Show review: Jeff Mangum at GAMH

Jeff Mangum had a band called Neutral Milk Hotel back in the late 90's and made some weird experimental folk albums and was largely ignored and then went away. This would likely have been the end of the story, with the band and its albums known only to music geeks and people in other bands, except in 2005 Domino Records re-released the album "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" and Pitchfork gave it a 10 and then everybody was interested in Neutral Milk Hotel and Jeff Mangum again. He responded to this newfound interest by doing nothing. (Well, he did occasionally appear on friends' bands' albums and at their shows, but not enough so that it could be said he was really doing something.)

Then all of a sudden last year he started playing shows again. And touring. He's going to play at Coachella this year, which for some reason seems very odd to me, I guess because his songs are strange and deeply personal and Coachella seems loud and hot and big and not deeply personal.

ANYWAY, last night he played at the Great American Music Hall here in San Francisco and we went to see it because I'm both a music geek and a person in another band and I've really liked his music for a long time. Although NMH's recorded stuff is a wild mix of instrumentation, with stuff like accordions and lengths of metal pipe and saws and God knows what else, for this show it was mostly Mangum and a series of acoustic guitars and occasionally some horns. He seemed comfortable and at ease on stage, which I was mildly surprised by because supposedly he's kind of a loon. But he bantered easily with the audience and seemed to be enjoying himself. He tore through most (or all, maybe?) of "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" and threw in some other stuff as well.



And the crowd! Reverential is putting it mildly. This was maybe the first show I've ever been to where no one talked during the quiet parts. Sure, everybody sang along during the loud parts but it seemed oddly fitting and normal. But beyond just singing the words, the crowd went one better and hummed the horn parts that were missing on some songs. Intense.

He's playing tonight and tomorrow night at the Fox in Oakland, if you're interested. I have no idea if the shows are sold out or what, but worth a shot.

I Thought She Was an I, But She Was Really a K

Here's my new song! Hope you guys like it. I just realized that it won't make any sense if you don't live in SF. So to my non-SF readers, sorry. Just play along like you know what's going on.

I Thought She Was an I, But She Was Really a K

By TK

I met her one Sunday in line for Boogaloos
Ritual or Four Barrel, it's so hard to choose
She said she was an installer of experimental art
I told her I lived near 16th and Mission BART

CHORUS:

I thought she was an I but she was really a K
The parking permit on her bumper gave her away
With her tattoos and taste in brews I thought we'd be alright
But no, she was a secret K masquerading as an I

That night we were at my place; things were going fine
Smoking up some weed and drinking up some wine
I asked her if she lived nearby and she said "Oh no,"
"I'm not from the Mission. I live in Cow Hollow."

CHORUS

My worldview was shaken; my vision went awry
I felt like our time together was built upon a lie
She wasn't wearing yoga pants and didn't look all LA
So how could I have figured out that she was a K?

CHORUS

Now and then I'll see her drinking at the Lat
Talking to her Marina friends about how they're not fat
Maybe I'm superficial but it feels OK
At least I didn't get stuck accidentally marrying a K

CHORUS

The scene: my house. The year: 1940.

It was like Spring Break for history nerds (History/English double major here WHAT WHAT) the other day when the US government released the Census Records from 1940. For a city as past-obsessed and navel-gazing as San Francisco, it was truly a gift like no other. We all immediately set out to find out WHO WAS LIVING IN OUR PLACE IN 1940. Burrito Justice is already on this, of course, since he is to San Francisco mapping and history on the Internet what I am to snark and reality shows.

Look, here's a sample sheet from my neighborhood:


I know, hard to read, huh? You can go look them up yourself if you want. Anyway, from this sheet we can see that Samuel and Effie Boukard lived at 127 Stanyan in 1940. He was an automobile salesman and made $500 in 1939. That's not very much, even by 1939 standards. Better step your game, Samuel Boukard!

So obvi, I immediately went and found the people that lived in my house. Now, if I just go off and use their real names, it'll take you about 5 minutes to cross-reference them with the 1940 San Francisco City Directory and then you'll know where I live and that'll be uncomfortable for all of us because for all I know I'll come home one day and you'll be sitting on my front step smiling and running your fingers over the blade of your razor-sharp scimitar and mumbling "My pretty, my pretty" to yourself. AWKWARD. So I have to change their names, but other info is accurate.

I had a whole family in there! Let's call them the Feldmans. Dad Max was a 58-year-old immigrant from Russia and Mom Annie was a 56-year-old from Lithuania. Annie tells the Census taker they have 4 kids at home, ranging in age from 28 to 16! Now, I know my place because I live there, and it's spacious enough, but not spacious enough for 6 people. "OY!!" Max says. "ALWAYS SO MANY OF YOU UNDERFOOT!"

