Crime

Barking Dog Gets Owner's Ass Beat in Alamo Square

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

 Reader “mailorders” snapped this epic pic and shares this story:

This started out as a heated confrontation when the dog ran at the guy in the t-shirt, threateningly barking.  This dog has a history of being noisy and somewhat unruly; I don't think that he's dangerous, but if somebody doesn't know dogs, they're bound to think that the dog is about to attack. His guardian, the guy with the buzz cut got mouthy and even as the guy in the t-shirt was walking away, the dog continued to follow him, barking all the time. I guess it escalated from there.

There you go people.  Don't own a dog.  Thanks mailorders!

Tech Nerds: East of Mission St. Isn't the Mission

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Some startup bros recently made a 'helpful' map for aspiring entrepreneurs telling them where they should plant their next VC-funded failure.  The idea behind the map isn't necessarily bad, but the descriptions of each location demonstrates a basic lack of familiarity of San Francisco and some really fucked up low-level racism.  For example, how could some “<3” the Mission but not include anything east of Mission or south of 24th on the map?  Because it's dangerous at night?  Gringo, please.  Just because there are more brown people and hookers east of Mission doesn't mean it is particularly dangerous.  In fact the Mission, if anything, is safer than all the other fun neighborhoods.  Also, “hipsters on Valencia sometimes obnoxious”?  Really?  Maybe they look obnoxious, but I rarely see “hipsters” just running around trying to directly piss people off.  To me, it just sounds like you were just the kid no one ever invited to the party.

Treat St. Knows How to Throw Down on the 4th

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Needless to say, I was inspired by the unabashed lawlessness on both ends of Treat St. last night: two simultaneous block parties of fireworks and alcohol with traffic not being let through on either end.  Desperate to learn from these black belts of chaos, I asked one guy lighting off fireworks how they could get away with it, despite all the police driving by: “This is Mexico, they don't fuck with us.”

Anyway, be sure to turn up the video to HD because it looks like crap otherwise.  Be sure to stick around for the grand finale.

Tosh joins the Resistance against the Axis of Ice

— By Zach Perkins |

While we at Uptown don't (openly) condone Bros Slitting Bros throats, we're happy to see a celebrity (albeit a C-lister) join us in the fight against the Axis of Ice.  Daniel Tosh raises an interesting point that hadn't previously occurred to me; Smirnoff Ice is the new ZIMA.  I'd like to see the retro ZIMA make a comeback and take its place next PBR as a hipster beverage.  

Hat tip to Clark.  Friends don't let friends Ice Bros.


EDIT: Obligatory addition of 90's throwback ZIMA commercials.

“Are those free range burgers?”

 

“She started deep into my eyes and said …nice hat”

Previously on Uptown Almanac: 

Propped Up with Bricks

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Back in the day (two years ago), my friends and I used to leave our cars parked in the Dogpatch for weeks at a time because they didn't have permit parking or street sweeping out there.  One summer afternoon, my friend went to retrieve his vehicle and his car was propped up with Sprite containers sans wheels.  Sprite containers, people.  It ended up costing more than $400 bucks and was a major hassle.  Given that, I feel bad for you, Mission parker.

(photo by Protohiro)

Cool Kid Travels: Eau de Crooklyn?

— By Jenny Wilson |

Last week I was in Brooklyn and stumbled across Bond No. 9's latest scent “Brooklyn.'” The Brooklyn perfume consists of a combination of grapefruit, cardamom, cypress-wood, geranium leaves, juniper berrie, cesarwood, leather and guaiacwood, (wtf is that?)  and for a mere $220 you can actually “smell like” Brooklyn. Don't really know where they came up with this weird ass combo to encapsulate the scent of the “edgy metropolis.” To me Crooklyn smells like wasted youth and decaying bodies but, I guess that really isn't marketable.

If San Francisco's neighborhoods were bottled up into different perfumes, what would these neighborhoods smell like? And what is the price you'd have to pay to smell like them?

Mission: Taco trucks, piss, cheap beer, expensive coffee, trustafarians. Price: One call to your parents to please, please, please let you use daddy's Amex one more time.

Haight: Drum circles, midwestern runaways that didn't get the memo that punk is dead (see: dirt, b.o., and dreadlocks), bong loads, DMT. Price: Panhandle for 48 hrs straight and pray some unwitting tourists feel bad for your 3 dogs.

Marina: The scent of entitlement, hair product, fake tanner, axe body spray, shame, chest bumps! Price: The cost of running for mayor.

Tenderloin: Crack, garbage, meth, cheap blow jobs (see: rotting teeth), poor life decisions. Price: Eagerness to give cheap blow jobs.

Noe Valley: Upwardly mobile snobbery, babies, french bulldogs (read: shit), the new car smell. Price:  Raising 2 kids, paying for private school, a vasectomy

Sunset: Isolation, depression, pseudo suburbia. Price: Moving anywhere else in the city

Castro: Rainbows, unicorns, leather daddy's leather, lube. Price: An evening at Boy Bar.

Chinatown: fish, lost tourists, the dirty 30, dumpsters. Price: Shitting yourself.

