Hollow cheeks and tears and toothless smiles on 6th Street. It was strangely balmy tonight with an unseasonable east wind. A jacket and no scarf necessary. I almost bought a Christmas tree on Bryant on my way home from work. But felt too unstable with hunger.
Bruce came over. He was in a mood. Bummed that he has to fly to Barcelona in the morning to give a talk about brains, then back to SF by Monday. "Poor you," I said and handed him a drink. Vodka and ginger tea, of course.
Then down Market to 6th and into Pearl's. We sat at the chrome tables and ate our deluxe burgers and sweet potato/garlic fries. For a few minutes life was very, very good.
Eleanor is selling art in Miami. She's sold at least two pieces already, enough to make the trip worthwhile.
Bruce picked up his James Chronister painting of Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones today. We argued about the use of iconic images in paintings. Joe thinks they make the work too accessible. Figures. I love that work. It could be that Joe doesn't really like rock. We all love James' paintings and agreed that the 40" x 40" winter scenes are his most spectacular. You have to see them in person. I also really like James' statement.
"My guess is that the rock paintings sell really well, right?" Joe said.
"Yeah. I mean, I bought one," Bruce said.
"Come on, Joe," I said. "Can't you whore yourself just a little and give people what they want? I'll be your pimp."
"No! Painting is a sacred act."
"Bruce," I said, "You have to do a little whoring, don't you?"
"Hell yes. What do you think I'm doing tomorrow?"
"We all have to whore a little bit, Joe," I said.
"I am thinking of doing more small paintings on canvas. People love goddam canvas."
Thank god, I thought. Jeez. Come on. Take one for the team. The economy sucks.
After Pearl's we went the Show Down and sat in the booth in the bay window. Every few minutes there would be a scene worth looking at on 6th Street. A super drunk white woman distinctly not from the neighborhood left the bar to smoke at the curb with her boyfriend. She started flirting with a local black dude who was maybe not homeless but clearly a street hustler. She got closer and closer to him, slapping his ass, almost nuzzling up to him. It was such a funny sight, watching the sparks fly between those two while the white boyfriend got more and more freaked out. His head tilted back, smoking, trying to look cool. Then they all walked into the liquor store together. I love the mixing-it-up that happens on 6th.
We talked about a friend turning 50. (No bigs.) How M. is in jail for shoplifting...how he may have been smarter than all of us, but will probably be deported to Iran for his pathalogical behavior. "Maybe he'll have a successful career as a criminal there," Joe mused. We talked about a dear friend who's a junky living in a half-way house. How another friend's kid is now a "high end escort." That was sobering.
We all had a hard day, me Joe and Bruce. A day where we felt beaten down by our respective jobs and all the rest of it. It doesn't matter if you are a doctor giving talks or a painter or a hustler on 6th Street: Life is fucking hard. Of course it matters what you do. But it's hard for everyone.
On the way back we stopped in to see what was happening at the Luggage Store. They were setting up for some experimental music performance. The three of us walked back up Market Street arm in arm toward 7th. No man's land. The neon lights, the cheesy hotels, the brightly lit shoe stores and snowflake street decorations. The clear sky and weird, almost warm wind.
I love San Francisco.
I have a warm bed waiting for me. It's hard knowing not everyone does.
Bruce came over. He was in a mood. Bummed that he has to fly to Barcelona in the morning to give a talk about brains, then back to SF by Monday. "Poor you," I said and handed him a drink. Vodka and ginger tea, of course.
Then down Market to 6th and into Pearl's. We sat at the chrome tables and ate our deluxe burgers and sweet potato/garlic fries. For a few minutes life was very, very good.
Eleanor is selling art in Miami. She's sold at least two pieces already, enough to make the trip worthwhile.
Bruce picked up his James Chronister painting of Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones today. We argued about the use of iconic images in paintings. Joe thinks they make the work too accessible. Figures. I love that work. It could be that Joe doesn't really like rock. We all love James' paintings and agreed that the 40" x 40" winter scenes are his most spectacular. You have to see them in person. I also really like James' statement.
"My guess is that the rock paintings sell really well, right?" Joe said.
"Yeah. I mean, I bought one," Bruce said.
"Come on, Joe," I said. "Can't you whore yourself just a little and give people what they want? I'll be your pimp."
"No! Painting is a sacred act."
"Bruce," I said, "You have to do a little whoring, don't you?"
"Hell yes. What do you think I'm doing tomorrow?"
"We all have to whore a little bit, Joe," I said.
"I am thinking of doing more small paintings on canvas. People love goddam canvas."
Thank god, I thought. Jeez. Come on. Take one for the team. The economy sucks.
After Pearl's we went the Show Down and sat in the booth in the bay window. Every few minutes there would be a scene worth looking at on 6th Street. A super drunk white woman distinctly not from the neighborhood left the bar to smoke at the curb with her boyfriend. She started flirting with a local black dude who was maybe not homeless but clearly a street hustler. She got closer and closer to him, slapping his ass, almost nuzzling up to him. It was such a funny sight, watching the sparks fly between those two while the white boyfriend got more and more freaked out. His head tilted back, smoking, trying to look cool. Then they all walked into the liquor store together. I love the mixing-it-up that happens on 6th.
We talked about a friend turning 50. (No bigs.) How M. is in jail for shoplifting...how he may have been smarter than all of us, but will probably be deported to Iran for his pathalogical behavior. "Maybe he'll have a successful career as a criminal there," Joe mused. We talked about a dear friend who's a junky living in a half-way house. How another friend's kid is now a "high end escort." That was sobering.
We all had a hard day, me Joe and Bruce. A day where we felt beaten down by our respective jobs and all the rest of it. It doesn't matter if you are a doctor giving talks or a painter or a hustler on 6th Street: Life is fucking hard. Of course it matters what you do. But it's hard for everyone.
On the way back we stopped in to see what was happening at the Luggage Store. They were setting up for some experimental music performance. The three of us walked back up Market Street arm in arm toward 7th. No man's land. The neon lights, the cheesy hotels, the brightly lit shoe stores and snowflake street decorations. The clear sky and weird, almost warm wind.
I love San Francisco.
I have a warm bed waiting for me. It's hard knowing not everyone does.
No comments:
Post a Comment