Life

The Return of the Eviction Party

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

I've heard a lot about these mythical eviction parties, where tenants tossed to the curb by their money-grabby landlords celebrate their former homes with beer and destructive mayhem. Fortunately, I had never once come across one for myself until yesterday evening.

Sadly all-to-common throughout the turbulent late-90s, when social justice activists were booted to make room for open source activists, they seem to have died off in recent years (one notable exception from two years ago notwithstanding).  However, the eviction of the Capp Street Commune at Capp and 20th seems like a particularly eery omen of what's to come, given the Commune was right next door to the SF Tenants Union.  If their neighbors, arguably one of the most adept organization at protecting tenants in the city, couldn't help them, what does that say for the rest of us?

I invited myself into the party, hoping to catch someone light the first match, or at least take a swing of the sledgehammer of “fuck yous.”  But there was no retributive property destruction, just melancholy and boxed belongings.  Not much of an eviction party, at least in the eyes of a kid who spent his youth burning matchbooks for fun.

On my way out, I asked a guy clearly suffering from a case of the bummers if he lived in the house, hoping to get the story behind the eviction.

“Naw man, no one lives here.”

Valencia Street, Are You Mom Enough?

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

I was walking down Valencia a little while ago and spotted this succulent window display (I don't remember expect when—I unsuccessfully tried to repress the ordeal).  Is this really necessary?  No one wants to be bombarded with the image of 4-year-old mannequin sucking the teet of its 26-year-old mannequin mother when stumbling down the street in search of a smoothie.  And think of how that poor little mannequin will feel when it's all grown up and living its young adult mannequin life… being the laughing stock of lunch room in its plastic high school.

All to sell some breast-feeding foot stools.  For shame.

Previously on Uptown Almanac: 

Local Man Loses Bet

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

I was at this house party yesterday afternoon and then, out of nowhere, this guy who didn't even appear to be on drugs put on that terrible Six Pence None The Richer song, ripped his shirt from his body, and began vandalizing his chest with the iconic statement “Free Hugz + Kizzez.”  After all that, he scandalously stripped down to his under trousers and began hugging every clothed person in sight.

But it gets better: after pressing his skin up against everyone, he sprawled out on a beach chair started gorging himself with cornsyrup logs while the crowd looked on unconcerned for the man's well-being.

Observe:

Now, I can't really imagine what would drive a man to publicly strip down to his undies and force feed himself Twinkies like he was making human foie gras, but it probably has something to do with “an exploration of our comforting indulgences” or “a dare from a friend” or “I was hot and hungry.”

Anyway, props to this guy, as he made performance art as sufferable as it gets.

The Times They Are a-Changin'

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

It seems like yesterday—back when Valencia Street was created in 2007—when the finest of bicycles would be locked to a prime railing such as this one.  But see, this is what happens when two fixies get realll drunk and decide they love each other very much.  One legendary hangover and nine months later, the finest bike parking in the building is home to three strollers locked to it.

Is this grisly scene at the corner of 18th and Valencia a harbinger of what's to come?

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the day that we can all gawk at the epic stroller piles outside of Pop's.

Food Porn For National Donut Day

— By Erika Kali |

If you love donuts as much as I do, then this video is pretty NSFW. I'd suggest going to the back room of your office, or maybe watch it on your future phone from the lurky table in the corner at Lee's or Four Barrel or The Attic and get to work. FUCK. YES. DONUTS.

I'm so bummed out the nearest Krispy Kreme is in Daly City. Gimme them free donuts! I want to eat them all, and not just because today is my version of Kwanzaa.

The Life and Times of a Bay Area Music Composer

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Filmmaker Kate Imbach profiles San Francisco modern classical composer Christopher Fulkerson, who has taken up the night shift as a taxi driver to pay the bills following the collapse the industry in the early 90s.  He's got a lot on his mind, like how buying a PC over a Mac set him back for a decade, the collapse of the Soviet Union impacting him all the way here in America, the superiority of pencils, technology expanding his audience, and how driving a taxi opened him up to a nightlife he never knew existed.  It's a frightening, if not sad look into the life of everyday American artists, and it's definitely worth a watch.

Community Bands Together in Support of Dude Who Doesn't Even Know His Car Has Been Smashed Yet

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Around 2am the other night, some madman came barreling down Capp Street, tires a' screeching, slamming into what sounded like no fewer than countless cars.  This was the scene of one collision, with much of its plastic paneling on the ground.

But good samaritans were on the scene to call 911 and record plate numbers, bringing rightful justice to someone who clearly can't drive for shit.  And even better?

The vultures were there to swoop in and offer up their bone-picking services.

(I also had the exact same thing happen to my old car on the same block of Capp in the middle of the night years ago.  Only no one was there to record the plate number, thus sticking my insurance company with the $2,700 repair bill.  I ditched that damn car two weeks later, leaving only to worry about bike thieves and shit drivers turning my personage into a hood ornament.)

Some Background on TCB Courier

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Different Workbook recently unleashed a nice profile of TCB Courier, the local bike messenger service that's about to deliver some sandos to my fucking face:

As part of a planet-spanning cycle messenger community, Chas and his friends witnessed the old paradigm for this type of business stop working. It used to be that bike courier businesses revolved around the financial district of a city. Fifteen years ago, at the height of the dot-com boom, the FiDi neighborhood in San Francisco was served by more than 500 cycle messengers. Yet between the Internet, fax machines, e-mail, and finally a seriously down economy, the traditional cycle delivery businesses began failing. “A dying system,” Chas says. Today, the downtown financial core of San Francisco is served by about 70 messengers.

So what do you do when you love to be on your bike every day and love the global messenger community you’re part of, and you’re watching the old ways of working die? These guys decided to create a company that revolved around a cultural center, not the financial center, of their city, to serve local individuals and businesses, and to provide a less expensive alternative to downtown bike messengers. As they created a service for their neighbors, TCB Courier was born. TCB stands for “takin’ care of business.” Today, they are bigger than expected. The business has expanded as other cycle messengers, living in other neighborhoods, decided they’d like to similarly serve their own neighborhoods. They called TCB and asked to join them and run their own neighborhoods.

Read on.

[Photo by John Daniel Reiss]

Previously on Uptown Almanac: 

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