Haters

Ed Lee's Free Speech Problem

It sure didn't take long for SF Mayor Ed Lee to crash the Chick-fil-A blocking party.  After Chicago and Boston mayors Emanuel and Menino announced they would move to prevent the terrible and homophobic Southern Baptist restaurant chain from opening within their cities, Ed Lee threw his facial hair in the ring, tweeting his disappointment in business's lack of “San Francisco values” towards marriage equality.

And I'm sure we can all agree that the business's anti-gay stance is, to put it lightly, “disappointing.”  But it was Lee's next tweet—a thinly-veiled threat that he'd also block any Chick-fil-As from moving into SF—that gives me the chills.

Take this into consideration: Chick-fil-A President Dan Cathy expressed some pretty backwards opinions on civil rights, but as Salon noted, “aside from the fact that Chick-fil-A is always closed on Sunday, there’s no evidence those [anti-gay beliefs] have been institutionalized in any way. There’s no record of refusing service to gay patrons, or unfair hiring practices, or a hostile work environment.”

Effectually, Ed Lee is reserving himself the right to veto any business from operating in the city solely because he disagrees with the opinions of its owner.  That's shady, and significantly more alarming than the fact that a chain restaurant that is closed on Sundays doesn't support gay-marriage.

Do we want to entrust a man who was elected mayor by less than 8.5% of the city's population, with political enemies on both the right and left, to decide what businesses can and cannot open within our limits based on whom he agrees with?  Do we want to live in a city in which our mayor curbs our rights based on what we say and how we feel? And what about the 25% of San Franciscans that voted in favor of Prop 8? Are they not allowed to open businesses in the city which they live?

That's not to say San Francisco should welcome any Chick-fil-As with open arms.  We are a smart and informed city that knows when to boycott and protest a terrible business, but as citizens.

Rest assured, should they ever open a franchise in the city, we would loudly greet them with puke-ins and “Eat Mor Cock” signs.  And that's exactly the point.  As the city that praises free expression and protest to the point we celebrate gross old men being nude in public because “that's their right,” we should be comfortable with confronting the opinions of those whom we wholeheartedly disagree.

I'm sure Ed Lee's approval rating and Klout score saw a bump after making the threats, but what's good for the polls is not necessary right, or legal.  Taking away someone's right to free speech to promote the rights of another is not a San Francisco value.  It's a shame the mayor does not agree.

Tartine is Bull-Shheet

That's what Starbucks' Pascal Rigo has to say about everyone's preferred morning bun purveyor in a rather mouthy interview with SF Magazine:

“[San Francisco] is the only place in the world where a bakery will make money by having bread at five o’clock in the afternoon. And it’s what—40 or 50 loaves, and each one costs seven bucks? It’s good, yes, but to call it a bakery … it’s bull-sheet.”

Read on for his thoughts on foodie bloggers, his “fuck nos” to the seasonal/locavore/organic-types, and other such nonsense.

[via Grub Street | Photo by Zoe Banks]

Mayor Ed Lee to Get Tough on Dolores Park Hooligans

Our democratically-appointed executive mustache has had enough of the vandalism of late in Dolores Park's new playground, and he's not taking it anymore.  According to Mission Local, Mayor Lee outlined plan to combat vandalism in Dolores Park at yesterday's Board of Supervisors meeting:

  • The Parks and Recreation Department is working with food vendors and bicycle rental companies to offer “happy park uses.”
  • The San Francisco Police Department will hire nine park patrol officers (citywide.)
  • The police chief will tell his officers to enforce property crimes.
  • Once arrested, [the DA] will work to prosecute these criminals to the full extent of the law,” Lee said.
  • Work with judges who dismiss vandalism cases and educate them on the importance of prosecution. “I see far too many [cases] dismissed,” he said.
  • A graffiti specialist is currently developing leads to apprehend the vandals.

This sounds very similar to SFPD's plan to curb the so-called “out of control” behavior in Dolores, so draw whatever conclusions you will about this new anti-vandalism drumbeat.

[Photo by Mysteriosio]

Legalize the Tamale Lady!

Did you know that a bar owner could face 90 days in prison for allowing the Tamale Lady to feed us delicious food while we're all drunk and hungry?  It's true, according to the Chronicle:

But under current city law, [Tom Madonna], who owns Shotwell's bar on 20th Street in the Mission District, could be tossed in jail for 90 days and fined $500 for allowing the Tamale Lady, Virginia Ramos, or other vendors to sell food on his premises.

The police have never tried to bust him for the misdemeanor offense, but as long as the law remains on the books, they could.

Luckily, Sup. Scott Wiener, who seems to be targeting the foodie demographic for whatever political campaign he intends on running in the future, is looking to repeal the law—which he should. Now. Because any law that keeps me from eating junk food from buckets has got to go.

