Public Works

When OccupySF occupied my car

Zelda Bronstein
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13
When OccupySF occupied my car

By David Adler

I began the week a brooding and self-pitying writer, who was spending far too much time sucking on sour grapes until they were bitter raisins.  I even went back and forth via email with an editor who had rejected one of my stories.  This is not a good way to endear yourself with potential future patrons.  But it had been far too long a time since I’d torched a bridge (and, in this case, I’m fairly certain that I burned the fucker to the ground), and in that sort of “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” empty machismo way, well, I still didn’t feel better.  I felt like I do when I yell at the television while watching a Laker game, screaming at Andrew Bynum as if I were sitting courtside next to Jack Nicholson and sneaking out with him for blow during TV timeouts or just when we damn well wanted to.  I was a crazy man.  A loon in sweats and a Cal hoodie. 

Determined to regain a semblance of human dignity, and equally committed to acquiring as little of it as necessary (the stuff is pricey, I don’t care what my therapist says), I got on the BART last Wednesday, October 5th, at the cavernous and exposed Millbrae station, the end of the peninsula line. 

The electric train screeched and squealed and screamed north into the city, where a half hour later I emerged from the Embarcadero station on Market Street.  A motley camp came into view, pitched on the sidewalk in front of the Federal Reserve building.  It was the Occupy San Francisco Financial District camp.  In solidarity with the original Occupy Wall Street movement, and the dozens other others cropping up daily, which defibrillates my long spasming liberal heart into a peaceful rhythm. The 99% in action. Could’ve been 1969.  They had a kitchen, a library/bookstore, it was a little city of dissent, and the forces of everyday people were now gathering, enlarging the camp’s population, in anticipation of the noon march.  The police were mostly in the background, talking with a few suits and ties out for a smoke, or lunch, who observed with amused smiles on their faces as they looked at the Occupy camp and the crowd.  Stupid people, they seemed to be thinking, though I obviously can’t know.  Perhaps they just didn’t get it. But they didn’t have to.  It was getting itself just fine. 

There were old and young, every race and color and creed.  There were hippies in their seventies and students in their teens and twenties, nurses of all ages, punks and patriots of equal concern, workers and laborers and normal folkies of every stripe and sandal.  Yes there was a progressive and lefty and outsider’s insider vibe to the signs and the chants. Banks got BAILED out, we got SOLD out!! Banks got BAILED out, we got SOLD out!!  We ARE the 99 percent!!  We ARE the 99 percent!!  But that’s the whole friggin’ point. There was a tiny dog, a Puggle the owner told me, who was wearing a sign that said “Justice for the Little Guys.”  A woman who looked to be on lunch break held a small sign aloft: “I’m here because I can’t afford a lobbyist.”  End The Fed.  Tax the Rich.  So many more, so varied.  And my favorite, which was a bit longer:

The Amercian Paradox:
Unionized Public Employees
Cracking Down on Those
Seeking to Save Their Jobs & Pensions

Now, I may not agree with everything and everyone in this movement, not even close, but the fetid financial powercore as the center of this mass and evolving dissent?  Bring it on.  My wife works for a good little bank, worked for another one in Southern California that was shut down by regulators and sold off under dubious circumstances, and those kinds of community institutions have been run over by the too-big-too-fail Gods.  I loved it, in other words.  And we marched.  The official count, I read, was 800.  Horseshit.  No way.  I couldn’t give an exact number, but I know it was many more than that paltry figure.  Cabbies were honking at us, but in a rhythm, a beat that said they were with us and not annoyed.  I carried my sign, given by a representative of the nurse’s union, because their cause really resonates with me: Tax Wall Street Transactions – Heal America.  I waved it for a few miles, but my arms never got sore.  The spirit was grand and vital and patriotic and American.  We were engaged in the only thing freedom really means.  The right to say no to the powers that be, to protest without the fear of unjust reprisal.

And there’s the rub.

After marching, I had to hop the train home quickly and pick up my son from school.  I rode south toward Millbrae, while behind me in the city the ruckus remained and grew and settled back into camp for the night. 

The night.

Always the best time for the authorities to do their dirty work. The next morning, after being told by my wife that on the news they reported the police had busted up the Occupy camp, I watched the videos that had already been posted online.  And there they were, those unionized public employees, heading down the street in riot gear toward the Occupy Camp.  The irony is too rich.  And disturbing.  They came in riot gear, apparently, to protect themselves from a bunch of barefoot hippies and thread-thin vegan rebels. The police confiscated a lot of the stuff from camp, ordering the reluctant Department of Public Works employees to carry out the deed, without giving the kids time enough to gather it themselves.  Then the police got rough, nightsticks into ribs and arms and thighs. All of it, needless to say, completely unnecessary.  The only thing freedom means, and that’s what it gets you.  In America.  Didn’t those police want to set a better example, to be better than the police and soldiers we see all over the world stomping on their people’s hopes?  I guess not.  They’ll say it was a safety issue, a private property issue, that it was this or that, but none of it required riot gear and physical violence at all. Disgraceful and depressing.

On Thursday evening, the 6th, on the Occupy SF website I saw that they had put out a call for anyone with a car or truck to help them get their stuff back.  It had been taken to the Department of Public Works yard off Bayshore.  Friday morning, as I sat staring at my computer trying to write, I decided to do something to help these kids out.  I got in my Prius and headed into the city, to the DPW yard.  On the way there, in my idealistic mind (at least I still have one at my age), I envisioned a huge caravan of progressive minded people arriving on the scene in solidarity, ready to help get this stuff back to whom it rightfully belonged. I wished.  But when I got there a little after nine, I was the only one there.  Soon, however, a tiny old Japanese hatchback rumbled past with what I took to be three activists of various ages riding inside.  They had to be Occupy people, I thought. But they drove past, appearing lost, and turned out of sight at the far corner.  Hmm.  In a few seconds, however, they reappeared, the car pulling to a stop at the red curb where I was standing at what looked like the front door to the DPW offices.

“Are you with Occupy?” I asked the bearded young man in the passenger seat, who had a thick mane of wavy dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail.

Yes, they all answered, who are you?  Where do we park?  The driver was in her sixties, clad in black I noticed, with long gray hair.  The passenger in the back seat was a younger gal, heavy, a punk lesbian vibe about her, with her short cropped hair painted red, blonde, and blue.

“I’m just a guy,” I told them.  “Just someone who showed up to help you out.”  The young gal in the back looked at me oddly, with an expression of curious surprise, then pointed at me slowly, like a b-ball teammate acknowledging a sweet assist, as if thinking, “Yes, even the fake hippies in the Adidas gear are with us!”

“And you probably want to park anywhere you can,” I continued. “I just got lucky across the street there.”

Just then we got the attention of a DPW worker inside the glass door.  A big African-American guy in a yellow work vest, he asked if we were from Occupy and looking to get our stuff back.  He gladly directed us where to pull our cars, and he told us he’d instruct someone to meet us back there.  This is when I learned, from the kid with the ponytail, that the DPW workers were not happy about having to obey the police and confiscate the protesters’ stuff, their own union supporting the Occupy movement.  So the courtesy and patience of all these DPW workers was no surprise.

A few minutes later, as the four of us waited on the sidewalk, I realized I’d forgotten their names, or if we’d exchanged them at all.  I thought we had, but I’m terrible with names, which I told the young guy with the beard and ponytail.

“Chris,” he replied to my re-query. “You’re Dave, right?”

I felt guilty that he remembered and I didn’t. 
“I’m Diana,” the younger gal introduced herself, “And I really have to pee.  You think you guys could form a perimeter here for me so I can go in the bushes?”

I suggested she go behind the black van that was completely blocking some bushes about twenty feet away.  She nodded, good idea, and walked over to relieve herself.

“I’m Dagny,” the older woman said as she sat on the curb and lit a cigarette.  “And the name’s not from that useless fucking Ayn Rand book, thank you very much.”  Dagny seemed an experienced San Francisco hellraiser, and I would discover that she had little time for taking any shit or wasting any time. 

Returning from her bathroom bivouac, Diana was hopping mad.  “You’ll have to excuse me, I really got a fire in me today, after what went down last night.  I may be young, but I can get stuff done.  And today we’re going to.”

I told her I understood the fire she had in her.  When I asked how old she was, she replied twenty-two.  Exactly half my age, I told her.  She thought for a second and mouthed forty-four, barely audible enough to be heard.  Just then another DPW worker showed up and told us to follow him in our cars.  He led us through the sprawling yard, crowded with trucks and tankers and service vehicles of every odd variety and size, many in the repair bays, where workers crawled under and around and atop them like Lilliputians upon Gulliver.

We finally made it to a parking area, filled with more trucks, and with a storage area surrounded by a patchwork chain link fence.  The DPW guy unlocked the fence gate and led us in.  There was junk covered in blue tarps on both sides, with a cleared path in between. Everything on the left, he told us, was homeless stuff, which made sense once we saw how many bicycles and shopping carts poked out from under the tarps.  On the right side was the Occupy SF stuff.  It had rained the previous night, so it was a wet mess of backpacks and chairs and tarps and toolboxes, storage containers and tents and camp stoves, furniture and clothes and food. A lot of food.  They’d been living there, after all. Some of it had spoiled, some was still good.  Chris and Diana were kind of overwhelmed at first, but Dagny just laid it down: let’s just get all the food out first, and figure out what’s still good to keep, and what’s not, and we’ll put the good stuff here, and the bad stuff goes in this trash bag.  Wet clothes over there, office stuff here, tarps in a pile, Dagny continued like a former flower-child field general, until we were moving with as swift an organization as possible under the shorthanded circumstances.

