a short time-out and headed East to visit a friend in Philadelphia, cradle of American Liberty. Among our first stops was my friend's church, Christ Church, in the Old City. Founded in 1695 and built between 1727 and 1744, Christ Church was attended by William Penn -- who was baptized in the church's historic font, which had been brought over from England, where it had already served baptismal duty for some two centuries -- Benjamin Franklin (buried in the churchyard), Betsy Ross, George Washington and 15 signers of the Declaration of Independence.

The evening light casts elegant tracery upon Christ Church's ceiling

An Episcopal church, Christ Church represented the Church of England in America, and its plain, brick-and-white, lightly neoclassical design -- a perfect example of the early Georgian -- shows it. It is a hallowed place the evokes a kind of reverence in even the most skeptical heart, as well as a swell of patriotism and a feeling of continuity: the gift of generations.

We strolled through the Old City, down the little Georgian side streets past 18th century row houses like the one above, whose crooked door and window attests to the passage of time and the simple beauty of traditional architecture. In fact, I'd like to have a little chat with the city fathers about their decision to allow skyscrapers taller that William Penn's hat, atop Philly's Victorian City Hall. It was a bad decision, one that may have give the city a modern "skyline," but also overshadowed and diminished this old town's glorious architectural and historic heritage.

Betsy Ross's house is now a quaint little museum

San Franciscans, used to ornate, brightly-trimmed, gingerbread-laden, timber-built Victorians, my be disappointed at first with Philadelphia's seemingly endless rows of red brick houses. They also may find that the city, surrounded as it is by a rather vast industrial wasteland of power plants, oil refineries and shipping, lacks vistas or much of the kind of natural drama that we are used to. But then we are lucky enough to be surrounded by water -- two sides by bay, with picturesque Pacific to the West. Our industrial wasteland has been ghettoized to the Southeastern corner of the City. But Philly's history nevertheless peeks through almost everywhere, from the old stone horse trough on the sidewalk in the Old City to the Indian place names of the surrounding towns, like "Conshohocken," and colonial names, such as "King of Prussia," which took its name in the 18th century from a local tavern named "The King of Prussia Inn," which may in turn have been named for Benjamin Franklin's patriotic political satire, "An Edict by the King of Prussia." (Sadly, the tavern, which has been relocated from its original spot, no longer serves hooch but is now the offices of the King of Prussia Chamber of Commerce.)

The USS New Jersey's 16-inch guns could hurl a high explosive shell weighing more than a Volkswagen a dozen miles

Speaking of history, there's a really nice bit of it moored on the Camden, New Jersey, side of the Schuylkill River from downtown Philadelphia. (That's "skookle," my Californios, not "shoe-kill" or "shool-kill." ) The USS New Jersey, the brochure tells us, is the most decorated battleship in U.S. history. First launched from the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard exactly one year to the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor by the Imperial Japanese Navy, the New Jersey fought in most the the Pacific campaigns, was active in both the Korean and Vietnam wars and served off the shore of Lebanon, where she shelled Syrian positions after the Beirut Marine Barracks suicide bombing there killed some 400 U.S. Marines on peacekeeping duty, including one member of the New Jersey's ship's company.

One of he USS New Jersey's 5-inch guns takes a bead on some of the ugly glass towers of downtown Philly. If only.

During her service, only one crewman died while aboard. She was finally decommissioned for the last time in 1991. She's now a fascinating floating museum. I highly recommend the self-guided audio tour. Be sure to go into one of the 16-inch gun turrets and peer through one of the still operative sighting lenses.

In the 1980s, San Francisco had the chance to "home port" the USS Missouri, the "Mighty Mo," the historic battleship aboard which representatives from the Empire of Japan formally signed the "instruments of surrender," ending the Second World War. The City's so-called "progressives" balked, however, not wanting to have anything more to do with the "military-industrial complex" and noting that the then-still active Missouri was "nuclear capable." (Never mind that it never actually carried nukes.) Because home porting the Missouri would have meant more Bay Area jobs, and eventually the possibility that the ship might become a new San Francisco museum after its decommissioning, I was strongly in favor of home porting. But the City's far left, blindly anti-military establishment would have none of it. I've never forgiven them.

