#there's this french dude who comes by the deli i work at in the store i work in

[transgirltrish]

I hate chasers...

[silverhands-etcetera]

Walking After Midnight.

I am so dehydrated. I took pretty good care of myself for the first three days of the tour. Water, exercise, etc. Things fell off on that first Sunday -what happened then? oh yeah, let’s blame France..

Switzerland was all sunny skies and parasailers as we split from Interlaken. In a couple hours we were back in France, and in a heavy rain out on the highway. We got a tray of sandwiches from the gig, so we avoided paying Switzerland prices for lunch, and headed back into the land of the Euro, -specifically, France again. on the way to Saarbruken, Germany.

Bottles of water inside the van & torrents of rain outside. It’s all grey and we’ve got PJ Harvey setting the audio moods, it’s working perfectly. I know that all of us in the band don’t meet in the middle on every kind of music. When we crossed into France the first time, coming from Germany, Aimee & I were in the front seat, she was driving (3rd position) and we were cranking out the Scorpions as a last shout out to Germany. In fact, we were listening to “Blackout” at the moment we crossed the border. I love the Scorpions. I’m not certain that everybody (or anybody) who was in the back seat at the time can even stand them.

We listen to a lot more music in this van than most band vans I have been in. Tastes vary, but I think everybody in here is gonna be cool as long as nobody plays the Eagles. There’s a world of stuff out there that I don’t know well, or know about at all. I don’t even have much music on my phone & I rely on these guys to curate the playlist for the long drives. I don’t take the time to listen to music on my own anymore, it’s a thing I need to change in my life. I count on time with my friends to keep music flowing into my ears.

—

By the time the roads straightened out & the mountains were down to reasonable levels, the sun was poking through the clouds. We were back in Germany -basically in Saarbrucken and it was early afternoon. The town is just minutes across the French border, and we were booked to play an Irish pub. Showtime wasn’t until 10 pm, and we were rolling in at 3:30. Idle hands..

The road into our part of town had us passing by a little platz with a Woolworth, a pharmacy, a bratwurst stand & a couple other odd stores. Streets extended out in every direction from the square, with retail possibilities on every corner, and then some. The town had a lot to offer, it seemed.

We checked into a bnb just up the street from the platz, and were hit by a deafening odor of sweet rot as we cleared the threshold of the building, that followed us up the stairs to our top floor room, but mercifully did not permeate our dwelling space. Every trip up & down the stairs was an exercise in lung capacity, as we all held our breath for the whole duration of the space between our apartment door & the street.

The lodging itself was lovely, modern & clean. But talk within the band centered around speculation over what the source of the odor in the hallway was. Best we can tell, it was a pile of garbage/dead things, or spoiled kimchee. Jokes about stinky things are the best. Basic humor that you can loop back around to with every new turn in a conversation.

—

Sherri & Aimee & I set out walking down to the little platz that we passed on the way in. I saw a Woolworth’s down there (I know, right?) and I wanted to look for a belt. I thought I could do without one on this trip, but my new jeans were a little contrary to this. Aimee saved me early on in the trip by offering me the one that she brought with her, and I was making it do. But everyone’s gotta keep their own pants up, so I needed to find my own. I wouldn’t wanna make my bad planning be responsible for somebody else’s saggy britches, we need to all look our tip-top, rock & roll best every day on this trip.

The Woolworth’s was a bust for good belts for me, but Sherri did find a cool backpack, and we kept on moving down the street. Lots of wonderful looking bakeries & candy shops all around the square, but no groceries visible to us. Down one of the side streets was a €1 store, and there was a rack of nylon strap belts right at the door. Nothing to write home about, but I reckon it’ll keep the gravity off of my pants until I get home, and the sign on the rack said it was only €1. I picked a grey one & took it to the cashier, who rang it up and gave me a number that was definitely not 1, or 1 plus tax. We had a very short talk in two languages where she tried to explain to me why it was so, and I tried to tell her I wasn’t gonna be buying the belt.

We went back out to the street, where the proprietor of the next shop had a rack of clothing out on the sidewalk, and a beautiful grey/brown Labrador was lounging unperturbed on a long bench. It was a second hand store, and most of the stuff on the rack was just random women’s clothing, but hanging on the end was an old black leather belt, with a simple chrome buckle. It might be just a large child’s belt, and it has been modified with extra holes to extend its grasp a few inches from its original design, but it fit me perfectly on the center hole. I told the shopkeeper that I would buy the belt if I could take a picture with her dog, and she more than happily obliged. I got to make a new friend. She was a quiet & noble dog who left me with a kiss on my ear as I snapped the photo.