A half-hour later my car had been designated as the de-facto catering truck.  It was full of all the canned food, as well as the fresh stuff that hadn’t gone bad.   Bread and bagels that stayed dry, tea and coffee, oats and nuts, produce that included a large crate of oranges and a box full of various types of squash.

We had my Prius packed tight and Dagny’s hatchback full to the brim, with at least several more trips worth ahead of us, if no other vehicles showed up to help with the rest. More importantly, we had no place to go.  Diana made a harried phone call.  Then Chris made another.  There was supposed to be a storage space rented, but no one could seem to figure out who to contact to find out where it was.  It was then that a pickup truck and an SUV showed up.  Cool, now we could at least get the rest of the stuff loaded, those two trucks should be big enough to hold it all.  The truck and SUV, as well, brought four or five other people.  A guy about my age from Marin, who had picked up a gal from the city, and three younger guys in their early twenties (or so I assumed).  These threee were thin and vegan and dressed in clothes that looked like they’d been living outside for a couple of weeks.  When I introduced myself to one of them, he told me that I could call him “Just One.”  After a few moments, I got it.  A leaderless movement.  He was just one. There was something poetic and beautiful about it.  Just One seemed a tad wary of me at first, but by the end of the day was thanking me profusely.

“I really appreciate it, man.  I was worried I was gonna be the only mule out here.”

With more hands to help and more trucks to load, Just One and his friends started to voice their own concerns about how we should be separating the stuff.  They started to disagree among each other while trying to come to a community decision.  Dagny took charge once again, overriding the consensus confusion.

“We’re packing it all up and just taking it to this damn storage space, if anyone can figure out where the hell it is.  Then we’ll deal with it all there.  These people who volunteered their cars and trucks have to get other places, so we need to waste as little of their time as possible.”
Focused by a veteran of many movements, we got the remaining stuff loaded into the trucks, cramming in furniture and containers and everything we could that seemed worth saving. Dagny had decided to take all the wet clothes that looked like they could be salvaged and washed.  She told the kids that she’d bring it clean and dry to camp the next day.  She even told Chris that she was going to lend him her car for the rest of the day, all he needed to do was drop her off and pick her up from a class she teaches.  Lefty teamwork gave us an energizing rush.  Unity flowed like fine, and rare, wine.  On the last sweep of the space, Chris found the handmade red and black OccupySF flag, that had flown at the campsite. It was under a tarp and was still attached to the end of its long bamboo pole, having survived relatively undamaged.

“Yes!” Chris declared, holding it up.  “The flag survived!”  The others shared his small victory enthusiasm.  “We’ll take it with us,” he told me.

Colors ready to fly again, trucks and cars loaded with recovered possessions, we nonetheless continued to wait.  No one, still, could figure out where this storage space was.  A few people made a few more harried phone calls to certain people, not leaders of course, but people in the movement who might know who else in the movement would know where to send us.

“Quite a lovely clusterfuck” Dagny said to me.  “And what the hell am I thinking?  I’m missing prime smoking time here.”

As the guy from Marin, who brought the truck, finally managed to pin down the location of the storage space, I told Diana she could ride over with me, I had a passenger seat free.  She said okay, but didn’t seem too enthused.  As directions to the storage space were given out, Diana hung out next to the passenger door of Dagny’s car.

“I think she’d be more comfortable riding with you,” I said in Dagny’s ear. 

“I think you’re right.  Take Chris and we’ll meet you there.  It’s easy to find, right down 3rd.”

In the Prius and on the way, Chris told me he’d been living at the camp since he got into San Francisco.  He was raised in New Jersey, then he spent some time in Florida, which he hated.  “So I just took off west, ended up here, and I don’t think I’ll ever leave.  I just love the whole spirit here.”  I told him that I’d just moved to the bay area, with my wife and son, from San Diego, and that I’d spent my whole live in Southern California until we moved up here.  When he asked what I did, I talked for a few minutes about being a Hollywood dropout (though I made some good money for a brief time), and that I was now trying to write some fiction.  After I described what made SoCal and NoCal seem like two separate states, Chris repeated his mantra. “I just love it here.”

“Dagny’s a character,” I said after a moment.

“Oh man, she’s hilarious, you shoulda heard the stuff she was saying on the way over here.”

I asked him about Wednesday night, when the police in riot gear had busted up the Occupy camp in front of The Fed.. 

“They were the instigators of the violence, they really were,” he said.  “I mean a couple people yelled some stupid stuff, but we weren’t violent at all, and they just come at you with those batons.  I got nice lump right here on my arm.”

I said I’d heard that some of the police didn’t want anything to do with it.

“Yeah, there were some who wouldn’t even look at you, and you knew they were just torn and didn’t want to be there.  And the female cops, as usual, were fine.”

“Never had a problem with a woman in uniform,” I told him.  “Never even that cop attitude you get if you have the nerve to politely question them.”

He agreed, his eyes looking for the street off Third where we’d find the storage place. 

“Here it is!”

I made a quick sharp right, and I heard several oranges spill out of the crate and juggle down onto the floor.

Pulling into the parking lot, Chris and I realized everyone had made it there before us, even though we’d left pretty much first.  “That’s how you know we haven’t been in the city long,” he smiled, getting out to help unload.

Most of the food packed into my car, it turned out, was headed for a charity called Food Not Bombs.  I was going to drive it over there, a task Dagny had assigned to me, but she couldn’t get Food Not Bombs to pick up their phone, and no one knew where it was.

“They kind of operate under the radar,” Just One told us.  “They really don’t want the authorities to know where they are, so they kind of move around.”

I was stuck with a carload of provisions with no charity to feed.  Damn.  As my time got short, Dagny saved me again and told the kids that they should unload the food from my car, and set it aside with everything else that wasn’t going to stay at the storage space.
“We’ll put it all into one truck, keep it as organized as we can.”
Good call.  I pulled out the bamboo pole with the OccupySF flag on it.  I waved it around for them, and everyone gave a cheer.  “Let it fly, man!” Chris exhorted.  I flew it from the Prius for my last few minutes there.

Chris and I exchanged cell phone digits, and I told him to keep me in mind if they ever needed a car during the week, that mornings and early afternoons are when I’m mostly free.  We shook hands, and he thanked me again, so genuinely, as did everyone else. 

I drove away, got onto 101 south and headed back to Millbrae.  And, in my swelling head, I heard the line from Jack Kerouac’s “October in the Railroad Earth”: …and here’s all these Millbrae and San Carlos neat-necktied producers and commuters of America and Steel civilization rushing by with San Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins not even enough time to be disdainful…

I cherish those words: …not even enough time to be disdainful. 

So many critics fit that suit perfectly.  It offends them simply to take the time to disdain it.  It bothers them to even bother.  The people, many young, who started this Occupy movement and continue it, deserve much better, as does the entire nation.  These free and peaceful Americans have made the time to do much more than disdain or merely talk. For now, until who knows when, they have made it their lives to act.

The positive vibes from that day must have carried over, because on Sunday I pulled off another online poker miracle.  (I say another because last year I turned thin air, literally nothing but a few bucks won in a free tournament, into more than ten grand in about four months.  All of it ended up in the bank, thankfully.)

This was an equally daunting assignment.  Two thousand and fifty-six players were entered in the tournament on ClubWPT dot com.  It was first place or nothing.

Four hours later, I had beaten them all.

And I had won the grand prize: a $3500 Main Event seat at the World Poker Tour Jacksonville event in November, plus another $1000 in travel money. 

Now what the hell do I do?  I never play live.  And the tournament is at a dog track, of all places.  Greyhound Rescue, condemn me now.

But I could win a bundle.  Or nothing, in which case I’m still on the hook for taxes on this $4500 package.

Wall Street has their casino, albeit a much more rigged one, and I have mine.  Stay tuned.

SFPD raids OccupySF again, using more force this time (PHOTOS AND VIDEO)

Sasha Cuttler
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10

2:10 pm UPDATE: OccupySF plans to march on City Hall today (Mon/17) starting at 5 pm at Justin Herman Plaza.

Police raided the OccupySF encampment for the second time last night. The events were similar to the Oct. 5 incident, where police stood in riot gear while the protesters’ materials were loaded into Department of Public Works trucks, then protesters sat, lay, and stood on the street around the trucks in an attempt to prevent them from leaving. In both cases, a kitchen and medical tent that had been set up by protesters were dismantled.

Police were by many accounts more aggressive than in the previous raid, which was the first direct police attack on an Occupy encampment in a major U.S. city. Last night, protesters were dragged, kicked, and struck by police officers, prompting the dispatch of an ambulance to take an injured protester to the hospital. There were at least five arrests.

Journalist Josh Wolf shot some excellent footage of the raid:

San Francisco Police Department spokespersons didn’t answer calls from the Guardian. Police Chief Greg Suhr told us after the last raid (which was also approved by Mayor Ed Lee) that they were only removing public safety hazards and “we will surgically and as best as possible and with as much restraint as possible try to deal with the hazards while protecting people’s First Amendment rights.” Yet last night’s raid shows the city is actually dealing more harshly with the Occupy movement than most cities. 

