Two Femmes Walk Into a Bar

My friend has been reading Valencia. I remember how the world portrayed in the story sucked me in for a few days when I first picked up the book. I couldn't imagine that this world existed, or had existed in the past in a place that was somewhat familiar to me. For my friend, the place was even more familiar, familiar to the point that the book is named for her street. The story revealed this sort of underworld, this subculture that exists in San Francisco, along-side but somewhat also parallel to the goings on of most people around town. After reading Valencia, my friend decided that she needed to go to a Dyke Bar. When she met up with her friends at some regular bar a few blocks from her house, she found it boring. The most exciting aspect of the evening was meeting the man who has a pole in his house--the kind intended for pole dancing. After a brief series of hellos, she exited into the cool almost-summer San Francisco night trudging past the shiny black car from which men's voices cooed for her attention, and into the depths of this divey bar sparsely populated with grungy girls with short, choppy haircuts, and torn and sagging jeans. There was this moment after entering when the scene seemed like it lacked a stupid joke, like there should be some omniscient narrator telling the story. It would be at this point when the narrator would say, "So two femmes walked into a bar..." and everyone would tune the voice of the story-teller out completely because the world doesn't need another stupid joke. It is obvious when someone acts like a newcomer in a place--just a little too enthusiastic, a little too curious to take in the scene. These are the people who others wait to walk in the door. They are the easiest to take advantage of. So, two femmes walked into this dark mangy bar filled with pale mangy girls, well I am not sure you can call a straight/bi girl a femme, but anyway, they walked out not too long later with no additions to their party.

The Unofficial Writing Group

Writing groups are exclusive. Or at least, this is what I believe. Admittance usually requires an application, or special status as a published author. I belong to a recently formed unofficial writing group that didn't require any of these things. We are either un-published, self-published, or very sparsely published. Last night was the second meeting of this particular writing group. We clustered around wobbly tables in the patio area of a Mission District cafe and wrote about hiding, disguise, and saints. We try to work from prompts, if we all seem propelled to follow one of the ideas that we toss around. This particular evening, we crafted stories with cold hands that fought the blue of cold that sitting outside on a San Francisco evening seems to induce. Our tall glasses of coffee, chai, and hot chocolate were only warm for a minute. They only served to warm our hands briefly. But the beginnings a few stories were forged. There was some contemplation, some introspection, and some wielding of pens. Our unofficial writing group is not that serious, but this is what makes it filled with potential. Watch out San Francisco, some fresh stories may be on their way.

Slam Poetry in lieu of other Friday night activity

We were seated on these tall, handmade wooden benches that looked like they were going to collapse under the weight of two small individuals. The two by fours that served as the legs were angled in a way that signified imminent collapse. This is not to mention the fact that the benches were significantly taller than the average chair which made them a highly awkward perch for a short person. We were both short. The benches were constructed in a way that made it impossible not to slouch.

The poetry reading was scheduled to begin at 8PM, and because it was a Friday night, the audience was rather sparse. I suppose there are better things to do on Friday nights, but I always seem to find myself at a reading. We arrived on time, found seats on one of the precarious benches, and began to chat. I imagined that what we were having could be called conversation, but I worry that it may have been mostly monologue waged by myself about nothing in particular. Well, the topic was ostensibly poetry which is a significant turn-off to most people. After talking for quite awhile, I realized that there were no signs of the reading beginning. I began to wonder if it was the correct event and if we had arrived a whole hour early. Too embarrassed to ask, I crept over to the table holding fliers for various events. I found the flier for the event in question sitting at one corner of the table, and confirmed that it was supposed to start at 8 and that it was the event we had intended to attend.

After a long conversation about English grammar and Japanese classes, a folk singer finally approached the microphone at the front of the small art space.

The second "reader" was creepy. His face was this mask of leathery skin with fine lines running over its surface. The fact that he was wearing eye liner was obvious in a relatively subtle way, and it didn't match the remainder of his persona: stone-washed jeans, white rumpled shirt, maybe a pair of old white tennis shoes or perhaps even cowboy boots. He looked like someone who would live on flat ground in a beige colored place that is probably rather dusty. He didn't look like the eyeliner type. The poem he recited was filled with rhymes, closing every line so very obviously.

Fortunately, soon afterwards, the slam poets took the stage. They had polished their lyrics as much as their voices and the words flowed from their throats like small magical incantations, pleas that the world may one day learn to appreciate difference, and the fierce pangs of ferocious love.

We were two shy girls watching these poets who used words like prophets, unabashedly wielding their voices like tools of peaceful revolution. I didn't know the person sitting next to me well enough to perceive how she found the performance, but after exiting onto the street where a city rat would scurry across our path as we walked I think we both found something to inspire the poetic tendencies crouched within our own minds.

Film

I feel cultured, showing up at an actual film screening. It doesn't matter that it is a documentary that probably only saw a couple of film festivals and church-group showings. The security guard at the new headquarters of LucasFilm motions me undergrounnd, into the parking garage. When I arrive in the bowels of this building, a second or third security guard directs me to a parking spot, then instructs me to follow the dots on the floor to building B. I have a box full of magazines and a bag containing other supplies: pens, subscription forms, a bunch of cds. I already carried the box all over the city. I regretfully pull it out of my car. At the top of the elevator, another security guard motions me toward the theater. Two women sitting at a table point to the area where I will be setting up my display. I am couched at a table between The Breast Cancer Fund and Amnesty International. All the sponsors have already arrived. And those attending the screening are quickly filing into the theater. Only a few people pause to glance through my magazines.