With my new-found trouser security, we carried on down the street to see what else the town had for us. Plenty of bars, and a few closed restaurants, still more bakeries. We’d passed a vegetable shop on the way, & we decided to head back to round up some healthy fixings to take back to the apartment. An older couple were working the counter together, where we made our requests deli-style, through bits of English & French answered to us in German by the sweet woman who was gathering and carefully selecting every potato or onion as though her livelihood depended on our return business. We managed to pull together all the components for a supper & a breakfast, paid our order and asked her where we could buy some beer.

“ah, bier!” she said, and waved us outside. Pointing back to the square she said “to the Voolvorth, in the basement”

The Woolworth’s was actually just the street level of a larger shopping center, an entrance to the side put us on an escalator (descender?) going down to a discount grocery store. We were just looking for something to drink with supper, and our bargain sniffing tendencies sought out the cheapest Pilsner in the stack, which was on a special sale. I selected two or three bottles, and then reconsidered. This is a pretty good deal, we should get more. As I was mulling this over, Aimee spoke up & asked “should we just get a whole case?” (Case=20 one-liter bottles) Of course, she was right to ask this, and wise in making such a suggestion.

A little quick math & conversion told me that we were looking at a transaction of roughly five gallons of beer for about seven dollars. At these prices we would be foolish not to spend the money we saved on a bottle of their finest $6 whiskey.

Nothing to see here, just three smallish americans carrying 20 liters of beer about seven blocks up to their rental flat for supper.

—

Saarbrucken is actually a bigger town than it appeared to be on our little walk around the square. GPS directions in the van put us out on a highway for several kilometers and dropped us in a totally different town square with a completely different feel. This place was bustling, Lots of high fashion shopping and bars that were leaning closer to the nightclub side of things than the local taverns we saw earlier.

We’re at Old Murphy’s, an Irish Pub, -which apparently any country can have. They share a pedestrian square with several other bars, and there’s no way to get a car within two blocks of the place. Michael pulled into the taxi lane & put on the flashers while the rest of us started hauling gear into and across the cobblestones, past the shops and their window dressings with ten foot tall models in their underwear staring us in the eye like vacant, capitalist Mona Lisas, and the early drunks reveling among the tables & chairs all across the square. The ground was still damp from rain, but the evening was warm. The carrying was fine, but rolling the big amp cases across the uneven stones had to be done frustratingly slowly. It’s all good though, the lengths it takes to get to and from the gig are what I feel like I get paid for. Once we go on, I’m just happy to be there.

The stage was in the basement, in a little cavern of a room with arched ceilings and stucco walls. PA speakers were already hung and a SUPER basic powered mixer was set up. Aimee had to move & stack a row of full beer kegs to build herself a bunker to set the drums up in, and once she was settled in, the only access or egress was made by climbing over the kit. We tucked Michael’s amp halfway under the ride cymbal, put the bass amp on the floor under the crash, and set Sherri’s amp on top of it, so I had a full stack of amps to lean against.

The staff was all hip, edgy-looking young dudes, with the right tattoos, and they set us up with a round of beers. After the first set, the younger looking one with the bun in his hair, told us that they’d never had a band as “huge” as us there before. I’m not sure if he meant huge measured in size, or in decibels, but he really loved us, so we took the compliment and he took the tip jar around the room to get us some extra cash.

People filed in and out of the packed basement all night, but the first three tables stayed glued to their seats watching the show. I reckon we were pretty loud for that space, even filled with bodies and chatter, as it was almost the entire evening. But I was enjoying opening up the songs a little, and I loved the proximity to the drums. I could feel a little concussion of air pushing onto me every time Aimee hit the rack tom. Sherri’s amp was actually shaking me as we played. The music was a physical experience. It was another marathon set, all the way to 1 am, and the boys at the bar kept the pints of Guinness coming.

—

We broke down the gear and Sherri sold a few records to the folks at the front tables. I never got their story -were they already fans? did they find the show by accident?

We rolled all the amps & gear out in about five trips, and came back to do one last check. I asked one of the bartenders if they could spare us a pitcher of ice, and he was kind of perplexed and asked my why. I told him we had a bottle of bad whiskey back at the house, and he gave me a solid nod.

I waited by myself with the last armload of gear until the bartender came back with our ice, in a plastic grocery bag, full to the top and tied off. Then off I went, some random american, carrying the shittiest functional hi-hat stand on the planet, & a rented yamaha drum throne over his left shoulder, with a bag full of ice in the other hand, walking alone across a square in Saarbrucken to his waiting friends.