Around 10:15 pm, the group received a warning that police planned to enforce 10 pm curfew in Justin Herman Plaza. The camp had moved there on Saturday to accommodate growing numbers. Police informed protesters that they could not sleep in the park and that they would need to take down a few tarps that had been propped up, providing a roof for the kitchen and communications area in camp. They claimed that there would be no trouble if the camp moved back to their previous location at nearby 101 Market Street, on the sidewalk in front of the Federal Reserve Building.

Protester Katt Hobin served as a liaison with police throughout the night. She was skeptical of police claims that 101 Market Street was an “agreed upon spot.” Hobin told us, “We were encouraged to relocate. We were never told we could be at 101, or that we could be here.”

There were about 100 protesters gathered. In response to warnings of arrest for those who stayed at Justin Herman Plaza, about 30 moved to 101 Market Street. Protesters began texting, calling and tweeting supporters to come join, and by 11:30 pm there were about 200 protesters at camp.

At first, when asked, police could not provide any written statement detailing reasons for disturbing the camp or arresting participants. An officer whose nametag read G. Tom said they were there based on grievances from the Recreation and Parks Department, but that he could not name a specific individual who had complained. After some deliberation, police produced a copy of San Francisco Park Code Section 3.13, which prohibits sleeping in public parks during certain hours.

Sup. John Avalos, the mayoral candidate who has been most actively engaged with the OccupySF movement, negotiated with officers and protester representatives on speakerphone. Avalos suggested that the police come back during the day; Officer Tom replied, “It works better for us to do this in the middle of the night.”

After some negotiations, officers warned that if the tarps that had been erected were not taken down, they would have to proceed with the raid.

Around 11:30 pm, protesters met briefly and agreed not to comply with that order. Said one protester, “We took down the tents last time, and they still took our stuff and arrested people. We can’t trust them. We need to stand our ground.”

At 11:47, about 70 police in riot gear marched on to the scene. They surrounded the camp and began dismantling structures. At 11:53, Department of Public Works trucks pulled in and police began loading them with items from the camp. This included food, tarps, signs, and personal and communal items.

One protester had duct taped himself to a poll within the camp structure. Police ripped him off the poll, threw him to the ground and struck him in the head and ribs. When he left by ambulance a few hours later, he appeared to be convulsing or seizing.

As they had on Oct. 5, protesters poured into the street in an attempt to block trucks from leaving with their possessions. But the street next to Justin Herman Plaza, the southbound side of Embarcadero, separated from the northbound side by a large concrete platform, is quite narrow compared to Market Street where a similar confrontation happened last Wednesday.

Protesters were much more successful last night in blocking the trucks from leaving, and it took about an hour before the four DPW trucks were able to exit. Protesters sat, lay, and stood in the way of trucks, chanting “the people united shall never be divided” and “we shall not be moved.”

Between about midnight and 1:30 am, police tactics escalated. At first, they attempted to back the trucks out, but protesters ran to block all paths. Then one truck lurched forward onto the sidewalk dividing area, where protesters ran to block it as well as talk with the driver about why he was participating in confiscating their belongings.

Soon, police began dragging and pulling protesters who were in their way and the way of the trucks, throwing them from the street to the sidewalk. They also arrested four of those sitting in on the street.

Protester Ryan Hadar, 19, told us: “They bent back my thumbs, trying to pry me away from the people I was locking arms with. When I asked if they were trying to break my thumbs [one officer] replied, ‘only if I have to.’ Then they dragged me to the sidewalk by my index finger. I asked if they were trying to break my finger, and this time they replied, ‘Yes.’”

This level of activity continued about an hour. Protesters sprinted and zoomed back and forth on skateboards, blocking trucks from leaving in all directions. Police pushed protesters out of their path as they marched back and forth, trying to maintain hold of the situation.

At 1 am, the last truck successfully left. Police who had been behind the truck, pushing protesters away from it, were suddenly alone in a sea of OccupySF particpants. They quickly formed into a block, batons poised, as protesters encircled them. A tense moment passed before protesters broke out in cries of “the whole world is watching!”

There were reportedly 2,100 people viewing the live video stream of the events.

The altercation ended in a bizarre fashion, as police marched across Justin Herman Plaza, stopped in the tracks, then seemingly changed their minds and marched back towards the Embarcadero. A smaller contingent then reappeared at the corner of Mission and Steuart streets. Protesters formed a line confronting them and demanding that they release those arrested; a man who had been arrested at the previous week’s altercation had been held 10 days before he was released on bail funds raised by OccupySF.

One officer said that police would continue standing there until protesters left; many protesters were determined to stand until the police left. Eventually, around 1:40 am, police did decide to exit first. A chorus burst out, singing “Na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye” as they left.

Ten minutes after the incident ended, about four tarps had been restrung and the camp had begun to rebuild its food and water supply. Protesters surveyed the aftermath, including loads of fresh vegetables and other food strewn on the ground near the former kitchen. Many picked up brooms and began cleaning, while others got to work compiling media information.

Those arrested were released around 3 am and arrived back at camp at 3:30. Xander, a protester who had been sleeping at the camp since its first night on Sept. 17, was one of those arrested. He recounted, “They hit me a couple of times on my shoulders and put me in the truck. We weren’t able to leave because our brothers and sisters had surrounded the truck. We were singing and banging on the walls.”

Those arrested were charged with resisting arrest and impeding traffic.

 

 

Inside the occupation

Andrew Lam
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20
Inside the occupation

Follow the Guardian’s complete Occupy SF coverage here.

Thursday morning, in gray seven o’clock fog, about 100 people asleep in front of the Federal Reserve building began to blink their eyes open. The bustling camp that had been there the day before — a small village of tents, tarps and easy-ups, shelves brimming with books, art supplies, and a display of hundreds of signs — was gone. The kitchen and all their food were missing, too.

“Wake up, everyone’s gotta wake up. Remember, sit/lie kicks in at seven,” urged a few protesters gently, winding their way through the maze of sleeping bags and blankets. No one was in the mood for legal trouble. All the people there, and a few hundred more who had gone home at two and three in the morning, had been a part of OccupySF’s first clash with the police. Someone pushed a cart full of fruit and granola bars. Breakfast. It was the camp’s first food donation since the incident, which had ended only four hours before. In the calm morning air, it was clear: the police could confiscate gear, but they could not stop the protest. It was only the beginning.

To say that OccupySF has grown in the past three weeks does not begin to describe it.

On Wednesday, Oct. 5, the camp was busy, clean, and what organizer Amy O proudly described as “jubilant.” Hundreds exchanged ideas, played music, and made signs and art. Two abundant snack tables providing free food to any and all were only the tip of the iceberg; the kitchen was piled so high that organizers had begun turning away food donations.

This scene contrasted starkly to the demonstration’s first night. Occupy SF started on Sept. 17, the same day as Occupy Wall Street, as one of the solidarity actions now reportedly numbering over 1,000. About 150 people gathered for the protest that first day and only a handful stayed the night. A week later, there was a devoted group of 10 campers. By Oct. 1, a good 40 people were camping and the kitchen and communications sections were set up. When the police showed up late Wednesday night, camp was 200 strong.

 

AS LONG AS IT TAKES

Spending time at the camp is addictive. Since my first night, I feel something constantly pulling me back. That night, Oct. 1, the camp was lively and half a block long. A big, hot pot of soup sat on the kitchen stove. Next door, the communications area was populated with organizers busily typing on laptops. The medical tent was next, kept pristine but as of yet untouched—its necessity, nonetheless, was evident after that week’s incident in New York when police pepper sprayed a group of young women.

At that point, the San Francisco Police Department had been courteous with OccupySF. They provided escorts on marches and didn’t bother the camp. Soon after arriving, Russell, a friendly 23-year-old from San Diego who has been camping since the first day, greeted me. He told me that there was a Gardening Committee meeting in a few minutes, and I planned to check it out. Next I saw Lesley Moore, 48, an Oakland resident with unrelenting energy and a knack for mediating misunderstandings at meetings.

She carried a clipboard and was compiling a massive list of food, supplies, and every imaginable resource the group might want. I learned that a flood of supporters, eager to donate, had requested info about what the camp needed. She planned to post the list on occupysf.com later that night.

Fifteen people climbed into a tent for the Gardening Committee meeting, keen to begin growing food for the camp. The donations were rolling in, and if there was a project we wanted to do, well, we probably could. We discussed what could grow in the winter and planting more in the spring. The mood was giddy with possibility but a bit uneasy— could we imagine we’d still be here then?

Many participants are determined to stay put. Jreds, a protester who had come from Chico, looked me in the eye and promised, “I’m staying as long as it takes.”

When asked his occupation, Jreds replied, “This is our occupation.”

After years of foreclosures and unemployment, no wonder so many people are motivated and available to work and sleep at a place like this. Wall Street’s unmitigated power has failed to trickle down into economic opportunities for the rest of us, and in this economy, “why don’t you just get a job” is starting to sound like “let them eat cake.”

As John Reimann, 65, a retired carpenter from Oakland, put it, “I’ve been waiting 10 years for something like this.” He helped start Occupy Oakland last week.