Today, the USS Iowa, around whose design the New Jersey and Missouri were built, sits in mothballs in Suisun Bay, north of San Francisco. There were plans afoot to bring the Iowa to the City as a museum ship, like the New Jersey and the Missouri (now a museum in Hawaii). But, once again, citing resistance to the Iraq war, the San Francisco Board of Stupervisors voted in 2005 against maintaining the Iowa in the City. Fools.

One of my favorite neighborhoods that we visited in Philadelphia is called the Italian Marke t. A few blocks square, the Italian Market is chock full of Italian food and produce stalls, little, old fashioned Italian restaurants, bakeries and coffee houses. But among the area's finer attractions is a mural of the... er... celebrated Italian-American, Frank Rizzo, mayor of Philadelphia from 1972 to 1980. Rizzo is perhaps best remembered, by non-Philadelphians at least, for the line, "I'm gonna make Attila the Hun look like a faggot."

Yo! Why don' choo take a pitcha a dis?

We arrived in the Italian Market during the first snow. It was the first time I had ever seen guys standing around a burning trash can to keep themselves warm. As I raised my camera, one of the local gentry saw me and shouted, "Yo! Why don' choo take a pitcha a dis?" accompanied with a gesture I will only describe as a "Philly Salute." (This is, after all, a family blog.) Well, you can take the goombah out of Philly...

The new Constitution Center is also well worth looking into. Before going into the museum, you're treated to a part-live, part-interactive multimedia show, in which an actor takes you through the early constitutional process and the issues of the day, including slavery. The program struck just the right balance between patriotic zeal and reality, and, I have to admit, it left me fighting back the mist once or twice.

Gettysburg

2009-01-08T12:37:00.001-08:00

In which we visit the site of the battle that turned the tide

Winter is, I think, the best time to visit the site of the great Battle of Gettysburg. Though the battle took place on a hot summer's day, the Pennsylvania wintertime, with its slanted light that gleams through the spidery branches of the slumbering trees, offers the hallowed feel of the inside of a great cathedral. One cannot help but feel reverence here, especially at this time of year.
Of the 165,620 men who fought at Gettysburg, on both the Union and Confederate sides, between July 1 and July 4, 1863, 7,863 were killed outright, 27,224 were wounded (many to die of their wounds later) and 11,199 went missing or were captured. The National Park Service's Gettysburg National Military Park is a fitting memorial to their sacrifice.

You enter the park through the spiffy new Visitor's Center, where helpful park volunteers show you the various tours and educational offerings available. Be sure and see the multimedia film presentation and by all means don't miss the Gettysburg Cyclorama. This is a massive, 540-foot long circular canvas painted by the French artist, Paul Philippoteaux, in the 1880s. It depicts the battle at the time of Pickett's Charge and includes more than 20,000 painted characters. A brief but moving presentation of changing light and sound takes viewers through the battle and the painting, highlighting many of its details. Apparently, cycloramas like these were a popular form of entertainment in the 1800s -- the iMax of the Victorian age, if you will. It was said that when veteran survivors of the battle first viewed the Cyclorama, many broke down and wept. I can see why.

After the Cyclorama presentation, visitors are ushered into the museum, which takes you through the political issues at stake, traces the saga of the war and then goes into detail about the battle and the lives of some of its key participants. Both the multimedia presentation at the beginning and the opening exhibits in the museum stress, rightly, the centrality of the slavery issue as the lead cause of the war. It's very fashionable today among some to say that the Civil War was not really about slavery; that there were other issues more pertinent, such as tariffs. But, as I once heard historian and documentary film maker, Ken Burns, say during a radio interview in which he was asked this question (and I paraphrase): "The Civil War was absolutely about slavery. It was the central issue of the time and the thing that tore the Union apart. In order to preserve the Union, slavery had to end."

