Art and the Sole Straight Bar in The Castro
The inside of the bar was hazy with smoke. This is an uncommon occurance in San Francisco where smoking is banned in bars. Somehow, there must be a loophole in the law, because this particular bar is not only the sole straight bar in the Castro, but also a haven for those who need to sip potent concoctions and inhale smoke simultaneously.
We walked up to the bar and ordered cups of syrupy poison. The drinks would aid us in conversing with the artists who were piling into the room fresh from the opening of their exhibition in the southernmost reaches of The Mission. Though no one struck me as particularly interesting, conversations wore on, and I found each one of them amusing. My friend was trying to find a guy to buy her beer.
"Can you point out a guy who you think might buy me a beer?" she said to the man standing next to her. He enthusiastically took up the call and exercised some beer chivalry.
"I'll buy you a beer."
I introduced myself to an artist who was a friend of a friend of a friend.
My introduction was bland, something to the effect of, "I haven't met you yet." It wasn't a good way to begin any sort of attempt at flirtation. An MFA student herself, she insisted that grad school is the greatest. She encouraged me to return to school, a strange discussion for someone obviously intoxicated in some way. Then she said,
"Everyone's doing coke, in case you're interested."
"No thanks." That was the end of that conversation.
I wasn't doing a very good job at flirting. I did espouse an interest in her art, and her graduate program, but somehow failed to ask about the details of her most recent artistic endeavor: painting the bathrooms of galleries. Later, I heard that it was backed by a theory, but I forgot for the time being that this is usually the case with academically trained artists and that it would be a good idea to ask about the underpinnings of her endeavor.
As usual, the evening disappated with various departures, often without even a shred of goodbyes.
We walked up to the bar and ordered cups of syrupy poison. The drinks would aid us in conversing with the artists who were piling into the room fresh from the opening of their exhibition in the southernmost reaches of The Mission. Though no one struck me as particularly interesting, conversations wore on, and I found each one of them amusing. My friend was trying to find a guy to buy her beer.
"Can you point out a guy who you think might buy me a beer?" she said to the man standing next to her. He enthusiastically took up the call and exercised some beer chivalry.
"I'll buy you a beer."
I introduced myself to an artist who was a friend of a friend of a friend.
My introduction was bland, something to the effect of, "I haven't met you yet." It wasn't a good way to begin any sort of attempt at flirtation. An MFA student herself, she insisted that grad school is the greatest. She encouraged me to return to school, a strange discussion for someone obviously intoxicated in some way. Then she said,
"Everyone's doing coke, in case you're interested."
"No thanks." That was the end of that conversation.
I wasn't doing a very good job at flirting. I did espouse an interest in her art, and her graduate program, but somehow failed to ask about the details of her most recent artistic endeavor: painting the bathrooms of galleries. Later, I heard that it was backed by a theory, but I forgot for the time being that this is usually the case with academically trained artists and that it would be a good idea to ask about the underpinnings of her endeavor.
As usual, the evening disappated with various departures, often without even a shred of goodbyes.
posted by sf blog at 1:41 PM
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