Protester Chris L, who says the community at the camp is the best part about it, also plans to stay indefinitely. Billy Gene Hobbs, a promoter from LA who can often be seen jumping and shouting to keep protest crowds pumped, came to visit San Francisco two weeks ago, found the camp, and hasn’t left. Since the police came through, almost 100 more people have joined.

The camp’s population is a source of ongoing discussion. Complaints of “too many hippies” usually die quickly when someone actually comes to camp, where the people they’re referring to are not the only ones and, moreover, are active and responsible organizers.

Others object that the protest is populated mostly with young people, especially white and male. There is active discussion on how to accommodate people with children as well as people with disabilities.

It seems everyone — including the many people of color, folks of all ages, and disabled people who have been organizers and participants in the movement — shares the view that oppressive institutions work hand in hand with the corporate corruption and power that the movement strives to end.

 

THE PEOPLE’S MIC

Camp life is dotted with calls for the People’s Mic, a tool developed at Occupy Wall Street, where using bullhorn or speakers is illegal. When someone yells “Mic check!” the crowd echoes in response. The person speaks his piece, sentence by sentence, as the crowd repeats. If a few people nearby can hear him, everyone can. For better or for worse, it tends not to amplify ideas people don’t have much taste for; at a recent meeting, when someone insisted that people who had been foreclosed on were greedy and foolish, the People’s Mic’s volume faded fast.

The People’s Mic requires no electricity, discourages rambling, a brilliant improvisation. But the central feature of Occupations throughout the country is the General Assembly. OccupySF has been holding General Assemblies every day at camp at 6 p.m. and on Saturdays at noon in Union Square. In the past week they have consistently boasted a couple hundred participants daily, but continue to practice consensus-based decision-making and participatory democracy. They’re long and often frustrating, but for many, as a standard rallying cry insists, “This is what democracy looks like!”

Many have stepped up at meetings to say that too many men, too many white people, or simply too many of the same voices are being heard. Solidarity efforts like Occupy the Hood, which declares the vital need that people of color make decisions and organize in and along with the occupations, have surfaced nationally.

On Oct. 5, after about 700 people marched on the Financial District with OccupySF, the General Assembly was particularly well attended. It was peppered with invitations and expressions of solidarity, conveyed by representatives of groups from throughout the Bay Area.

The week’s schedule slowly filled: Thursday’s anti-war march, the next day’s teach-in with activist Miguel Robles, a 7 am “Wake Up Action” with Unite-HERE Local 2 on Oct. 10, and plans to coordinate with the LGBT rights group Get Equal for a National Coming Out Day action the next day.

Carolyn DeRoo, a brightly charismatic BART station agent, reveled in the whoops and cheers when she announced that Amalgamated Transit Union Local 1555, the union that represents BART workers, had just voted to endorse Occupy SF. “I got an hour off work today so I could be in the march,” said DeRoo.

She expressed concern over the lack of coherent messaging, hoping it wouldn’t hurt the movement. “I was about to get on a plane to New York because of how badly I wanted to be a part of it,” she said. “I’m so glad it has started in SF.”

 

THE COPS ARRIVE

But on that fateful night, Oct. 5, meeting ideals were strained. High-tension and often angry debate filled the hours between being warned of police action and its onset, making consensus difficult. Some wanted to take down the camp, unable to risk arrest. There were campers from all walks of life present, including some homeless folks and travelers who would risk losing all or most of their possessions if the police confiscated them. Others didn’t want to see the camp’s growth stunted due to police intimidation.

Dierdre Anglin, 40, an Oakland resident who works in the nonprofit sector, was particularly calm amongst the chaos. “I think the energy got a little high,” she said, as protesters ran around taking down tents and preparing for the imminent police confrontation. “But we have decided to take the stance and to stay here.”

She added, “I personally feel that they are not going to do anything because it would make the police look quite bad. There’s a lot of support for us.” Anglin’s prediction about the cops’ actions, if not their public relations consequences, was mistaken. Police marched in around 1 am, and Department of Public Works employees began to fill their trucks with camp materials.

Billy Gene, ever energetic, raced to lie down on the street in front of trucks and was dragged away, yelling “Don’t be mean!” at police. Many sat and stood in front of trucks. Others could be seen shaking their heads at colleagues’ verbal attacks and murmuring, “that isn’t nonviolent.”

There was no property damage or physical violence on the part of the protesters, although one man was arrested for allegedly punching an officer in the face, which both sides cast as an aberration that didn’t reflect the tenor of the standoff.

At 3 am, protesters surveyed the damage. An organizer addressed the group: “We’re still here, and it’s time to rebuild.” The camp received a donation of blankets and sleeping bags at four o’clock that morning. At five, a small jam session and dance party broke out.

Police have since provided information on how to retrieve confiscated materials, and Police Chief Greg Suhr told us they’ve been actively trying to facilitate getting people their stuff back and allowing the occupation to continue (see accompanying article for more from Suhr).

In the days since, the mood has again turned jubilant. On Thursday afternoon, Oct. 6, about 120 people were gathered at the camp. Signs ranged from “student loan debt is slavery” to “grannies against war.” The next night, the mass of people had increased, and with it the group’s creativity. Protesters could be seen pedaling a stationary bike connected to a battery, powering laptops.

As the sun set Friday, 300 people at camp looked west. They erupted in cheers as a 500-person anti-war demonstration marched onto the site. Market between Main and Embarcadero was shut down as protesters rallied and then held General Assembly. A dozen police lined up near the sidewalk; one told me they were separating OccupySF from the march. The next second, the “march” erupted in chants of “We are the 99 percent,” the Occupy movement’s signature rallying cry. Attempts to divide were futile.

That the movement has no “one message” has in many ways worked to their advantage. It seems hundreds of thousands of people with varying issues and concerns can all agree that an elite class, embodied by Wall Street, has far too much power and money, and that the people must unite against the sorry state of this system. As I looked in the officers’ eyes, I wondered how long even their disconnect from the protesters will last. Most are, after all, the 99 percent too.

After the General Assembly held the street for an hour, police requested that they please move to the sidewalk. A consensus vote decided to oblige. An assembly member proclaimed, words booming with the roar of the People’s Mic, “Let us remember that we took this street, and we could have held it if we wanted to.”

This is the kind of power many haven’t felt in a long time. And I get the feeling that no one intends to relinquish it any time soon.

The Hangover: Oct. 7-9

Andrew Lam
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Jounce with us, if you will, through the Guardian staff’s frenzied weekend. Here’s our live reviews, hot raging, random sightings.

***Blow Up is reputed to be the best party in the city. I’ll say it’s almost certainly the best regular event for the 18+ crowd. But rule number one of going to a 18+ club event: don’t wear your nice shoes, even if the code does say “dress to impress.” It was only thanks to sheer luck and repeat viewings of The Matrix that I managed to avoid a geyser of projectile vomit in The Factory’s overcrowded men’s room Saturday night at Blow Up Forever II. “You go here.” I said, guiding the poor kid to the urinal I was about to use. “I’ll wait for the stall.” Click here for full story. (Ryan Prendiville) 

***Stationary bikes snuggled into the corners of Public Works’ sweaty cavern of a first floor, but the realness of the Bikes and Beats party on Friday was onstage. The event was billed as J Boogie’s album release party and the DJ spent the night doing what he does best: orchestrating sick collaborations. At one point he had Jazz Mafia (including emcee Aima the Dreamer) and Duece Eclipse sharing the stage with him simultaneously. That’s a lot of local live luminaries to look at. (Caitlin Donohue)

***Overt-sweetness ran emboldened through Twin Sister’s set opening for Pains of Being Pure at Heart on Friday at Slim’s, leaving a trail of cotton candy kisses in its wake. Lead singer Andrea Estella, hugging herself tightly, laid out tender and girlish vocals over the band’s funked out disco’d-Cardigans tone. The Long Island band, spread across stage in a perfect line at the front, pulled through decorated versions of “Bad Street” and other tunes off its highly enjoyable, recently released album, In Heaven. The only misstep, in my mind, is the oddly nasally pop tune “Saturday Sunday.” It’s too cutesy, the call and response of weekend days is at times cloying. By contrast, Pains of Being Pure at Heart kept it moody, with songs like “Heart in Your Heartbreak” recalling the darkened club scenes from Nic Cage classic, Valley Girl, when the Plimsouls’ thrust into “A Million Miles Away.” Quick tip: Slim’s has a pretty decent hummus plate. (Emily Savage)

***Completely inappropriate for a blog feature called the Hangover, but nonetheless we must give props to the Life Is Living Festival on Saturday in West Oakland’s De Femery Park for being the Bay’s feel-good event of the year. Was it the way the breakdancing children spun blithely on their heads? Maybe the youth parkour obstacle course, spoken word stage, or arts and crafts tables? Probs an amalgamation of it all. Plus, Los Rakas and ?uestlove made for a slammin’ live block party soundtrack. Click here for full story. (Donohue)

***(See accompanying photo) Someone had to make a statement at this weekend’s West Coast Cannabis and Music Festival — the medical marijuana industry is in absolute turmoil after last week’s forboding ruling by the IRS about Harborside Health Center’s tax status. Speaker Senator John Vasconsellos spoke to a multitudinous crowd at one stage (perhaps the free joints that promoters promised to anyone willing to take a seat upped number a little), and outside in the sunshine Rock the Bike bravely endeavored to keep the music stage pedal-powered, despite a location off the festival’s beaten track and corresponding dearth of volunteers.  