The inside of the theater is new, full of plentiful, comfortable seats. And the screen is wonderfully large, not like the screens at the multiplexes that seem to diminish in size every year. After a few speeches made by representatives of the non-profit organizations sponsoring the event and an introduction by the writer/director, the film begins. The sound in the theater is magnificent, and makes even this low-budget film seem richly textured. The size improves everything: big screen, big sound. The film is simple, the execution of an idea hatched one night in a moment of optimism. The filmmaker spoke with Nobel laureates about the state of the world today. Despite the dire subject, the film was strikingly optimistic. The message that was carried through the whole film was about action. When an idea is executed, good things can happen. Maybe they won't change the world, but they could pave the way. One Nobel Laureate simply said that you have to get off your ass and do something. At the end of the film, I felt like going out into the world with a camera as well.

Nobelity

Tags:

• Nobelity
  
• Film
  
• Nobel laureate
  
• Nobel Prize
  
  

The Magazine Connection

I was at work flagging advertisements in Outside Traveler magazine, which is only interesting because it makes it possible to take the time to read a few articles. I decided to take my time and experience a vicarious, yet dissociated version of traveling through this particular periodical. I wasn't really reading the articles. Mostly, I was perusing them and gazing longingly at the images of far away places and posh getaways. Then I came upon this section about wine country. I grew up in the town of Sonoma, and always like to hear what the travel writers have to say about my home town. Reading these pieces that describe my hometown as an exotic destination is always an experience. The third, and last, article about wine country happened to be about Walla Walla, my college town. I had to read this one. As I turned to the second page of the piece, that painted the town as this destination for hip urbanites tired of the bustle of the city, I noticed that the two girls in the photograph accompanying the piece were in my class in college. At the end of the article, a friend of mine was mentioned. The mention was rather vague, but it was obviously her. I sent her an email to say I read the piece, and after the larger part of a year of silence between us, received a response. I never thought a magazine article would enable me to find those I was convinced I had lost. I hope I begin reading about my friends in print more often in the future.

All Sorts of Literary Phenomena

Over the past few weeks, I have encountered various literary extravaganza, some of which were unexpectedly fabulous, and others that contained exactly what I expected.

1. K'vetch was the sunday before last. It was lacking a certain energy that sometimes fills the occasion. A few regulars showed up and read their usual sorts of pieces. I can't remember much of the work, as nothing was particularly original. A few more well-known writers who are apparently above reading at an open mic, though they might stoop to the level of attending one, sulked around, taking frequent cigarette breaks.

2. A week ago, I went to a LitPac reading benefiting progressive politics. I am not accustomed to paying to go to a reading, at least not more than a suggested donation in the lower single digits. This reading was expensive. But it was worth it. I was exposed to the literary delights of surrealist writer Aimee Bender, the evocative descriptions of Pam Huston, and the erotic hilarity of Steve Almond who read excerpts from How to Love a Republican.

3. The very next evening, I attended RADAR at the San Francisco Public Library, a monthy reading hosted by Michelle Tea. It too was full of unexpected delights. Ariel Gore read from her fantastical heretical (this term is relative) work about a traveling Catholic themed side show. Devora Major read weighty political poetry about love and tragedy. A few students from a local arts high school read their work, some of which was surprisingly well crafted. Most of all, they were full of an energy that is more common in the very young, than those who have lived a bit longer.

4. Like K'vetch, Queer Open Mic at the 3 Dollar Bill Cafe also lacked energy last week. A few new faces happened upon the event and performed songs, played harmonicas, and recited rambling poetry.

5. I happened upon the release party for Instant City #3 last Saturday. The usual writers who haunt The Mission were in attendance, reading stories in their characteristic styles.

Tags:

• LitPac
  
• Stephen Elliot
  
  
• Aimee Bender
  
• Pam Huston
  
• Michelle Tea
  
• Ariel Gore
  
• RADAR
  
• K'vetch
  
• Queer Open Mic
  
  
  
  
  

Pussy!

It was growing dark, and though it was a week day, the bars were beginning to pick up business. It was that time of night. A boisterious variety of gay males were clustered outside bar entryways smoking and chatting with friends in their crisp button down shirts and jeans that they probably ironed that morning. I was on my way home after parking my car far up the hill from my apartment (about a mile, in fact)and the bar crowd was in my way. Girls just weren't on their radar, especially quick-paced, wind-cold girls trying to make it home as fast as possible. They were obstacles in the way of my destination, and I was determining how to weave through the bodies without slowing down. I crossed a street and came to a cluster of men on the corner. A few of their friends had just crossed over to the otherside in search of burritos, and they called out to them just as I approached their cluster.
"Pussy!" the friends on the bar side yelled just as I sidled past.
They saw me just as they announced to the world that they found their friends to be a particular fashion of wimps, and a look of sheepishness passed over each one of their faces.
I continued walking, without turning back. But I figured that a scathing look may have behooved their particular choice of vocabulary.