Max is a "homepainter" and made exactly $0 on 1939. At least that's what Annie told the Enumerator! For all these guys know, the Enumerator works for the IRS. Max is making his money under the table, you know it. Then, as now, I bet you anything homepainting is a cash-preferred business.

Oldest daughter Sofia is a "book-keeper" for a "Home Owner's Loan Corporation." Other daughter Rosa is a restaurant cashier. At least someone's working for the family!

Then we have the strange case of the youngest son Leo, who was 16 in 1940. Annie tells the Enumerator that he's living at home in my house. But wait! According to the City Directory, he lives over on Russian Hill with Maria Feldman, who doesn't appear on the census form! What the hell! Who's Maria and why has she spirited away young 16-year-old Leo!?

Maria is obviously the slightly crazy free spirit who couldn't take Max's oppressive rules and rigid guidelines. So she moved out and got her own place. Then one day Leo skips school to hit a San Francisco Seals game (that 1940 team had the awesomely named WIN BALLOU) and Max hit the roof. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU LITTLE SHMENDREK!? GOING TO BASEBALL GAMES INSTEAD OF SCHOOL!!" So Leo says "Fine! I'll go live with Maria then!" and slams my front door and storms out. Max looks at Annie and sighs wearily.

(Incidentally, the real Max died in 1970, at the age of 87, still in San Francisco. Mazel tov, Max.)

UPDATE: WBTC did hers too.

Don't pull me over Mr. Officer

I know we have a lot of fun here and I try to usually steer away from Political Stuff because (1) it's usually more depressing than funny and (2) umm, it's just depressing, but let's do take a moment here to note that while we weren't paying attention we slowly started living in a fucking police state.

Exhibit A:

Supreme Court: Strip searches, even for minor offenses

Siding with security needs over privacy rights, the Supreme Court ruled Monday that jailers may subject people arrested for minor offenses to invasive strip searches.

By a 5-4 vote, the court rejected a challenge from a New Jersey man who argued it's unconstitutional to force everyone to strip down for inspection. Albert Florence was arrested by a state trooper because of an error in the state's records that mistakenly said he was wanted on an outstanding warrant for an unpaid fine. Even if the warrant had been valid, failure to pay a fine is not a crime in New Jersey.

Florence was held for a week in two different jails before the charges were dropped. But at each jail, he was required to shower with delousing soap and undergo a strip search.

Let me repeat: Florence was held for a week in two different jails. And got strip-searched twice. For no fucking reason at all. And that's just fine with the United States Supreme Court.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that the total number of United States Supreme Court justices who have been strip-searched is at or near 0. I've never been strip-searched either, and I don't particularly want to be, but I imagine it's a singularly unpleasant experience, ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING WRONG.

Pair this little gem up with a case a few years ago called Atwater v. City of Lago Vista, where the Supreme Court held that's it's fine to arrest you and take you into custody for a traffic offense that carries no jail time and now it's cool for the cops to arrest you for, say, jaywalking, take you to jail, and strip-search you. YAY AMERICA. Feel safe now?

Oh, here's part of their rationale:

"One of the terrorists involved in the September 11 attacks was stopped and ticketed for speeding just two days before hijacking Flight 93."

9/11. It's the gift that never stops giving. Anything the government wants to do to you can be justified by just saying the magic numbers "9" and "11." The terrorists fucking won, all right.

Exhibit B:

Illinois Traffic Stop Of Star Trek Fans Raises Concerns About Drug Searches, Police Dogs, Bad Cops

Not sure why it's important that this happened to a "Star Trek fan," but that's not really the point. This is the point:

Last December, filmmaker Terrance Huff and his friend Jon Seaton were returning to Ohio after attending a "Star Trek" convention in St. Louis. As they passed through a small town in Illinois, a police officer, Michael Reichert, pulled Huff's red PT Cruiser over to the side of the road, allegedly for an unsafe lane change. Over the next hour, Reichert interrogated the two men, employing a variety of police tactics civil rights attorneys say were aimed at tricking them into giving up their Fourth Amendment rights. Reichert conducted a sweep of Huff's car with a K-9 dog, then searched Huff's car by hand. Ultimately, he sent Huff and Seaton on their way with a warning.

The whole article is worth reading, as it's a dramatic example of what happens when the War on Drugs affects white people. Replace "Star Trek fans" with "any black person" and it's something that happens every day in America. Anyway, whatever gets this kind of BS noticed.

This really shouldn't even be a political or partisan issue. I would hope that even Tea Party types would realize that the "freedom" and "liberty" they claim to revere is getting taken away every day by the invocation of two words: "terrorism" and "drugs." We are all truly fucked.

(Title ref: a true classic.)

UPDATE: So timely, DEA and IRS!