***Emotions ran high for the second consecutive sold-out Girls show at the Great American Music Hall last night. Chris Owens, JR White, and their talented ensemble were perfectly in sync as they treated us to a lengthy set highlighted by a trio of charismatic female vocalists. A powerful solo from one of the ladies made for an especially moving rendition of “Vomit.” Girls played nearly every song from Father Son Holy Ghost as well as old favorites like “Heartbreaker,” “Hellhole Ratrace,” and “Lust For Life.” The high point for me was the tender encore of “Jamie Marie,” which began with just Owens and his guitar on the flower ornamented stage before the rest of the band stepped out to resounding applause. The rapport between band members was palpable and I couldn’t help feeling a little bummed to be witnessing the closing chapter of their national tour. (Frances Capell)

***”This is the only mayoral candidate that’s doing drag events!” The woman at the door was, of course, wrong — just last week Lil Miss Hot Mess coupled with Queers for John Avalos to through the high school-themed Homo Homecoming at the Verdi Club. But last night’s Bevan Dufty’s “Politics is a Drag” campaign fundraiser was staged by the mayoral race’s only gay candidate, which was good enough reason to attract a Florence and the Machine-themed number from La Monistat and a return to the Sarah Palin costume that Anna Conda donned for a Work More! event — a reprise of a number she choreographed with the help of Guardian Managing Editor Marke B. (Caitlin Donohue)

***The Stevie Nicks show at The Fillmore on Sunday night was like a time warp to an early 1980s high school. Although most of the women in the audience were in their 40s and 50s, they were competing for “Best Dressed” like girls more than half their age. They paid tribute to their Queen Stevie in dark velvet, shimmering shawls, and long skirts. If I didn’t know better, I would say they’d kept those clothes in their closets for 20 years just for this occasion. But shopping with my mom has taught me that they sell it all at Chico’s. Click here for full story. (Ann Edwards) 

BREAKING: SFPD threatening to break up Occupy S.F. encampment

Sasha Cuttler And Mary Magee
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53

San Francisco city government is cracking down on the Occupy S.F. movement, with public officials waiting until around 11 p.m. on Oct. 5 to move in and try to clear out the camp.

Police appeared on the scene in front of the Federal Reserve at the foot of Market Street in downtown San Francisco where roughly 200 protesters were camped out as part of the Occupy SF movement, and threatened to make arrests if protesters did not clear out completely within 30 minutes. The protest was a peaceful affair and the encampment had been in place since Sept. 29. The protest was called to mirror the growing Occupy Wall Street movement to oppose corporate greed and highlight the role of financial institutions in an economic decline resulting in a rising wave of foreclosures, unemployment, and cuts to public services.

Yael Chanoff, who was at the encampment on behalf of the San Francisco Bay Guardian, phoned in to report that police officers had issued notices telling people that they had to clear out because they were in violation of local city ordinances such as public nuisance laws, rules requiring permits for temporary structures, and the newly adopted sit/lie ordinance. Officers were taking photographs of the camp, presumably for evidence. Trucks from the city’s Department of Public Works had lined up on the street, she said.

Roughly 50 police officers in standard uniform were there, carrying “stacks of zip ties,” she added. Alexandra List, a protester, said that a commanding officer on the scene had told her no one would be arrested if the structures were removed completely within 30 minutes. Chanoff estimated that there were about 20 structures.

Chanoff said protesters were meeting to try and find out how to proceed, but some had decided to begin taking down the tents.

UPDATE: The Guardian spoke with SFPD public information officer Albie Esparza, who told us, “the sidewalks are being cleared of debris,” and mentioned that protesters had been in violation of certain codes, such as a fire code prohibiting open flames that applied to outdoor cooking setups. “They have the right to protest as individuals, obviously,” he said. Asked why it was so urgent that these codes be enforced at 11 p.m. when the streets are virtually empty, Esparza said, “I don’t know what the reason was for the timing.”

 

Yael Chanoff contributed to this report.

 

The Hangover: Sept. 30-Oct. 2

Andrew Lam
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The Hangover: Sept. 30-Oct. 2

Jounce with us, if you will, through the Guardian staff’s frenzied weekend. Here’s our live reviews, hot raging, random sightings.

**The wonderfully energetic (and wonderfully tall) Robin Simmons puts on an occasional gig in the middle of Dolores Park called the Boombox Affair, hooking up a wall of old boomboxes as turntable speakers and letting disco-minded DJs go nuts with their all-vinyl obsessions. On Friday’s Odyssey party at Deco Lounge, he went indoors and at night hosting a three-hour set by DJ David Harness that reminded of those ancient “back in the day” days. Just 30-40 freaks, many of whom were previously unfamiliar to each other, jacking all night in the dark to some heavy tunes as the walls sweat and pounded. Hopefully the party will come back around soon. (Marke B.)

**I was not acquainted with the work of dOP before I attended Friday night’s Liaison Showcase at Public Works — the French techno trio has some excellent grooves and an absurdly over-the-top “sexy” aesthetic that would make their hits like “Horny” hilarious, if they weren’t actually very, very horny. Example: the chain-smoking boys are just fine wiggling around onstage half-naked, and the singer-rapper-screamer is one of the hottest little tattooed bear cubs I’ve ever seen. He spent most of the set playing with his nipples and shaking sweat from his shoulder hair. The crowd ate it up. (Marke B.)

**Saturday at the Warfield for Amon Tobin’s ISAM tour was like entering the 22nd century, except surrounded by young Pixar workers who couldn’t stop screaming, “Amaaazing!” everytime one of the realtime 3-D effects of the stage set was unveiled. Why? Because it really was amaaazing. Opener Eskmo did an entrancing job live-sampling cookware and plastic Coke bottles to build left-field grooves that weren’t afraid of floor-bending tempo changes. (Marke B.)

**With flickering string lights strung from the center of the grand ballroom and splayed out brass instruments across the stage, Beirut’s performance at the Fox Theater in Oakland on Saturday warmed like a fancy indoor county fair. The sound, which can be bass-problematic at the Fox, was good this evening, near perfect for the otherworldly folk-marching band from Santa Fe. Ringleader Zach Condon switched back and forth from ukulele to his beloved trumpet, singing in deep baritone throughout, once stepping to his newly rediscovered favorite, the keys. Here’s our interview with Condon from last week. (Emily Savage)

**What else is there to say about Saturday’s Hard French party besides the fact that Scott Weiner got to express his gratitude to us for his official Guardian ass towel? The queer patio shakefest at El Rio (theme: “Hardly Strictly French.” Overalls.) featured hand-wagging talents of many of the candidates for November’s city elections. Plus, Sups. Weiner and Jane Kim tagged along for the ride and they aren’t even running for anything. (Caitlin Donohue)

**The crowd at Odd Future’s show at the Warfield on Friday may have looked like Warped Tour cool kids, but you couldn’t fault them on their choice in music. The crew from Compton bug-eyed and jello-kneed through and generally crushed their set, although we were all out of their by 11 p.m. What Warfield, not into bands hurling their most enthusiastic devotees back into the crowds spine-first? Here’s the full review, btw. (Caitlin Donohue) 

**So we only made it to Sunday of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, but damn if that afternoon’s Devotchka set and red wine from the bottle wasn’t a welcome entree to sunny banjo strumming. Even the crowd itself was hotter than ever (where did all these surfer-hippie hotties come from and to whence have they now returned?) — and in contrast to Outside Lands’ frenzied crowds, filtered through the fenceless areas calmly and happily. Yay free concerts! Happy birthday, Mr. Hellman. (Caitlin Donohue)

Hot sexy events: September 21-27

Andrew Lam
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1

Pretty much, today’s whole paper is a hog-tied, historical, self-confessional smutfest of San Franciscan proportions. It only makes sense, because I dare say this week of sex events will reach levels of debauchery that even the City by the Bay can be happily ashamed of. 

Yep, it’s the Folsom Street Fair sex events column! Including things that aren’t Folsom Street Fair also, like Mission Control’s genderqueer play party, a Good Vibes film fest, and an art exhibition that’ll leave you panting.

Indie Erotic Film Fest short film competition and party

The culmination of a week of alternative porno presentations, tonight’s docket includes short blue films from around the world – something for everyone in this wild and wooly world of voyeurs. But cum early – the pre-screening party in the top floor of the Castro is gonna be balls, or at least mustaches. There’s a mustachio-ed photobooth and even more titillating, burlesque dancing courtesy of Twilight Vixen Review. 

Thu/22 party 7 p.m., screenings 8 p.m., $10 each

Castro Theatre

429 Castro, SF

(415) 621-6120

www.gv-ixff.org

 

Steam does Folsom

Get squeaky-durty at this installment of Steam, the SoMa bathouse resurrection party. So many ways to play: enter into the wet towel contest ($100 prize for the best terrycloth tease), massages for $1 per minute, cheap drinks, cheaper go-gos, and hard crusing into the kinkiest weekend in the Bay. Tunes by Honey Soundsystem’s DJ Peeplay help you get some. 

Fri/23 9 p.m.-2 a.m., $8 cover to benefit the SF Bay Area Leukemia and Lymphoma Society

Powerhouse 

1347 Folsom, SF

Facebook: Steam Does Folsom

 

San Francisco erotic art exhibition

From the candy-coated gazes of Yancy Mendoza’s models to the unique sextaur sculpture stylings of Peter Keresztury, there will be enough images of penetration, playtime, and penis at this group art exhibition to merit a stopover in your weekend of hedonism rendered art. 

