From what I'm told, getting thrown out of The Uptown into the dark underworld of drug abuse and prostitution (aka Capp St) is a rite of passage for any 'Mission Hipster.'  Once a guiding light in a sea of chaos, The Uptown has transformed itself into the intersection between a clogged Dolores Park toilet and a chichi Tijuanna donkey show.  That is to say, I love the place.  But getting ejected from a bar with that has urine-scented couches for seating is hard work.

Take one Friday evening some weekends ago. By the time I walked in the door at 11pm, I was told there had already been four fist fights, a pool cue snapped in half in an effort to procure a weapon, and someone had their cane confiscated by the bartender for repeatedly beating people with it.  Yet, no one was asked to get the fuck out.

Let that soak in for a minute.  Some cripple was stripped of his right to mobility for relentlessly bashing people with his gimp stick, but the bartender was good with everyone staying put.

Clearly, getting tossed was going to be no easy task.

After procuring my eviction elixir of choice (tequila, with a Tecate back, naturally), I sat my peace, love, and cruelty-free vegetarian ass down in a puddle of piss-warm beer (let's be honest, it was probably piss) on the bench next to my friends.

“I dunno what you're talking about,” I tell my thoroughly entertained friends. “Everything seems pretty chill.”

“Just wait, this game of pool is about to end.  Some motherfucker is definitely getting punched.”

And right they were.  Within minutes, two guys had leapt to their feet, ripping their shirts from their bodies sending buttons flying everywhere.  But the scene had become so commonplace that the bored bystanders couldn't even be bothered to watch as shit unfolded.  It wasn't until the two actually started sparring that someone jumped in to break them up.

At this point, the bartender silently popped her head into the room, glared, and went back to slangin' drinks.  The gladiators dressed themselves with their tattered rags and retreated to social comfort of their respective crews.

That was the story of the night.  People started shit, the bartender-cum-substitute teacher pussyfooted around the situation, and so on and so on.  No one was getting asked to leave.  No sir—no way.  Fights?  Pssh, people get shot, like, for real outside.  Who gives a fuck about some swinging fists?

But then some crazy psycho girlfriendpersonsomething came into the picture and bros'll-be-bros turned to bona fide shitshow.

Whoever said whatever to her is unbeknownst to me, but the blonde-haired twig-like CCA-wannabe lost her shit.  Grabbing everyone's drink in the vicinity, at least a dozen in total, she started throwing them at her boyfriend's feet, shattering every single glass on the ground in a spectacular display of inaccuracy and athletic ineptitude.

As the lovers barked at each other, the courageous bartender came over, janitorial gear in tow, and politely requested the pair “calm down” as she swept up the mess.  But such a request was denied—denied!—by the Bonnie and Clyde of shitbaggery.  The dude, ever so offended, pulled his pants down to show what he thought of the fucking place while the bartender escaped back to the bar:

One samaritan, rightfully concerned by the shards of glass everywhere, approached a nearby dog owner to warn her about the paw-mangling hazard and suggest she carry her pup out.  The conversation carried on friendlily enough when outta no where the human puppy lighthouse was shoved. Then punched.  Then pushed up against the wall.

“MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

The girlfriend was back and mad as hell: how dare someone point out the aftermath her glass-shattering aggression?

My idiot friends and I traded looks that silently communicated, “Maybe this shit is starting to get out of line?,” and “I'm pretty sure Bender's doesn't have a cover tonight.”  With that, we started chugging back our beers to make an exit.

Then, another roar at the pool table.  The couple, once again bored with battering strangers, were trading smacks.  Shit was getting tired—these guys needed to fuck it out and get over it.  So, like the adults we are, we spontaneously started chanting “FUCK! FUCK!” at the quarreling sweethearts.  The back of the bar agreed, anxiously hoping anger would make way for an unplanned amateur Kink.com iPhone shoot, and quickly jumped in on the chant.

Right then and there, the bartender leapt over the bar, right index finger snarling in my direction, “You! Get the fuck out!”

“Me?  ME?! Take one look around…”

But who am I to argue with the authority of a bartender?  So I threw up my hands in the most exaggeratedly perplexed way possible and headed towards the door.

As I made my way out of the bar and looked back at the psychotic CCA lover trying to choke the life out of her shitbag messenger boyfriend on the pool table, I realized I finally made it—I finally had been kicked out of The Uptown.  By doing almost nothing at all, I accidentially cracked the code for what it takes to get tossed.  I didn't need to punch anyone or destroy bar property or touch my bum to the furniture; all it took was whipping a thirsty mob into a demanding chant for a public display of hate sex.

The seemingly impossible task of getting booted out of the shittest Mission dive happened.  A true life achievement unlocked on an otherwise hollow Friday night.

After all, it's not every day you get thrown out of the bar you named your blog after…

A bunch of Sirron Norris' murals around 20th and Bryant were destroyed over the weekend, with one shitty tag claiming his work “is not art.”

Mission Local emailed Norris about it and got this back:

“At this point, I don’t much care — nothing is safe anymore. It doesn’t matter if you write graffiti or paint a youth-based or community-based mural — it’s all up for grabs in this very disrespectful world we now live in. These kids, just like the Internet, have these anonymous passive-aggressive ways of being cruel and it sucks. But I accept it, and as an adult of 39 years, I can’t go around battling little kids.”

Yup. It has most certainly been a bad year for Mission murals.

[Pic by Sirron Norris]

The beloved 24th Street Mr. Burbujas mural, featuring the iconic anthropomorphic buff dancing washing machine discharging some serious bubbles in front of a GIANT LOADS sign, has been dealing with vandalism problems over the last few years.  But the owners—bless their hearts—persistently repaired the mural, keeping one of the last great icons of Mission District whimsy and wonder alive.

However, sometime in the last four days, they said “fuck it” and just buffed most of it out.  Outrage!

Now, one must speculate as to whether they intend to repaint/update the mural or not, especially given that they chose not to paint over the entire thing, notably leaving the tee-hee-dick-jokes GIANT LOADS sign fully intact.  And let's hope they do.  But in the meantime, Mr. Bubbles' untimely and unnecessary death must be avenged, preferably by firebombing the Benjamin Moore across the street.

(And here's Mr. Bubbles in better, cleaner days:)

[Second photo by Joe Schumacher]

Note: the contents of this post have been removed at the snarling request of the business owner, but you can read more about the eviction at SFMOMA's Open Space blog.