But one can only see so many Sharp's Carbines, cavalry sabres and sets of epaulets before one grows weary, so we sped through the latter half of the museum and headed out to the battlefield, recently restored "as closely as possible" to its 1863 appearance. The Battlefield at Gettysburg is huge, stretching for miles. You would need days, a backpack, a tent and a good pair of hiking boots to see it all on foot. The self-guided auto tour is best. This snakes around some 14 miles of road to all the various points of interest -- Little Round Top, Devil's Den, Culp's Hill, the Bloody Wheatfield and so on.

Be sure to stop at the Lee statue. There, you can you can look directly across to where General Mead sat his horse -- and see the depression in the ground across which Lee flung his men in the gambit that would one day come to be known as Pickett's Charge, Lee's last, desperate -- and ultimately futile -- attempt to win the day for Old Dix. You can see what a horrible cauldron of death this shallow little depression in the ground must have become that day as Pickett's doomed men trudged slowly through the smoke and heat into the withering fire of Union rifle and canon. Food for powder.

Along the route, each unit, Blue and Gray alike, has its own monument, a tribute to the honor, courage and sacrifice of the men who fought and fell.

So moving in the eerie winter's twilight.

Frisco 1, Philly 0

2009-01-06T09:51:00.000-08:00

In which we claim bragging rights

Took a brief sojourn back east over the New Year to visit the City of Brotherly Love: Philadelphia, PA (of which more anon). While gallivanting around the Old City I got to thinking that I should find and visit Philly's oldest tavern. Philadelphia being as old as it is -- and the very cradle of American liberty itself -- I reckoned that the city's oldest tavern must be venerable indeed, perhaps dating back to the 18th, or even the late 17th, century.

So I stopped in at the first bar I came to and asked the question, "What's the oldest bar in Philadelphia and were may I find it?" The universal response from this pleasant, working class dive's patronage was "McGillin's Old Ale House on Drury Street."

A couple days later we found the joint on the corner of Drury and 13th, between Sansom and Chestnut. Over the bar hangs the original signpost, dating back to 1860, when the bar was named "The Bell in Hand." Indeed, the signpost was in the form of a carved wooden arm and hand swinging a bell.

I was surprised, though, that in a city that dates back to the 1680s -- when William Penn first chartered the nascent town -- that oldest bar dates from just 1860. My own San Francisco, a comparatively new city, the original Presidio of which dates back only to 1776, boasts watering holes dating back to the Miner 49er days.

So we've got you beat on that one, Philly.

Though of venerable provenance, McGillin's today caters largely to a college "binge drinking" crowd. When we were there awaiting our dinner and enjoying our pre-prandial drinks, for example, a fellow at a raucous table near ours leaned back in his chair and promptly fell over like a drunken buffoon. (I may love drinking, but I do despise drunks.) The jukebox was too loud, making the overall noise level all but intolerable. But the pub fare wasn't bad for what it is (we had the cheese steaks, natch).

McGillin's Old Ale House
Philadelphia, PA

Pluses: It's the oldest bar in Philly
Minuses: College crowd; obnoxiously loud music and patrons; drunks requiring oversized bouncers to keep them in check

Overall Rating: ♠ ♠ 1/2

San Francisco's Most Venerable Watering Holes

2008-12-21T19:37:00.000-08:00

In which we provide an at-a-glance guide

One of the things I most enjoy about living in The City is the feeling that one is living in and among -- and being in some small way -- a part of, history. The bars and taverns listed below help that feeling greatly.

Tadich Grill
1849
Financial District: California between Front & Battery
The Tadich is not only the city's oldest restaurant and bar but is also one of the oldest businesses in California. Famous for its specialty dish, Hangtown Fry -- a fried oyster omelette -- and its seafood, the Tadich is the ultimate three-martini lunch spot for the city's old school power brokers.

Old Ship Saloon
1851
Jackson Square: Pacific at Battery
Run aground on Alcatraz Island in 1849, the three-masted sailing ship, Arkansas, was later beached on the north shore of Yerba Buena Cove. Then, in 1851, a businessman named Joe Anthony cut a door in the side of the hulk's hull and opened the Old Ship Ale House. Soon, landfill had locked the ship in place and a sailor's home was built on her deck. In 1859, part of the ship that still showed above ground was removed and a brick hotel built in its place. The structure underwent several incarnations, including a speakeasy and brothel. In 1999, the place underwent a complete overhaul -- which, the bar's website claims, included "nice, clean bathrooms." This is probably why a visit here can be a little disappointing. With such great history behind it, one would expect to feel history here. Yet, perhaps due to this scouring, all one really feels is that one has entered just another sports bar, despite the presence of a Clamper plaque out front.