Fri/23, 4-9 p.m.; Sat/24, 1-9 p.m.; Sun/25, noon-5 p.m., free 

The Artists Alley

863 Mission, SF

www.eroticartevents.com


Velvet

Play in the SF girls of Leather “fungeon,” and have a genderqueer good time overall at Mission Control’s queer-trans-boi-butch-femme puppy pile. Scenes from the Crash Pad Series will be playing all night to ensure that you’ve got inspiration for all the naughty things you’re about to do to your alt sex cupcake. 

Fri/23 8 p.m.-2 a.m., $20 Mission Control members only

Mission Control

www.missioncontrolsf.org


Show Me Where it Hurts

Sardine-pack into a crowd of the hottest, kinkiest dykes on the scene at this free party at the Lex. But dress to impress: Elizabeth and Buck Wilder are performing, DJs Jenna Riot and Durt are spinning… you’ll wanna look whip-smart at the night’s fetish-uniform costume contest. 

Sat/24 9 p.m., free

Lexington Club

3464 19th St., SF

www.lexingtonclub.com


Folsom Street Fair

400,000 fetish fans packed into 13 sunny city blocks – the mother of all fetish fairs takes over SF this weekend. Check for hard-bodied, sweaty-fisted action all over the place, but also the annual erotic artist’s corner and two stages of live music all day. Oh and hey, for a rad look at women’s role at the fair over the years, check out Amber Schadewald’s cover story on the SF girls of Leather from early this summer. 

Sun/25 11 a.m.-6 p.m., $10 suggested donation

Folsom between Seventh and 12th sts., SF

www.folsomstreetfair.org


Deviants: Official Folsom Street Fair after-party

There’s gonna be so much bump and grind at this union of Honey Sound System, Some Thing, and Hard French DJ crews that your harness will go bald. It’s only right – a minutes-long stumble from the main event in SoMa today gets you to the Erie Street cul-de-sac that Public Works looms over. Today, it’ll be blocked off for a outdoors-indoors party that have you screaming for more. The party features the hostessing powers of Sex Issue star Princess Donna http://bit.ly/oQu9mn and a photo confession booth staffed by queer porn maven Courtney Trouble. 

Sun/25 3 p.m.-4 a.m., $20-30

Public Works 

161 Erie, SF

www.publicsf.com

 

 

Our Weekly Picks: September 21-27

Andrew Lam
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0

WEDNESDAY 21

Veronica Falls CANCELLED

Apparently, this UK indie rock band found its relaxed retro pop sound right from the get-go. Singles “Found Love in a Graveyard” and “Beachy Head” combined jangly, propulsive rhythms with light, morbid lyrics for a result that could easily find an anachronistic home in the recent remake of Brighton Rock (and not just because every video for the band looks like it was ran through a Hipstamatic app.) Now with a self-titled debut album on Slumberland Records, Veronica Falls is scheduled to tour in support of the Drums and Dum Dum Girls next month. This will be their West Coast record release show. (Ryan Prendiville)

With The Mantles, Brilliant Colors

9 p.m., $13

Brick and Mortar Music Hall

1710 Mission, SF

(415) 800-8782

www.brickandmortarmusic.com

 

THURSDAY 22

Teengirl Fantasy at Icee Hot

They put something in the water over at Oberlin. Beach House, Blondes, Teengirl Fantasy. Now at work in the real world, which includes opening for Crystal Castles, Teengirl Fantasy has found a style that’s just as likely to draw from the pop charts as it is from their academic pedigree. A little Lil Jon on one track, a little Raymond Scott on the next. With cooled, slo-mo beats and hyped up MCs turned down, the result is an aural muscle relaxant, allowing you to focus on making bedroom eyes across the dance floor. Teengirl Fantasy comes our way to play monthly party Icee Hot. (Prendiville)

With Total Freedom, Magic Touch (Damon Palermo), Shawn Reynaldo, and Rollie Fingers

10 p.m., $5-10

Public Works

161 Erie, SF

(415) 932-0955

www.publicsf.com

 

FRIDAY 23

Smuin Ballet

The late Michael Smuin was not one of my favorite choreographers. But he left behind a substantial inheritance that had gained him respectable audiences. Smuin choreographed one his most serious pieces, “Stabat Mater” — Dvorak’s response to the death of his infant daughter — in the aftermath of 9/11. He also loved to play with pop eroticism; “The Eternal Idol” — you can see its inspiration at the Legion of Honor — and “Tango Palace” showcase that propensity. Amy Seiwert premieres what she calls her “most “Smuinesque” piece yet — to Patsy Cline. Not the least of the company’s attractions these days is the quality of its dancers. Parking around the Palace — because of the Doyle Drive reconstruction — is somewhat restricted, so plan for extra time. Muni 43 goes there as well. (Rita Felciano)

9/23-Oct.1

$25-62

Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco

(415) 556-5000

www.smuinballet.org

 

FRIDAY 23

“Hong Kong Cinema”

Though this is the San Francisco Film Society’s first-ever Hong Kong Cinema mini-fest, there’s no shortage of HK film fanatics in this town, what with the SF International Asian American Film Festival, the programming at Frank Lee’s Four Star Theatre, and even the occasional HK flick that arrives via Hollywood. If you dug Benny Chan’s now-at-the-Four-Star Shaolin, you won’t want to miss his City Under Siege, about bank-robbing, superpowered circus performers. Also on tap: another superhero action comedy, Vincent Kok’s (Pixar-inspired?) Mr. and Mrs. Incredible; Clement Chan and Yan Yan Mak’s multigenerational drama Merry-Go-Round; All About Love, from Ann Hui (her latest, A Simple Life, has been tearing up the international fest circuit); Law Wing-cheong’s kidnap thriller Punished (starring Anthony Wong, always full of win); Alex Law’s coming-of-age drama Echoes of the Rainbow; and rom-com Don’t Go Breaking My Heart, a genre departure for action man Johnnie To. (Cheryl Eddy)

Through Sun/25, $13–$20

San Francisco Film Society New People Cinema

1746 Post, SF

www.sffs.org


FRIDAY 23

SF Cocktail Week: Barbary Coast Bazaar

San Franciscans have long enjoyed a romance with alcohol — from the debauchery of the Barbary Coast era, to the modern renaissance of the artisan cocktail, the city knows how to knock ’em back. Celebrate this high-proof history with SF Cocktail Week, which features a variety of tastings, dinners, seminars, and parties, including “Barbary Coast Bazaar,” a huge fete inside the Old Mint. Expect a roaring 1920s themed party, with vintage circus acts such as stilt walkers, jugglers, contortionists, magicians, and carnival games, along with food, and of course, a wide variety of tasty cocktails. (Sean McCourt)

SF Cocktail Week events run through 9/25, pricing varies

Barbary Coast Bazaar, 9/23

8-11 p.m., $85–$95

The Old Mint

88 5th St., SF

www.sfcocktailweek.com


SATURDAY 24

Moving Planet Worldwide Rally Day

You can make yourself sick thinking about it: what are you going to tell your kids (or — hey sexy single! — the neighbor’s kids) when they ask you what you did to stop climate change back when we still had a chance and the Bayview-Sunset commute didn’t call for a rowboat? Are we creeping you out? Then let us recommend Moving Planet Day. A worldwide rally for sustainability, it’s sponsored by 350.org and will include Sept. 24 actions from Buenos Aires to Nairobi. In SF, a march of self-propelled peoples on foot, bike, and skate will trek from Justin Herman Plaza to the Civic Center, where an afternoon of speakers, music, and other events awaits. (Caitlin Donohue)

10-a.m.-6 p.m., free

March starts at Justin Herman Plaza, SF

Afternoon activities at Civic Center Plaza, SF

www.moving-planet.org


Hank 3

The grandson of country music royalty, Hank Williams III, or as he’s now known, Hank 3, continues to hone his own brand of diverse music, releasing not one, but four brand new albums this month: Ghost to a Ghost/Guttertown, a double record in a country vein, Attention Deficient Domination, with more of a “hellbilly” feeling, and Cattle Callin, which is more on the metal side of things. The modern torch bearer of outlaw country is promising that this tour will touch on all of them, which he released through his own label, Hank 3 Records, and that fans can expect a two-and-a-half to thee-hour set at each barn burning show. (McCourt)

8:30 p.m., $26

The Regency Ballroom

1290 Sutter, SF

www.theregencyballroom.com


SATURDAY 24

Celsius 7

The superchill but often splendidly goofy Bay rapper, a former member of the Psychokinetics crew, hails from one of the golden ages of local hip-hop — that late ’90s-early ’00s period when earnest showmanship and a healthy dose of good humor trumped aggro attention-seeking, niche genre overload, and crass product placement. Cel’s kept himself busy through Bay rap’s recent twists and turns, though, traveling the world and dropping some ace tracks, all the while staying true to his roots. This release party for his poppin’ second solo album, Life Well Spent (which features a nice roster of collaborators including Dirt Nasty, iLL MEDiA, and Baby Jaymes) will showcase his grin-inducing verbal dexterity, be loaded with special guest appearances, and serve as a convention of true school heads. (Marke B.)

