People

Anthropological Study of Dolores Park by Ronald Berndt

[ed. note: This is a guest post by Ronald Berndt, who conducted in-depth anthropolgical research in San Francisco]

Men and women rise and begin to dance.

The dzamalag opens when two Gunwinggu women of the opposite moiety to the singing men “give dzamalag” to the latter.

They present each man with a piece of cloth, and hit or touch him, pulling him down on the ground, calling him a dzamalag husband, and joking with him in an erotic vein. Then each woman of the opposite moiety to the pipe player gives him cloth, hits, and jokes with him.

This sets in motion the dzamalag exchange. Men from the visiting group sit quietly while women of the opposite moiety come over and give them cloth, hit them, and invite them to copulate; they take any liberty they choose with the men, amid amusement and applause, while the singing and dancing continue.

Women try to undo the men's loin coverings or touch their penises, and to drag them from the “ring place” for coitus. The men go with their dzamalag partners, with a show of reluctance, to copulate in the bushes away from the fires which light up the dancers.

They may give the women tobacco or beads. When the women return, they give part of this tobacco to their own husbands, who have encouraged them to go dzmalag. The husbands, in turn, use the tobacco to pay their own female dzamalag partners…

A Master at Work

As I sat on Valencia's new tree swing holding my head in an effort to keep the bowl of mashed potatoes people call a brain from spilling out of my hungover head, this greaser Ryan Gosling pedals his junker up, kicks down his kickstand, and proceeds to bust out a giant, eight-by-eleven sticker and slap it right up onto wall in front of me.

The thing is, usually “street artists,” or whatever the fuck they want to be called these days, leverage the cover of night and secrecy to reduce the risk of getting busted by the cops.  But this brazen beatnik not only did it at 11 in the afternoon, but seemed unconcerned with some languid asshole with bags under his eyes documenting the entire thing with a shitty camera.

So, here's to you, giver of no fucks.  Let's free ICE FACE.

Beloved Local Photographer Julie Michelle Needs Our Help

For the last three years, Julie Michelle has been chronicling the lives of the people who make San Francisco the beautifully odd place that it is.  And not just the internet-savvy crowd we tend to hear the most about.  No, her venerable I Live Here: SF project has touched upon the lives of nearly every breed of San Franciscan from every neighborhood, from Tenderloin poets, Mid-Market cat-callers, and familiar Mission mariachis to adopted cats.

But tragedy recently hit Julie's life and now one of her past subjects is organizing to help her out.  Tucker Perry fills us in:

Julie Michelle of ILiveHereSF.com needs some help. Lee, her partner of many years had a massive stroke recently. We're throwing a fundraiser event to help them get a handle on the massive expenses that come along with getting sick these days.

We're hosting a party at the San Francisco Motorcycle Club (shot by Julie Michelle here) on Sunday the 18th from 3:00 to 7:00. There will music, drinks, good people, and a raffle. Donations will be gladly accepted in person, but if you can't make the event, there is a ChipIn campaign already running here.

You can go RSVP for the benefit right here or go ahead and donate to help cover the medical bills and other related expenses insurance won't cover.

Muni Alligator Man

At some point this weekend, a wormhole opened up between the 22 Fillmore and Paul Hogan's wardrobe, spitting out this gold and alligator-encrusted crazy person.

(Thanks Jenny!)

RIP Jesse Morris, BART's Punk Rock Johnny Cash

Sad new from the subways: BART busker Jesse Morris, the man who's been lighting up our morning commutes for years with his pitch-perfect Johnny Cash covers, reportedly passed away Sunday night, taking his own life.

Back in 2009, he talked with BART's Melissa Jordan:

“I kind of fell in love with [Johnny Cash]„” he says. “And then realized, 'Oh, I sound kind of like this dude.'” The more he sang Cash's songs, the more he perfected the sound. He doesn't dress like the Man in Black — a knit cap, nose ring and punk-patched jacket are more his style, and he once had a mohawk — but he is happy to be known as “the Johnny Cash guy.” “Kind of like an Elvis impersonator, but not as cheesy,” he says.

[Photo by Troy Holden]

Mr. Pickle Costume Sparks Mild Controversy Among Shitfaced Partygoers

As the piss-drunk Jesus sitting next to me so dickishly exclaimed when I snapped this pic, “THAT'S THE WORST FUCKING MR. PICKLE'S I'VE EVER SEEN!”

… says a guy dressed in a toga and a shit-brown sash.

See, tackling a cylindrical Mission icon like Mr. Pickle is no fucking joke. You need two pepper-filled bandoliers, some way of mimicking his bloated, vinegar-riddled body without sacrificing mobility, and a hat the size of some small adults.  Never mind figuring out a way to carry around delicious veggie Station 7 lathered in pesto without being accosted by every famished boy and girl in dire need of some hot sando action.

While all this truth was being broken down to shitty Jesus, Mr. Pickle remained cool and collected—staying above the fray, quietly guzzling bourbon while Jesus continued to hurl ineffectual insults.  The tactic worked; eventually Jesus backed down and shifted his energy to molesting a bottle of zinfandel.

So next time Your Savior is tanked and talking trash, just ask yourself: What Would Mr. Pickle Do?

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