Old Clam House
1858
The Bayview: Corner of Bayshore & Oak
A bit out of the way but worth the trip. The Old Clam House is real, Olde School, German-Irish San Francisco.

The Saloon
1861
North Beach: Corner of Grant & Fresno, near Columbus
This place is a right royal dive of epic provenance. It's a good place to hear live blues and cloyingly loud jazz. The bartenders are curt to the point of rudeness and if you're not careful you can get shivved by a Hell's Angel. Great place.

The Elixir
1863
The Mission: Corner of 16th & Guerrero
A saloon with a real Old West feel, the Elixir once used to sport a little cigar store up front. A good friend mine, Ed, works the bar there on many nights and is a veritable fountain of neighborhood gossip.

Jack's
1864
Financial District: Sacramento near Montgomery
Never been there. They tell me it's nice. Today it's a high-end restaurant under the queeny rubric "Jeanty at Jacks."

Sam's Grill
1867
Union Square: Bush between Kearny & Montgomery
Authentic 19th century San Francisco, though there's not much action at the little bar which is mostly used as a service bar.

Maxfield's
1875
The Palace Hotel (and if you don't know where that is you shouldn't live here)
Named after the painter Maxfield Parrish, whose "Pied Piper of Hamlin" mural adorns the back-bar, Maxfield's was originally called "The Pied Piper." The original Piper, along with the original Palace Hotel and most of The City, was destroyed in the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906. During Prohibition, Maxfield's pretended to be an ice cream parlor, while serving drinks to "gentlemen" in a secret room in the back. Today it's a good place to see in-town and out-of-town power brokers.

Fior d'Italia
1886
North Beach: Mason near Francisco
Billed as the West Coast's oldest Italian restaurant, Fior d'Italia did yeoman's work by serving meals in tents after the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 destroyed the building. Good, solid Italian fare though a little pricey.

The Little Shamrock
1893
Inner Sunset: Lincoln at 9th Ave.
While phony-baloney "Irish pubs" have multiplied like gerbils in the last several years all over The City, there are still a few legitimate blarney bars around where one can enjoy a little gift o' the gab with one's pint. The Little Shamrock is one of them, and one of the best.

Schroeder's Cafe
1893
Financial District: Front between Sacramento & California
San Francisco's original Bavarian Alps dining experience, Schroeder's is decorated with colorful murals that would make Heidi herself proud. The place boasts a lively bar which is packed at lunchtime with businessmen dying for a liquid escape from the office.

House of Shields
1908
Financial District, New Montgomery across the street from the Palace Hotel
One of the late great Charles McCabe's favorite watering holes -- though, admittedly, these were legion -- the House of Shields is all old smoke-stained wood, tile, and brass. It's now frequented by a bit of a downscale crowd that includes your bike messenger types. Also, the new owners have committed a capital sin by not being open at lunch. But go for the decor at least once.

The Hotel Utah
1908
South of Market: 4th St. at Bryant
This saloon was first opened by a family named Deninger who commissioned furniture makers in Belgium to design and build the ornate back-bar and has been the haunt of scallawags of all stripes -- "gamblers, thieves, ladies up to no good, politicians, hustlers, friends of opium, goldseekers, godseekers, charlatans, police, fancy miscreants," as the Hotel's website says. I used to go there for punk rock shows in the 1980s. In this place, authentic, eccentric San Francisco abides.

The Buena Vista
1916
The Wharf: Hyde at Beach, across from the Hyde St. Railroad terminus
Any saloon that holds claim to be the birthplace of the Irish Coffee is bound to be touristy. Never mind. Go for the Irish, and stay for the view. It's a nice respite when you're down at Aquatic Park, perhaps perusing model ships at the Maritime Museum, or after you've had a swim at the Dolphin Club.