9 p.m., $10 (includes copy of album)

Shattuck Downlow

2284 Shattuck, Berk.

(415) 455-4735

www.shattuckdownlow.com


SUNDAY 25

Chinatown Music Festival

The Yerba Buena Center for the Arts has an exhibit going on called “Daily Lives,” a group showing by local Asian American artists that takes prosaic trinkets and uses them to express the psychic winds that ruffle our insides. This weekend, “Daily Lives” is taking this exploration of the private, public. Put on your dark glasses and check out the sidewalk art exhibit in Chinatown — where your ambling will be soundtracked by a day of rad live music; traditional tunes from the SF Guzheng Society and pianist Jon Jang (who will be sharing his recently-penned homage to the Xinhai Revolution of 1911), plus more modern grooves by the grown-up local kids in Jest Jammin’ and the SF Latin Jazz Youth Ensemble. (Donohue)

1-7 p.m., free

Portsmouth Square Kearny between Clay and Washington, SF

www.apiculturalcenter.org


SUNDAY 25

Ladytron

Given the harder direction that Ladytron has gone in over the last few albums — even touring with Nine Inch Nails — I was not expecting what I heard on Gravity the Seducer: ABBA. Whether or not they were invoking the Swedish gods of pop on purpose, the opener “White Elephant” sets a tone for a lighter album. Not simply a step backwards to the sounds of Ladytron’s early albums, it’s its most synthetically dreamy, spaced out record yet. Of course, harder and softer are relative terms with the band, which has generally stuck to a distinctive sound, becoming electronic pop mainstays and developing a cult following in the process. (Prendiville)

With SONOIO, Polaris at Noon, and DJ Omar

8 p.m., $25

The Regency Ballroom

1300 Van Ness, SF

(800) 745-3000

www.theregencyballroom.com

 

MONDAY 26

Dr Ruth

We all fondly recall Dr. Ruth Westheimer as the funny, entertaining, and educational “sexpert” that hit the mainstream media in the 1980s and 90s, but did you know her amazing background before she was a household name? Born in 1928 in Germany, she lost her parents in the Holocaust, and actually fought (and was wounded) as a sniper during Israel’s war of independence. The icon will be touching on all these subjects, along with her new book, Heavenly Sex: Sexuality in the Jewish Tradition, at tonight’s special event. (McCourt)

7 p.m., $20–$35

Jewish Community Center of San Francisco

3200 California St., SF

(415) 292-1200

www.jccsf.org


TUESDAY 27

Tony Bennett Night

As San Francisco Giants fans know, whenever the team wins a game here at home, the crowd exits the ballpark to the sounds of the legendary crooner Tony Bennett’s signature song “I Left My Heart In San Francisco.” The 85-year-old icon performed the song live at last year’s World Series, and the team is honoring him with this special event where he will be celebrated in a pre-game ceremony. He also will perform a short set, and fans will receive a “Tony Bennett” bobblehead that has a sound chip that plays his beloved ode to our city by the bay. (McCourt)

Game starts at 7:15 p.m.; arrive early for pre-game events. Pricing varies; see website for current availability.

AT&T Park

24 Willie Mays Plaza, SF

(415) 972-2000

www.sfgiants.com/specialevents


TUESDAY 27

Nurses

If you listened to Nurses’ earliest album, you might not recognize the groovy melodic rock trio that stands before you today, presenting 2011’s Dracula (Dead Oceans). In the past five years, the harmonic freak-folk band — with a penchant for toy instruments and pianos — has gone through lineup changes, sound modifications, and location shifts. The two Nurses mainstays, singer-guitarist Aaron Chapman and singer-keyboardist John Bowers, have lived in the sweet sunshine of San Diego, close quarters during cold winters — the tour van in Chicago — and finally, settled in the dewy DIY spirit of Portland, Oreg., where they gained drummer James Mitchell, and further developed their technique. But that’s the test of a true musician, isn’t it? The ability to roll with the punches, to grow, to evolve. (Emily Savage)

With Dominant Legs

9 p.m., $12

Cafe Du Nord

2170 Market, SF

(415) 861-5016

www.cafedunord.com

 

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Instant replaya

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Instant replaya

SUPER EGO Dear burners,

I am absolutely NOT BITTER that I couldn’t join you this year. And I certainly DID NOT wrap myself in a hot-pink bedsheet, spin around until I saw Ganesh, puke up 23 packets of Tasty Bites, and throw a fistful of chickpea flour in my roommate’s face, screaming “Rites of passage, bitch!” so that I could virtually burn. And then I didn’t fist-pump to vintage Bassnectar, nor construct a 12-foot flashing Alexander Wang Summer 2011 fun-fur ankle strap high-heeled sandal in our foyer out of wire hangers, chicken bones, old Dell motherboards, and tuck tape.

Does anyone have a couch I could crash on? Preferably one of those big red lips-shaped ones?

In a sort-of pathetic attempt to even things out a bit, here’s what you missed: a gaggle of the hottest nerds in the world cruising Zinefest; the best Bloody Mary ever at my new-old favorite bar, Little Shamrock; Optimo DJs blowing minds at Public Works by dropping one of the first industrial tracks, Liasons Dangereuses’ “Los Niños del Parque”; German frenzy-whipper Matthias Tanzmann slaying with Maxwell-sampling summer smash “Entrance Song” by Eats Everything at Mighty, the supernova heat-explosion of Oakland Pride … and I’m not even on Sunday evening yet. So, you know, nyah.

ARAABMUZIK AND DJ FUNK

Young Rhode Islander Abraham Orellano, a.k.a. Araabmuzik, is actually of Dominican-Guatemalan descent – his crew dubbed him Araab when he was a teen. (Why? Because he’s so fine like the rest of us Arab brothers?) But beyond the Google-gold moniker, Araab’s emblematic of a neat trend right now in our frantic niche-crossover times: he’s a hip-hop beatmaker (Cam’ron, Duke Da God) with a touching love for poppy old dance music, using his genius manual dexterity with big-buttoned, retro-looking Music Production Center devices in his live act to melt dance floors into stunned lumps of woah.

This year’s Electronic Dreams album subtly warps goofball “Night at the Roxbury”-type ’90s dance anthems like Future Breeze’s “Why Don’t You Dance With Me” and Starchaser’s “So High” – and even gabber-house noise-blast “Underground Stream” by Nosferatu – into haunting documents of a young man’s often-lonely street life. Araab’s polishing songs I spent a good part of my life running in terror from into weird mirrors of interiority, fusing futuristic bedroom-producer headspace with retro big-room boom. And the dude’s just getting started.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeJcUz7nSYk

Also headlining this month’s Lights Down Low party is DJ Funk, a Chicago booty-bass legend who pioneered the “ghetto house” sound that still holds the Midwest underground in its filthy, rump-slapping grip. Funk’ll get the panties wet; up to you to rip ’em off.

Fri/9, 9:30 p.m.-3 a.m., $15. SOM, 2925 16th St., SF. www.som-bar.com

VIRGO FOUR

The word “timeless” sure gets thrown around a lot in this retro-minded era. And I’m fine with that, as long as the hype keeps fuelling comebacks like Virgo Four’s. At the moment, timeless, in techno terms, is almost a spatial distinction – and records like the Chicago duo’s wonderful “Vision” from 1989 really do sound like something that steps swiftly out of the distant past and into tomorrow’s speakers.

Merwyn Sanders and Eric Lewis expertly stroked the house-techno-acid nexis of the time with a series of releases that now serve as a few vinyl collectors’ 401ks. They’ve been relatively silent in the 20-odd years since, but from what I’ve heard on the virtual grapevine, their reunion DJ sets are deep and smoking. Honey Soundsystem and the No Way Back boys are pairing up to present this one, so the party should be mixed-crowd, no-attitude bliss.

Fri/9, 10 p.m.-4 a.m., $15. Public Works, 161 Erie, SF. www.publicsf.com

TRUCK RELAUNCH WITH CHRISTEENE

One of San Francisco’s cutest macho gay bars is having a makeover-do-over, with new co-owner Matt Bearracuda from the West Coast’s insane Bearracuda bear dance parties joining already-owner Paul Miller at the helm. Apparently, a new menu, new parties, new faces are in store (and I bet a lot of those faces will be fuzzy in a good way).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkL9Fpp1FF4

First up, the actually insane trash drag rapper r&b clown-whore Christeene (www.christeene.org) performs some “opening” numbers. I don’t really “get” her, which just might be an endorsement!

Sat/10, 8 p.m., free. 1900 Folsom, SF. www.trucksf.com

A wave

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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A wave

marke@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO And so, interest in user-friendly dance music has come to the point where it can support a full-fledged, all-ages, traveling arena festival tour, a kind of mid-period Lollapalooza for ravers of all stripes called Identity, which features a pretty thrilling grab bag of 35 acts in 20 cities, and rolls into Shoreline Amphitheatre on Sat/3. Well, why the hell not? It’s good to go big once in a while.

(Unlike Lollapalooza, however, Identity carries nary a hint of grassroots activism or cosmic enlightenment — although there are “glow products” for sale in the Vendor Village. Also, for something called “Identity” there’s an awfully pale-faced sausage-fest lineup. Both of these things, however, may just be an accurate reflection of contemporary electronic dance music mega-party affairs in general.)