Based on some secondhand info, let's rage about the ways the Giants have fucked up the ballpark this year

Apparently there is some kind of ballpark tour for Important Twitter Accounts Other Than Me right now, because @SFGiantsFans keeps sending TROUBLING and DISTURBING updates about New Features at AT&T Park. Like this:

The #SFGiants have a new Corona Beach Club seating area with sand on the 1st base side. NO BEACH BALLS ALLOWED!

— San Francisco Giants (@SFGiantsFans) March 29, 2012

Ugh. Ugh. "Corona Beach Club"? Fucking FUCK ME. What is this, a park where baseball is played or an episode of "90210: The Dissolute Alcoholic Post-College Years"? "Corona Beach Clubs" are for stadiums in San Diego or Phoenix where no one's pretending to watch the game anyway. We come to AT&T Park to watch the Giants team play the baseball, not sit in some crappy beer company's themed sand-filled seating area and drink their crappy beer.

I expect the Corona Beach Club to be especially fun on Tuesday nights in July when it's 56 degrees with 20 mph winds and fog blowing over the walls like smoke from yet another uncontrolled PG&E manhole explosion. WHERE'S YOUR BOARD SHORTS BRAH.

This is San Francisco, motherfucker! Instead of this bullshit, we need something like the "Herbal Remedy Weed Club," featuring a thick forest of prime Kush and a vaporizer and a little stereo that plays the Dead show at Cornell 5-8-77 on constant repeat.

Or how about this:

AT&T Park has a new 'hip' outdoor area in the Virgin America Club Level behind sec 229 & 230 w/ a Widmer Brothers Fan Haus bar! #SFGiants

— San Francisco Giants (@SFGiantsFans) March 29, 2012

First of all, anything called "hip" is inevitably whatever the opposite of "hip" is. Secondly, as all Club Level Smokers know, the outdoor area they're talking about was pretty much the last place you could sneak a smoke in the park. Now that will be gone and if you want to smoke a cig between innings, you're gonna have to go all the way out the O'Doul Gate like all the other losers. But hey, at least we'll have a "HIP OUTDOOR AREA." Not like anyone wants to watch, oh, I don't know, a BASEBALL GAME or anything.

Whatever, I'll still be there.

Hey, second blog post of the day! I'm making up for all that time I wasn't posting much.

New Bar Night: Undisclosed Location

I've been going out to bars in San Francisco for more than 20 years. I used to keep a list of every bar I went to. There were around 150 places on it when I quit keeping it. Of course, back in those days, I was going out 3 or 4 times a week, which I don't even come close to any more, but whatever. The point is, I think I have a pretty good handle on The Bars of San Francisco. If you name a place, I've probably either been there or at least have heard of it.

So I'm always surprised when I come across a place I've never even heard of. Especially in the Inner Richmond. I mean, I'm sure there are places in Portola or Ingleside or whatever that I've never heard of. But the IR is well-traveled ground, and it would be hard to hide a bar there, or so I thought.

I first passed this place on one of my perambulations around the new neighborhood and was immediately struck by the exterior because it looked like it was either time-traveled from 1955 or was built by set designers to look like one of those South Boston bars from "The Departed" or "Gone Baby Gone." Old, apparently hand-painted sign. Only small windows set well above eye level. Beer signs and Irish geegaws in the window. I had walked by it on a Wednesday night and it was definitely closed. I looked through the window and saw a pool table and that was about all I could see.

I was intrigued! What the hell! The place had a few Yelp reviews (mostly positive), but way less than other IR places. I was starting to think it had closed down.

So last Friday, The Wife and I went by there. The door was closed but the sign was lit up so we tried the door and what do you know, it was open. It was pretty much exactly what you'd expect. Smallish, lots of Irish stuff on the walls, that particular Old Bar Smell. The bartender was a matriarchal type from Ireland and as soon as she found out The Wife was from Ireland too we didn't pay for any drinks. I ended up leaving like $15 on the bar. I think she charged us for the first round and that was it.

All regulars, of course, except for a couple of people who straggled in to play pool. Pretty much your classic San Francisco Irish Dive.

If the place has been under the radar this long, far be for me to blow it up. I'm sure we'll be back there.

Have a good weekend, everybody! Look for me at the Cesar Chavez Day Parade tomorrow!

I can't do it.

I used to recap Mad Men. No more. I'm already sick of reading about last night's episode just from this morning's 1-hour jaunt around the Internet. I can't imagine that I would have anything novel or interesting to say about Zou Bisou Bisou, except that it reminded me of this:



So if you somehow need to read more about Mad Men, just turn on the Internet. It's fucking EVERYWHERE.

(I will make the following observations, which do not count as recapping in any way:

- Did Lane and that chick just invent phone sex?
- Don's apartment!
- Is there not as much smoking as there used to be?
- Is that another new Bobby? I can't even tell any more.)