[Photo by Fabuloid]

The Source of All of the Mission's Nighttime Woes are a Gourmet Cheese Shop, Apparently

TROUBLEMAKERS

When I think of the throngs of young drunk hooligans merrymaking down Valencia every weekend, all hootin' and hollerin' and making a gawddamned ruckus, I think of gourmet cheese.  One other neighbor agrees with that and took their complaint right up with the California Alcoholic Beverage Control, which denied Mission Cheese with a permit to stay open as late as 10pm.

Mission Cheese owner Sarah Dvorak explains in a statement to Mission Local:

Our current beer & wine permit only allows us to serve until 8 pm. We had to wait one year from the date our license was granted to apply to amend our hours. We want to stay open until 10, at least on Friday & Saturday evenings. We are constantly turning away disappointed potential customers when we close at 8. Some even think we’re joking when we say we are closed.

Last week we were visited by the SFPD who told us they were happy to have us in the neighborhood & should have no trouble getting the extra hours. Today I received a call that they will be denying our request because one individual in the 100 ft radius believes our business to be disruptive as is. Apparently one person is enough to deny the request.

Don't worry though, Sarah can take it up with a judge, who'll reexamine the case and consider making an exemption.  Until then, enjoy your quiet, cheese fart-free streets.

[Photo by Jen Rizzo]

There Were No Winners at the Mr. Mission Competition

I don't think it's necessary to drive home the fact that last night's Mr. Mission Competition at Elbo Room was inherently lame—that was fairly obvious.  But being inherently lame myself, I went to check it out anyway.

It began like any other quality event begins: with your author pounding back multiple margaritas while dozens of people stood in line for 45 minutes, waiting for the doors to open behind schedule.  And after growing tired of watching people wait in line, all bored and boozed up, I decided it was time to walk past the overwhelmed door guy and head upstairs.  Let the games begin:

Upon hitting the event floor, my senses were overwhelmed by the scent of cleanliness and the giggles of weirdos drinking their first PBR since college.  To break it down, the crowd was an interesting mix of roughly 15% snarky bloggers, 15% innocent bystanders, 10% participants and their entourages, and 60% Pinterest enthusiasts.  But I guess that's the demographics of Valencia Street nowadays, so no big.

The pre-event was largely defined by the entrants schmoozing the crowd, playing skee-ball, and having a good time.  And things were definitely looking up for the competition.  But then it started.

It kicked off with a dude in a red bandana that I'm pretty sure isn't a Norteño introducing the DJ and event judges: Gabi Moskowitz of BrokeAss Gourmet, stand-up comic and genius Twitter user Alison Stevenson, and some other chick.  The crowd seemed none too pleased with the judges, entirely withholding their applause.  I assumed this was a cue to boo said judges, but that just ended up being an embarrassing social faux pas.  But I digress.

The MC then turned his attention to the contestants, all of whom approached the stage by strutting themselves up a lesser-human-lined runway (with the exception of Mission icon Deep, who rode his adult-sized tricycle up).  While this portion was fairly unremarkable, credit has to go out to skeeball champ Joey the Cat for rocking a full tiger-print suit and Corner Store George for approaching the store with a posse in tow, as if he was about the wrestle the shit out of everyone else.

The competition started off with a track stand contest, which is when the event took an immediate turn into suspect territory.  Four of the six competitors struggled to stay atop the bike for more than two or three seconds—one contestant looked like he had never even ridden a bike before.  But the other two passed the test, with the clear winner flipping the audience off in celebration.

Our attention then turned to street food—a bacon-wrapped hot dog guzzling contest. This was gross as shit, but one contestant opted to forgo the calories and spend the allotted time slowly dressing up his dog in condiments, a move wildly applauded by the foodie types.

But, to be brutally honest, the show was becoming overwhelmingly unbearable at this point.  The games felt more like a “cool dad” contest than what would define The king of the neighborhood.  I kept thinking of what these guys should be subjected to, like:

  • Best criticism of a bicycle.
  • Superior illogical hatred of the Marina.
  • Who can list the most street names for cocaine in 60 seconds?
  • Best freestyle rap battle against an inanimate object.
  • Who has the least amount of money in their wallet?
  • Most apathetic sense of style.
  • DJ Dance Party: best 20 minute dance mix.
  • Most revolting reaction to a free Chipotle burrito.

But instead, they were readying themselves for a Dolores Park summer fashion show, so I got on the fuck outta there.