Alongside marquee names like DJ Shadow, Crystal Method, Pete Tong, and Hercules and Love Affair and intriguing, less-familiar-Stateside acts Rusko, Nero, and Steve Lawler — not to mention heroes of hype Steve Aoki and Skrillex — is someone very familiar to San Franciscan clubgoers. Headlining Identity is Kaskade, a.k.a. Ryan Raddon, who made his early career in the city at OM Records before leaping to Billboard Dance Chart fame and becoming SF’s entry into that overwhelming, slightly horrifying, always fascinating pop-tech monster ball that includes Deadmau5, Tiësto, and David Guetta.

“It wasn’t really my ambition to get so big that here I am headlining this massive tour, which can be exhausting,” Kaskade told me over the phone as he prepared to jet off between Identity dates to play the UK’s famed Creamfields Fest. (As someone whose appearance at a block party sparked a full-on riot in LA last month, Kaskade’s down-to-earth, surfer-dude demeanor is a bit disarming.)

“My passion is really more about producing than DJing, although doing I.D. has been awesome and exposed me to new sounds and different audiences. It’s a great party. And it does feel more and more that the pop sound is coming around to what I’ve been doing. A wave of electronic music seems to be taking over right now. I don’t specifically compose for pop singers like Guetta, but I can see how my sound fits in with what’s happening, and that’s why it’s reaching more people.”

That sound is a thoroughly accessible, silky smooth, slightly melancholic series of usually vocal-based anthems that always seems to be shimmering on a Mediterranean beach somewhere (expensive sunglasses come to mind) even as it inexorably builds to its climaxes and breakdowns. New release “Eyes,” with singer Mindy Gledhill is emblematic, the aching breeziness pioneered by local OM and Naked Music labels in the early 2000s pumped up on the big-money, stadium-sized steroids of Kaskade’s current home, Ultra Records, based in New York City.

Headlining Identity has buoyed Kaskade’s mainstream standing, but hopping aboard has had other advantages as well. “One of the best things about the Identity tour is that I get to work on my own stage show, to turn the music into a whole experience. Most of the time as a DJ, I just come into predetermined venues like Ruby Skye and at least have a good light rig. But now I can really expand my musical ideas conceptually, with video projections and amphitheater effects. Opening up to that kind of thing, along with hearing what the other Identity acts like Datsik and Le Castle Vania are doing — I don’t get to go to other peoples’ shows very much because I’m always playing somewhere — that’s changed some of my ideas drastically.”

Is coming back to San Francisco a kind of triumphant homecoming? “I don’t think of it that way. I really don’t think I ever left San Francisco, or that anyone can ever really leave San Francisco. Obviously the Bay Area means a lot to me in terms of my development, but I think a lot about moving back there. The people are genuinely into the music — and they’re used to a high level of quality.”

Identity Festival Sat/3, 1 p.m., $60. Shoreline Amphitheater, Mountain View. www.idfestival.com.

 

BAD SHOES ANNIVERSARY

The local electro label pumps out a good share of thoughtful bangers, this free party at recently expanded swankity club Sloane Squared is a perfect chance to plug in to the crews’ mindbending doings. With Baan, Ear Jerker, MPHD, Dane O, and Teleport.

Wed/31, 10 p.m., free. Sloane Squared, 1525 Mission, SF. www.badshoesrecords.com

 

MATTHIAS TANZMANN

Cleverly fiendish, heavily electric house and techno, expertly mixed by this famous German, celebrated for his close association with Ibiza club Circoloco.

Fri/2, 10 p.m., $5 advance. Mighty, 119 Utah, SF. www.mighty119.com

 

ZUZUKA PODEROSA

Brazil-via-Brooklyn baile funk warrior queen gets provocative and splashes some neon rap over bass-heavy electronic tracks at one of my favorite monthly parties for downright friendliness and forward-thinking global jams, Braza!

Fri/2, 10 p.m., $10. SOM, 2529 16th St., SF. www.som-bar.com

 

D. DIGGLER AND KOLLEKTIV TURMSTRASSE

Repping Frankfurt and Hamburg respectively, these two acts are heroes of headspace-commandeering minimal techno — with duo Kollektiv considered by many to be among the best live acts in the world. Their sometimes haunting tracks will give the monthly Kontrol party an intense vibe.

Sat/3, 10 p.m.-6 a.m., $20. EndUp, 401 Sixth St., SF. www.kontrolsf.com

 

OPTIMO

Glaswegian geniuses of the extended 12-inch, this duo can make any retro track sound delightfully contemporary: classic rock, ska, dub, ’80s pop, it’s all fair game. Local “punch-drunk disco nihilists” Mi Ami, a band that’s garnered its own international fame, leads the charge.

Sat/3, 9 p.m.-4 a.m., $10 advance. Public Works, 161 Erie, SF. www.publicsf.com

 

ADRIAN SHERWOOD

One of the almighty princes of dub ruled the ’80s with treatments of Depeche Mode, Coldcut, the Woodentops, and Sinead O’Connor, released the first Black Uhuru records, cofounded the storied On-U Sound System, and is now helping celebrate excellent weekly Dub Mission’s 15th (!) anniversary. This is one of those “wows.”

Sun/4, 9 p.m., $15 advance. Elbo Room, 647 Valencia, SF. www.dubmission.com

 

TOM MIDDLETON

British Jedi master of smart tech-house in the 1990s has gone through a number of stylistic changes and clever monikers, but has never been afraid to let his classical and jazz training shine through his tracks. He’s headlining the grand Stompy + Sunset Labour of Love party.

Sun/4, 2 p.m., $20. Cafe Cocomo, 650 Indiana, SF. www.pacficsound.net

Lee appointment of Nuru darkens the ethical cloud over Room 200

Sasha Cuttler
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City Attorney Dennis Herrera deserves credit for being the one mayoral candidate willing to bring a full-throated denunciation of the sleazy and corrupt politics now flowing from Mayor Ed Lee, who yesterday appointed discredited political fixer Mohammed Nuru to head the Department of Public Works, compounding a series of ethically questionable actions by Lee and his supporters.

While it was inexplicably buried by editors at the bottom of Section C, the Chronicle’s City Insider today had a pair of good stories on Lee’s mounting political problems. The first was about how the U.S. Attorney’s Office has reportedly launched a probe of Progress for All and its “Run, Ed, Run” campaign, for which Lee ally Rose Pak illegally sought support from executives at Recology, the garbage company that had just been awarded a huge city contract, largely because then-City Administrator Lee had given the company far higher ratings than the other two supposedly impartial bid judges.

The second story was about Herrera slamming Lee’s choice of Nuru. On his campaign website, Herrera reminded voters about the scandals that have surrounded Nuru – like Lee, someone who has always taken his cues from former Mayor Willie Brown – who illegally diverted city funds and workers into campaigning for Brown in 1999 and Gavin Newsom in 2003. Brown now writes for the Chronicle and is even allowed to comment on the mayor’s race.

The scandal – first broken by the Chronicle in 2004, furthered by reporting in the Guardian, and then investigated by Herrera’s office – involved Nuru steering city funds to his nonprofit San Francisco League of Urban Gardeners and then requiring its employees to illegally do campaign work during work hours. Nuru then went to work for Lee at the DPW while continuing to illegally use SLUG’s funds and employees for political purposes.

Herrera said the appointment smacks of “cronyism, politics, and poor judgment.” Previously, Herrera had the best line about Lee as he jumped into race, telling a mayoral forum: “To my mind, Ed Lee’s biggest problem isn’t that he’s a dishonest man – it’s that he’s not his own man,” Herrera said. “The fact is, if Ed Lee is elected mayor, powerful people will continue to insist on things.”

Topping that list of the powerful people who have clearly been pulling Lee’s strings throughout his career are Pak and Brown, both of whom are consultants who regularly get paid by corporations that do big business with the city and need support from the Mayor’s Office. And their actions are often blatant and shameless, just like Nuru’s history, and even exposure of the misdeeds doesn’t correct the problem.

For example, as I reported last week, Brown’s administration helped Pak buy a Rincon Hill condo for half-price through a city affordable housing program in 2002, even though her disclosure forms showed she had $73,414 in her checking account, some of which probably included the $12,000 consulting fee she reported on her tax return from Emerald Fund – the politically connected developer of the project, employees of which are barred from buying such below-market rate units – and $10,000 from Chiang CM Construction, which helped fund Progress for All.

Most of this information was prominently reported in 2003 by the Examiner, but nothing was ever done. Pak got to keep her taxpayer-subsidized condo. Same thing with Nuru, who remained at DPW even after the City Attorney’s Office and Controller’s Office concluded his actions were corrupt. And Lee was appointed interim mayor even after being tied to several corrupt Brown scams, including overriding city workers to give contracts to fraudulent companies at Brown’s behest.

And now, Lee has placed Nuru in charge of a city department with a $129 million city budget and 1,200 employees, despite Nuru’s proven history of directing his subordinates to illegally campaign for his mayoral benefactors. You couldn’t even make this stuff up, and even Examiner columnist Melissa Griffin flatly calls the move “stupid.”

But I think it’s more than just stupid. And the appointment of Nuru is more than just a setback from DPW that good government activists had been fearing for a long-dysfunctional department that had gotten much better in recent years. It looks like flat-out corruption of the sort that ought to knock Lee out of the frontrunner position and hopefully land him in front of a grand jury at some point.

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