sftlltr just posted a bunch of photos of SFPD cracking down on October's “bouncy ball party turned street melee” (as SF Appeal dubbed it, anyway) on 24th St.  A little refresher:

According to SFPD spokesperson Officer Albie Esparza, who to his credit confirmed my questions about this incident as professionally and seriously as he does those of far more significant crimes, SFPD received calls reporting a “melee” at the 2900 block of 24th Street at 1:15 AM on October 23rd.

Callers reported “150 subjects in a physical and verbal fight in street,” says Esparza. When “multiple officers” from both the Bayview and Mission stations arrived at the scene, they discovered that there was indeed a crowd on the street, “due to an over-capacity party.” […]

Esparza confirms that when police arrived, the bouncy balls were still in play, and that when SFPD attempted to detain one party goer who, after the order to disperse was given, still attempted to “push his way back into the premises…the crowd turned on police and turned hostile, with people from the crowd throwing plastic balls and bottles at the police.”

Of course, the pictures seem to tell a bit of a different story…

[sftlltr / SF Appeal]

Gestalt's water-soaked pool table (GET IT? POOL TABLE) as seen late on Wednesday, November 30th, after a crazyperson pulled the fire alarm.

Known for its bike-friendly attitude and an extensive selection of German beer on tap, the Mission’s Gestalt Haus is a popular hub along 16th Street. The work of local artists decks the warm, red walls and a high-end sound system is often set at a low decibel, allowing conversations to unfold amid the clinking of liter mugs and the clacking of always-in-use pool cues.  

Such was the scene as midnight hit on a recent Tuesday: Patrons lined the bar, sausages sizzled, and an iPhone manned the deejay booth. Then, *bam* The vibe went from chill to shrill, shattered by the piercing shriek of the fire alarm and soaked with streams of water from the sprinkler system. As soggy drunks scrambled outside and SFFD sirens drew near, owner Dan Hawkins got the heads-up call. It’s one to which he has become rather accustomed; in fact, the exact same thing occurred a week prior, triggered by a false alarm set off on the building’s second floor. (The latest kerfuffle was brought to Gestalt by a waste-bin fire in the boiler room.) “This is the tenth time this has happened,” he tells me. “It’s those fucking crackheads again.”  

Hawkins is referring to city-supported inhabitants of the Sixteenth Street Hotel, which sits above Gestalt and does indeed house an array of mentally ill, alcohol-dependent and, yes, often crack-addicted tenants – courtesy of San Francisco’s Department of Human Services (DHS) and federal mandate. It is one of 50 single-room occupancy (SRO) hotels in the Mission District, which account for a significant portion of more than 3,500 “supportive housing” units throughout the city as part of the Newsom-era “Care Not Cash” program. One of the more controversial aspects of The Gav’s teetotaling local legacy, it cuts participants’ monthly welfare checks from $422 to $59 in exchange for providing shelter and other services.  

While the chronic Poors under city “Care” no longer have the cash for, say, a bottle of Newsom’s PlumpJack Cab’, the money saved ostensibly funds affordable-housing requirements. Critics, however, say the program’s success is essentially defined by the number of rooms available, not the ongoing stability of the Section-8 tenants therein or the improvement of their quality of life (from the lady taking her pants off in front of a crowded sidewalk cafe, to the dude raging on an unfortunate newspaper stand, tenants of these city-run SROs aren’t exactly under “managed care.”)

Firefighters outside of Gestalt, dealing with the aftermath caused by the errant fire alarms.

But he, like many of us, is pretty used to encountering crazy, sometimes cracked-out peeps shuffling along city streets (it’s part of San Francisco’s unique, urine-scented charm, no?) The regular triggering of his building’s fire alarm and sprinkler system during business hours, however, is another story. “Between all the water damage, replacing electronic equipment, furniture, and–mainly–the lost income from having to shut down and clean the place, it’s cost me tens of thousands of dollars out of pocket–easily,” he muses.  

But while the oft-beleaguered business owner can rather calmly tick off various incidents over the years (the drunk-in-an-overflowing-bathtub snafu that brought down half of Gestalt’s ceiling on Cinco de Mayo ’08, the dude who fell asleep with a cigarette in hand and ignited his bed, trash thrown from windows catastrophically clogging the rain gutter…), what actually gets a rise out of him is pondering tax dollars pissed away on the constant SFFD and EMT resources needed to quell his upstairs neighbor’s constant shenanigans: “It’s unreal. I see so much time and money and manpower wasted–and that’s just on this block. The sad thing is that a lot of this crap could be avoided if the city was actually doing its job and providing the proper resources for these people. It is bullshit, man; total bullshit.” 

As if on cue, our conversation is cut off by the siren of an approaching ambulance, and–I kid you not–it stops right in front of Gestalt. Hawkins stands up and looks at me knowingly. “I’m telling you, this shit was not in the brochure.” With a half-smile/half-grimace on his face, he shakes his head and starts to head back behind the bar. “You want a beer?”

Saturday I was off eating brunch or some dumbshit that adults in this town do when I get a text from a rap blogger friend that just says “Jerkin battle at the japantown ymca.” Well considering that's around the corner from me and I'm not doing shit but lame brunch I figure fuck it, I'm rolling. Turns out it was the Bay vs LA jerkin battle and homes was there to talk to Young Sam and that's why he knew about it. I hadn't heard shit on the streets aka the internets but thought, shit this could be cool.

We were definitely the oldest people there to witness a sea of brand new snapbacks and jerk shirts cheer teenagers doing some crazy ass moves. I don't know how many of you internet reader motherfuckers know about Jerkin but it's a style of music that for the most part people have forgotten about since it popped off a few years ago. The New Boyz got a deal and then fools tried to act like it never happened but the kids keep it alive. Shit was all fun but then this fucking kid breaks out his goddamn moves. Just watch this video until about the 19 second part and get your mind blown. I don't even know how you get your body to do shit like this but this kid is fucking crazy dope.

I gave up on watching breakdance battles years ago, I hate when dudes start uprocking in the club now, it's fucking annoying but really I can't front I had fun watching these kids get loose and just enjoy their scene.

Our East Coast brothers and sisters in the war against crap-covered sidewalks have devised a new tactic in shaming open-air bowel movement enthusiasts into reforming their gnarly ways: blanketing their street surprises with glitter and decorative figurines. Effective? Maybe. Hilarious? Definitely.

Miss Heather of New York Shitty—a blog dedicated to New York's curbside chocolate and street art scene—speculates that this strategy of sparkly ridicule might actually be getting IBS victims to move along:

Our poopetrator seems to be alternating his (her) bombing raids between West and India Street. […]

Has this person taken notice of my little project and feels some semblance of shame? Or is he simply revolted by his best friend’s doggie dumplings (like the rest of us)? This is the question I plan to tackle next. However, before leaving Poo Corner today I decided to leave my new friend a bit of holiday cheer.

Is it time we embrace a similar campaign for Mission District poos and pukes?  Leave toy boats in puddles of puke?  Have miniature Michael Phelps' doing laps in the nightly Great Lakes of Stomach Acid that appear outside of El Trebol?  Plant a bonsai forest of fake plastic avocado trees atop the mountains of dung that litter Bartlett?

The streets are our foul canvas.

(Also, my sincerest apologizes for two ass-related posts in a row.)