[ilyashrayber]

The Mission

  When I first entered high school, I knew absolutely nothing. No work ethic, no plans, and perhaps most alarming, almost no friends to speak of. I was so young, and yet, it felt like the world was already closing in around me, as if some metaphorical caution tape was already cropping up on things I wanted to do and people I wanted to meet. I had no knowledge of what was around me, and even more so, it felt like I never would. But as you get older, things start to change, and you feel more and more doors open up, one after the other, in a way that could only make sense with the passage of time. If I’m coming off as vague, it is because it’s hard for someone like myself to specify exact moments when you feel validated, satisfied, and as if you’ve broken away from an almost self-imposed mental barrier. But if there was a place that embodied the transition from the timid, smelly, and raggedy boy I was to the slightly less timid, smelly, and raggedy man (by Jewish law) I am today, it would be the Mission District.

I would be remiss to bring up the Mission without addressing the growing, all-encompassing wave of change that is hitting it right now. What used to be a primarily Latinx community comprised of families, artists, and blue collar workers has been all but washed away by white software engineers in search of some strange, exoticized concept of ‘urban grit’ and ‘authenticity’. Where there once were family owned groceries, optometrists, and photo studios, I now see exorbitant pre-fixe menus, ‘organic’ clothing stores, and the occasional (read: extremely common) misuse of local history to sell me something. I am exhausted, and I don’t even live there. Additionally, the privilege of being a cis, white man is something that makes me just at fault when I do not speak up as those who are actively destroying a piece of what makes this city so dynamic. It is a tricky tightrope to walk on, and the best thing people like myself can do is listen, and help when asked, whether that is giving our time, money, or a mix of the two to help preserve the integrity, and magic, of the Mission.

 I remember the first time I ever had a sleepover. It wasn’t with the kid next door to me, or at a birthday party, or even in the first 14 years of my life. Instead, my first sleepover happened in my freshman year of high school. This isn’t super uncommon among children of immigrants, but nonetheless, I felt like I was missing a key piece of the American experience. When it came to mind, before I actually went to one, I had, like most things, romanticized each and every single aspect of a sleepover. I had imagined a world where we would get to the house, only to be greeted by plates of fresh grapes, served to us on priceless marble while enjoying French brut in tall glasses. Instead, we made eggs at midnight and drank Tropicana Orange Peach Mango (henceforth known as ‘OPM’) straight from the carton. In place of sampling liquors from around the world and discussing literature, we downed Kirin Ichiban and talked about girls from our high school we would definitely want to go out with but definitely would have no idea what we would even begin to do if we ever did. Usually crouched down, in the basement, trying to stealthily sip our brew while an adult was upstairs. All this happened in a Victorian on the corner of 27th and Guerrero, a house purchased by my friend’s father for $70,000 right when he got out of the Navy in the 1970’s. It had four bedrooms, an insane kitchen leading out into the backyard, and a circular top floor window, one situated right above the bed of my friend who would always invite me over. It was through this window that I had witnessed car break-ins, smelled the waft of burritos only a couple blocks over, and totally messed with other people trying to get in at the front door. They are good, sacred memories that put a smile on my face when I remember them, both in their quality and the sheer quantity that I have of them.

 The Victorian sat on the cusp of Noe Valley and the Mission, leaning more to the former when you went east and more to the latter when you went west. And boy, did we go west a lot. We would often leave the house at night, with no plan at all, burnt out from playing video games, and simply walk down Mission Street trying to process what it was we were seeing as little baby birds sprouting their wings for the first time. People were out drinking and dancing, the air had a palpable energy to it, and it seemed as if everything was right with the world. It was a sensation I knew I wouldn’t have for a long time, but I wanted it anyway. Street vendors, taquerias, and the only CEX in the city were the main draws, but it was the friendly faces, life experience, and exposure to cultures outside our own that really made us want to stay.

  The stretch of 24th Street that begins on Mission and ends on Potrero is perhaps my favorite dozen or so blocks in the city. It has everything anyone could need, ever. Casa Lucas is the exclusive grocery store I shop at when my folks are out of town and I’m calling the shots, and believe me, it’s worth every penny of the Muni fare I feel disillusioned to pay. The fruits and veggies there taste better than any trustfund soulcycle hayes valley bullshit they’re trying to feed you over at Whole Foods, and at a fraction of the price. Plus, they’re the only grocery in the city I’ve found that stocks the very specific kind of kola I’ve become dependant on, imported all the way from Oaxaca. When I say that this kola fucked up my world, I am being modest in the effect it had on me.. I don’t even know the name of it, but I reach for the stuff everytime I’m on 24th because it has that kind of hold on me. Days get brighter, and nights get longer, whenever I feel the sweet, smooth liquid gold pass through me. Anyways. Moving on. Not only does 24th have the most kick-ass grocery in the entire world, they also have maybe the best cheap seafood ever, in the form of Basa Express. Ignore the sign that was made in Microsoft Paint. Appreciate the fact that this is a no frills, what you see is what you get kind of seafood place where you can grab a freshly made California roll for 5 dollars. With ceviche and sashimi being just a little bit more than that, it’s a refreshing change of pace from the recent increase of trendy seafood places with exposed wood and vintage buoys hanging everywhere. There is no exposed wood here. There is no old photo of a ship captain the owner bought on eBay. There is no lengthy description of how the fish lived and died along with a short obituary. It is just good, cheap seafood that you can feel good about eating.