North Beach: Pizza! bros, day old strippers. Price: One lap dance.

If you have anymore ideas go ahead and throw them into the comments, and if you want to add anymore neighbs that I didn't cover, i.e. Pac Heights (I'm not sure what rich smells like) go ahead and do it.

Kill Hipsters & Yuppies

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

I've been seeing a lot of these tags going up around the Mission and Bayview.  Ignoring the fact I've been digging the tags purely as an urban blightform, this is kind of weak.  I mean, yeah, gentrification really sucks.  Pretty sure a genocide of everyone wearing flannel and business casual will solve your problems.

In a possibly related note, there has also been an uptick of MS-13 tags around the hood.  In this example, it is apparent that they have been having a cute laugh lately:

I personally don't have much experience with the MS-13 in the Mission, but I know if East Boston they won't think twice about chasing someone through a gentrified cafe with a machete.  Or lighting a cat on fire and throwing it through a window (via Molotov Cattails).  Pretty sure that would make Union SF residents think twice about going to Haus.

If My Obsession with Cutty Bang Persists, I'll Be Able to Make One of These Myself

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

ohnochriso says:

I saw this impressive outdoor chandelier made entirely of mini booze bottles on my way to work and had to snap a photo of it. I figured there is probably some sort of installation inside the apartment based on the destruction of the resident's liver.

I'm not really sure I agree with his analysis.  First off, destruction of the liver is a San Franciscan pastime and too commonplace to really do any sort of art installation about (although totally reasonable to dedicate half of a blog too).  Second, drinking from nips is a goddamn San Francisco tradition and should be celebrated as much as possible.

(drop the mic)

(photo by ohnochriso)

Previously on Uptown Almanac: 

Cool Kid Travels: Tel-a-LaViva

— By Zach Perkins |

An Israeli “burrito”.  Our friend Idan insisted that we try them.  I'm a monolinguistic American so I let him order for me in Hebrew.  The tortilla was chewy as fuck, there was no rice and beans involved and no cheese for obvious (kosher) reasons.  If that doesn't paint a clear enough picture, let me just add that there were also pickles and several 'mystery sauces' involved.  If this was supposed to be Mexican food, then why the fuck did it taste like sweet and sour sauce? (via Panda Express)

Needless to say, Tel Aviv is not the Mission.  In fact, from what I could tell no part of the country is even remotely hipster.  No fixies, no ironic mustaches, and no jorts sans me and my SF cohort.  This is a place where there's no distinction between vintage and thrift in fashion; if it's new it's good, if it's old it's bad.   Up until a couple of months ago, there was even a customs ban on the iPad.  And you DON'T want to fuck with Israeli customs when your Apple products are on the line.

One of the few 'archeological' findings suggesting the possible presence of a hipster culture; featuring an 'Indie/Tronic' dance party and 2k6 buzzband the Klaxons(?)

One of the few 'archeological' findings suggesting the possible presence of a hipster culture; featuring an 'Indie/Tronic' dance party and 2k6 buzzband the Klaxons(?)

One of our Israeli friends, Liat, is a self proclaimed 'club girl'.  She prefers the kind of scene we had experienced just the night before at the Port district of Tel Aviv (imagine the Marina club scene to the seventh power of Mediterranean flavored douchedom.)  At the Port I had blown through almost 180 scheckles on cabs and cover alone.  YES, THAT'S A REAL KIND OF MONEY.  

I was fed up with the techno laced fist-pumping scene and Liat knew it.  So on the second night of our doomed three day quest to find a karaoke bar in a karaoke-less country, Liat met us at a place loosely translated as “The Third Ear” where rumors of karaoke had been whispered from six degrees of Hebrew separation.  When she came down the stairs to greet us she had a look of disgust and warned us profusely as to how awful it was and just how much we would hate it inside. 

Since this supposed 'karaoke bar' was located above what looked like a medium sized record store; too disorganized for a Barnes & Noble yet too sterile for Amoeba, I was understandably skeptical.  But we had just spent 45 minutes walking here, so ignoring Liat's prophecies we climbed the stairs to investigate; the walls slowly beginning to take on the appearance of a stickered and graffiti'd MIssion bathroom.  As we neared the top I heard the familiar dying cat calls of amateur night at the the Mint, but quickly discovered that it was actually the sound of a local three piece rock band playing for a surprisingly well sized crowd.  For the first time in Israel, I was in love with a bar.  The low lighting; the selection of whiskey and stout on tap; the first Israelis I had seen in two weeks with even half a sense of style.  It was just like an SF dive except you could still smoke inside (RIP Amber) and between the bands the jukebox had a playlist that ranged from the White Stripes to the Beach Boys.

Settling in with our drinks, I pointed out a pair of girls to Liat.  One was what most Americans would identify as a hipster with a capital H.  Horizontal striped dress, the bangs, exaggerated red lip stick.  I explained to Liat that these girls were what we would call “hipster” in America, and asked her if they had a word for them here.  She looked at the girls, then turned to me with disappointment and very matter of factly said one word: “Trashy.”

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