Gawker: Food Critics RUINED Mission Chinese Food

UNLEASH THE FURY:

We live in a world of restaurant review oversaturation. The second some cool new place like Mission Chinese Food in San Francisco is discovered, its swarming with writers at the Times, Bon Appetit, GQ, and any other place that pays a food critic ungodly sums of money to live like a God. The end result is that such restaurants become overrun with critics and cameramen from Bourdain and the Food Network and you, the common man, will probably have to wait in line for six hours just to get in the fucking place. Food critics don't help readers find restaurants anymore. They RUIN them.

I say all this with the full understanding that most Yelp reviewers are fucking idiots. There's obviously a place in this world for professional food writing. But at this point, it feels as if the entire food critic culture has dissolved into one giant circle jerk, with writers hanging out with chefs and chefs hanging out with writers and chefs and writers judging reality shows together and living inside this bubble of obscene decadence that's completely disconnected from the everyday dining experiences of regular people.

Well, shit.  On one hand, it's easy to dismiss this “woe the common man” criticism as baseless, given MCF's humble beginnings as a cheap food truck parked on a smelly Mission St. corner—never mind their amazing charitable givings to the food bank.  But every time I walk past Mission Chinese with the hopes of delighting my mouth with heaps of Szechuan pickles and thrice cooked bacon, I'm confronted a giant gaggle of idiot food blogger pontificating about the so-called “food truck revolution” outside and walk right past to a cheaper-but-still-remarkable meal at Yamo or Big Lantern.

It wasn't always that way though.  When they first opened, I remember just walking up Lung Shan on a weeknight and sitting right down for dinner, paying a small sum for one of the most innovative meals around.  But that is an increasingly-distant memory, now that Danny Bowien is busy playing rock star with Vice and Bourdain.  Really, the only hopes a “common man” has to getting anywhere near the Mission's most sacred dinner is calling some bike messengers to go and get it for you, just so you can eat it out of a carton on your couch while watching last week's episodes of The Daily Show.

Was this the food critics' fault?  Did they vault these guys into the limelight and prop them up as Gods, making their food worthy of wasting 2 hours of your life on a shitty Mission Street sidewalk?  Perhaps.  Or maybe it's just that fucking good.

[Photo by Nicole Wong | via Grub Street]

A One Way Ticket To Homicidal Cabbie Land

We've all been there — it's raining out, you have somewhere to go, your buddy doesn't want to ride bikes because of the aforementioned rain, so you sack up and hail a cab, prepared to fork over a mini-forturne for a short 10 block ride. This was the case last night as Shmindsay* and I hopped in a cab at 19th and Valencia on our way up to Cafe du Nord. Alas, this was not to be your a-typical cab ride; little did we know that behind the wheel was a cab driver with a serious anger management problem and a dislike for cyclists.

Granted, the cyclist did not have lights on his bike, and it was an honest accident. The cab driver came within centimeters of ending this cyclists life, and naturally, the cyclist was pissed. Words were exchanged between the driver and the cyclist, and then the unthinkable: THE CAB DRIVER SLAMS ON THE GAS AND TRIES TO RUN THE CYCLIST DOWN. The cyclist is screaming at the cabbie, we're in the backseat screaming at the cabbie, and he won't stop. The cyclist maneuvers himself next to the cab and takes a swing at the cab driver and connects. Now the cabbie is super pissed and tries to run him down again, this time by repeatedly throwing the car in reverse then forward again. At this point Shmindsay and I bail out of the cab by doing a barrel roll (literally) and watch the scene unfold. The cyclist is trying to get to the sidewalk out of harms way and the cabbie is still trying to run him over. All parties involved are screaming at each other, I'm frantically writing down license plate, cab number, anything I can get.

After about 5 minutes the cyclist is able to call the cops and the cab driver pulls to the other side of the road and presumably does the same. We stick around, give the cyclist our names and numbers to give to the cops, then decide to walk to rest of the way.

The moral of the story is never take cabs. If you do, ask to see their anger management certificate of completion/marijuana prescription.

*names have been changed to protect those who barrel roll out of moving cabs like a boss/rookie.

[Unrelated topical photo by Hal Bergman]

Things SF and NYC Have in Common: Hating LA

I'm in NYC for a quick spell (in Williamsburg, of course—obviously) and I'm finding that the two dueling cool cultural capitals of their respective coasts have a lot more in common than they might expect.  Like hating LA.  Sure, everyone from NYC and SF might poke fun at each other, but goddamnit, we all hate LA more.  It's smoggy and car-centric and gross and people invest money in sizing up their boobs and jesusfuckingchrist their weather is perfect—who does LA think it is?

Kick the Bums Out

First they came for the Latinos,
 and I didn't speak out because I wasn't Latino.
Then they came for the Art Students, 
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't an Art Student.
Then they came for the Nudists,
 and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Nudist.
Then they came for me
 and there was no one left to speak out for me.
 
(from ymfy)

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