 Walk up and down 24th and you’ll realize the plethora of people and places that feel like hidden gems, but have been there all along. I stand by Humphry Slocombe as the best ice cream in the city, while the vast majority of my friends cry out in support of Mitchell’s, another place that is very good but in no way a competitor to Humphry and his offerings. The classic at Humphry’s is to walk in, have no idea what you want, and then have the young college kids behind the counter begrudgingly ask if you want a sample. That is just the way it works. If I can just be bougie for one second here; they have a Wine & Cheese flavor. And it’s delicious. If this is the hill I die on, so be it. After a nice little ice cream break, I like to peruse the various cultural offerings, in the forms of records and books that 24th has to offer. I always have to walk into Pyramid Records, which, dare I say, is the most finely curated selection of wax in the entire Bay Area. Is there a huge selection? No. Do they have deep discounts and unbeatable prices? Not really. But is there a dude behind the counter who compliments my sneakers everytime I’m there? Yes. There is. For myself, Pyramid has a beautiful mix of international, lounge, and soundtracks on vinyl, which just so happen to be some of my favorite genres in music. It’s all designed in a super clean, minimalist-but-nowhere-near-boring type of aesthetic. I feel like I’m in a music video for a bedroom pop artist when I’m in there, and that’s all I could ever ask for. When talking about literature however, it’s hard to beat Alley Cat, a big bookstore with a gallery and event space in the back. I’ve picked up some of my favorite graphic novels from this spot, and their mystery section makes me feel good. Adobe Books a few blocks up is great too, and it sports a much more intimate setting for falling in love with any number of books, local or not. I’ve seen many a performance inside of Adobe, ranging from Chicana poetry, all the way to a solo performance from the bassist for Real Estate. Great books, great vibe, and it always feels nice to support a place that feels like an institution. For any bookstore, that should be a slam dunk. And it is. Usually directly into my wallet.

  There are tons of other great places on 24th, especially if you’re into just sitting down and having a good time. There’s the OG Philz, a coffee shop with perhaps the comfiest furniture in any cafe, and Haus, half a block down, where I may or may not have a crush on every single female barista that works there. Again, this is unconfirmed. I would really love to recommend Wise Son’s, a jewish deli with an insane breakfast salad, but every since I took edibles right before I ate there and thought I was in 1920s New Orleans, it has been a tough sell. They have a very nice restroom, however, that they’ll let you use if you ask nicely. St. Francis Fountain, a diner nearing the very end of 24th, has the best pancakes in the city. I am sorry but everyone got together and voted on it, and there will be no recount. Whether chocolate chip, banana, or even, dare I say, vegan, these guys are a home run every. Single. Time. It is almost uncanny how good they are, and are the definition of a food that is ‘good for the soul and not so much the love hips.’ Lastly, when you come up on Mission, you’ll no doubt see a line going out the door for the much beloved El Farolito. If you ask me? It’s good, but it’s definitely not my favorite. I try to explain it in terms of ice cream flavors. When you take your kid to go get ice cream, you always start with vanilla. There’s a reason it’s the default, you know? Well rounded, satisfying, and very inoffensive. I feel the exact same about El Farolito. (Cue the thinkpieces attacking me.) It is the vanilla ice cream of taquerias. My favorite, however, is also in fact on 24th, and it goes by the name of Taqueria Guadalajara. More salsa options, less rice, and juicier meat is what drives me to make this almost sacrilegious decision. Plus, there’s never a line. And that in and of itself should be celebrated.

   The Mission is so, so many things. But most of all, it is not mine. And it’s probably not yours, either. I simply play, and for a little bit, worked there. There is so much to celebrate about this neighborhood, and so, so much that we as a city should try to preserve, even if it considered by many to be ground zero for gentrification. Be respectful. Think about your actions. How will this affect others? If you live there, try broadening it to a macro level. How will this affect my community, one that is already going through an incredible amount of change, and the heartbreak that comes with that? What can I do to make things better? Always say thank you, and respect those that came before you. These seem obvious, but it’s easy to forget with everything going on. At the end of the day, I like to hang out in the Mission, and I bet you, the reader, probably do too. So let’s just try and not be complete asshats about what we choose to do in a community that is experiencing an immense shift, both culturally and economically. Let’s just try and be a little better next time we’re there.