Category / San Francisco

by Edward Champion

Laptop Crime

Apparently, there’s now a small-time crime ring stealing tips from cafe workers and absconding with laptops in cafes — pretty close to my neck of the woods:

an organized group of folks is now walking in, ripping laptops right out of people’s hands or off their tables and running off with them. they’re organized enough to have people either running interference at the exit or to have getaway vehicles. according to the cafe owner, they haven’t recovered a single laptop so far.

I suppose such a crime development was inevitable. One cannot walk into a cafe anymore without seeing at least four people working on laptops. And it was only a matter of time before crime developed a way to target this sociological development. The really strange thing is how similar it is to carjacking.

(via SFist)

by Edward Champion

Genuine and Cool as Hell

Michael Rice keeps up the pace with yet another fascinating interview with Brian Copeland. Copeland’s theatrical one-man show, Not a Genuine Black Man, is now the longest running solo show in San Francisco history. Which is interesting, given that Copeland was initially told that black people aren’t interested in theatre. Copeland talks about race, San Leandro being named one of the most racist suburbs in America, and on being considered a sellout, among many other things.

by Edward Champion

San Francisco Theatre Podcasts

The San Francisco Fringe Festival started this week. We’ve been so busy that, disgracefully, we haven’t yet seen any of the shows, but plan on attending a few this weekend and next week. (And if you’re in the San Francisco area, this is a great way to load up on cheap indie theatre. Each show is no more then $9.) Fortunately, the SFist has an early report and there should be more from Chronicle theatre critic Robert Hurwitt over the weekend.

But here’s the really cool thing: This year, the Fringe (or, rather, the fantastic Michael Rice) is offering podcasts with many of the performers, which can be accessed on the main Fringe page and found at the Cool As Hell Theatre Podcast. Among the highlights: El Camino Loco, Show Me Where It Hurts and, in particular, this brilliant podcast about failed artistry with Kirk White.

by Edward Champion

Escape from New York

She has worked at the Haight branch of Escape from New York Pizza for at least four years. So my best calculations dictate. I’ve seen her working there in some capacity since 2001. And frankly I’m a bit worried.

Escape from New York, if you don’t know San Francisco, is a two-branch outlet, specializing in pizza-by-the-slice. You’ll find one in the Haight and you’ll find one in the Castro. You can have yourself a slice of pizza as late as midnight — anything from a slice of pepperoni to the special potato slice. But this is not specifically “New York pizza” — rather, it is some approximation of the same, with considerably less tomato sauce. Walk inside an Escape from New York outlet and you’ll bear witness to pizza-themed records hanging on the walls, as well as autographed photos from the likes of Leonard Nimoy and Matt Groening. In short, the joint serves its purpose. But what makes the Haight street place curious to me is her.

You’ll find her on the evening shift — generally on Fridays and Saturdays. Her hair has been blonde, black and is now currently brown. I get the sense that most of her twenties have been spent at this place. And in the past year, she’s gained quite a bit of weight. I worry and I hope to hell she’s okay. In the past year, I have seen her mouth contort into a vacuous ellipitical shape every time she slides the spatula underneath a full disc of pizza, then transfering a slice of pizza into the oven, where the slice will stay for about 3-5 minutes, and then be transferred to the customer for swift and delectable consumption. I don’t know if this is a method of coping with such a mundane task or whether this is the inevitable conclusion. I don’t think that even a genius can truly intellectualize this pizza-warming process.

I have asked this young lady several times if she will talk with me outside work. She’s said no. I am careful to spell out to her that I am not a pervert or a maladjusted freak or someone looking for a date. Rather, I am curious. I will even confess that I’m a bit concerned. Every time I order a slice of pizza from her, her slipshod hair and her hangdog eyes resembles the telltale sign of one who has had too many hits of pot. Like many working in the service sector, she is going through the motions. One suspects she is trying to survive.

Is this pizza world all that she knows? And if so, how much am I responsible every time I order a slice of pizza?

Is this all she can ever know? Is this all she ever dares to know?

She can’t make much, which is why I always tip generously. But I wonder what keeps someone in a position in which they are clearly miserable. I wonder if there are sidelines, whether ephemeral or addictive I cannot say, that encourage her to remain in this position. I wonder what she’s truly capable of and what her true passions are. And I feel like a bit of a con. Because, after all, she will not speak with me and, even if she did, there is nothing I can say or do to steer her off the track. In short, there’s nothing to contribute.

And every time I order a slice of pizza from this place, I feel somehow as if I am committing my energies towards denying someone a moment. And yet I order the slice anyway, somehow corralling this concern with my hunger. I feel hypocritial. I feel helpless. And I feel irrelevant. I feel as if I somehow commiting all pockets of decency to her demise. Yet Escape from New York is not a Round Table. It’s an independent business. Can I justify this? Or am I just as hypocritical as the rest? Or has this pizza-slinger truly accepted this horrible fate?

by Edward Champion

Runners In My Hood

On Sunday morning, I woke to the sounds of strange huzzahs. Turns out it was the San Francisco Marathon running through my hood.

The cheers came from a throng gathered at the southeastern corner of Stanyan and Haight Streets. There was a very large speaker providing music. Weird 1980s stuff like the Smiths, with a little funk thrown in for good measure. How this mix pertained to running was anyone’s guess. But I supposed it gave the runners hope, urging them to press on. I joined the folks frozen in place, cups of coffee clenched in their hands, joining in with cries of “You’re doing a great job!” and “I’m an out-of-shape bastard! You are more glorious than me!”



The above-mentioned corner crowd can be seen on the right-hand side of the frame. They were apparently gathered there for “Lorie,” but they let out enthusiasm for several people who weren’t named Lorie. It was good to see the Marathon people providing arrows. I’m sure it helped the runners. But for a spectator such as myself, I took the sign’s advice, looked up, and saw merely a foggy sky.



Whoever organized the biker-runner escort service was very kind. They were there by regular bicycle..



…and by motorcycle.



Strangely enough, this is one of the few times I’ve paid attention to the Milkbar during the day.



The minute that this colorful gentleman ran by, a flurry of activity occurred among some kids at the corner that involved the transaction of green pieces of paper for a green substance I couldn’t quite identify housed carefully in a plastic bag.



A typical assembly of frozen spectators in place. I hadn’t seen so many frozen standing people since last standing up for the Star-Spangled Banner at a ball game.



These bikers were prepared to step in if anyone did anything. I trusted them more than the cops.



This guy’s going to have a major backache tomorrow.



Aside from the cheering crowd, this gentleman raised his bear at anyone who passed by. Unfortunately, nobody paid too much attention to him, which was a shame. I suppose applause is a steadier measure than a hapless teddy.