Funky Days Are Here Again

by Charles The Heckler

It is a time of great success and prosperity for San Francisco. As a sea of record-breaking prosperity floods the nation, the City by the Bay is basking in an abundance of confidence and ingenuity, reveling in the 21st century and the bright dawn on the horizon. Each of us is dancing in the now-clean streets and dreaming of shiny metal futures, video iphones, flying Priuses and manga style maid-robots that perform fellatio and cook pancakes. Our collective success has spread the markers of luxury to even the most blighted corner of our city, the long-neglected and forlorn Tenderloin. New trendy boutiques, bars, yoga studios and coffee shops have made the streets safe for the expensive-purse set and the dirty/trendy scenesters, allowing them to spread their wings into more authentic packaged-experiences, the kind that can't be purchased in the shops that line Union or Valencia streets. Yes, it has come that Geary Street is actually safer at midnight than it is at noon and that the real prostitutes have been forced back into their native Polk Village habitats. Taverns for the nicotine-addled now banish smoking in exchange for nicotine patches or sad, lonely excursions to isolated and distant sidewalks. Once proudly skeezy and vacant offices now host dot-com 2.0 startups with their dreams of making it rich by selling a vision without a business plan to a lumbering, aging giant with a board of directors desperate to impress their high-school age grandkids with their "hip" corporate maneuvering. Cockroach infested flophouses insist on credit reports and four-times net income for the privilege of a future rent-increase and permanent renovation work. Yes, these are terrifying and brilliant times, a flight that soars so high we can barely remember that we were ever on the ground. It is a new world, one that spins so fast we can hardly recognize it as it slows down. There's a hangover, off in the distance, irrelevant to a people who have lost their perception of the passage of time.

OH SHIT, THE COPS, EVERYBODY SCRAM!!!! PARTY'S OVER!!!! GET OUT OF HERE OR THEY WILL CALL YOUR FUCKING PARENTS AND YOU WILL BE IN SO MUCH FUCKING TROUBLE THEY'LL PROBABLY TAKE AWAY YOUR CAR OR CANCEL YOUR GRADUATION TRIP TO HAWAII!!! OH SHIIIITTTTT!!!!!

Bummer, dude. Turns out that time and space are a circle and what goes around comes around. Good times, bad times, first one then the other. And it's bad times turn to suck us all off.

This is the part where the Ghosts of Tenderloin past reveal themselves to the new hangers-on in a tradition dating back a century. The existing scuzz of the TL is an architectural marvel on a functioning city grid with ideal density and decent transit. The buildings and people here were once beautiful and thriving - until they weren't. Or did you think that bar down the block was a shithole on the day it opened? Maybe you thought that crackwhore on Larkin street was always toothless and wrinkly or that scarily insane alcoholics, well, they were born that way. No. All of these things were once new and bright, carrying the dreams and wealth of real people who thought they could succeed where others had failed, amongst filth and grime and potential. And they had a pretty good run until they met their ghosts, walking their invisible paths, dragging them along them to the same destinations as hundreds before.

A place with this many problems for this long can't simply attract bad people. It can't be down on its luck. It can't be neglected. It can only be a maker of problems, a factory of disasters and horror. It must, in fact, be haunted.

Fortunately for you, dear reader, we have applied our strenuous journalistic standards of research to this matter and have identified for you the basic types of TL ghosts and their method of possession to assist you in getting the fuck out of this part of town before they latch on and drag you into their dark corners. For your protection here is a handy guide to our local ghosts and please, don't say we didn't warn you:

The Cool Bar

The cool bar is run by some young guys from another city. They made some cash running a nice club across town and have met some movers-and-shakers who want to put together a really nice place, something a little edgy, the next hot thing in town. They scoped out a block in an up-and-coming 'nabe with cheap rents and dumped a cool million into the latest trends in interior design and floor layout. They hired the prettiest bartenders they could find and sent out press releases to build buzz at opening. They schedule "events" most nights a week and there is a velvet rope outside to control the line of up-to- date and well-to-do city dwellers who dream of making the society photo pages on Monday. Their club is da bomb.

And then the bartenders get old, the bouncers kill some douchebag out front who totally had it coming and the interior design becomes totally lame after the next big thing opens across town. The money dries up, the owners move back to Baltimore and 80 years later you're in the same room and it's called Jonell's. Blame the Ghosts who prefer 1920's mixed-drink prices.

The Cool Boutique.

The cool boutique is setup by two BFF's who know a thing or two about the latest fashions and have business savvy, too. They know a few hot young designers with great biographies that can get them in the magazines. Sales are high on two-hundred dollar blouses, and there is word that their area is the new place-to-be for trendy shoppers in one of the most desirable cities in the world. They're leading a new wave and creating a great new neighborhood in the process. They've really got it made and life is good.

And then someone bricks their window and makes off with their entire merch delivery for the month. Their landlord raises rents on their space 300% (the neghborhood has really taken off). They can't make the payments so they have to start working PR again in their spare time to make ends meet. The next big thing opens across town, in the old money nabe, featuring underground Helsinkidesigners who use materials that are not yet legal outside of Finland. They close up shop and move to a condo in Dublin. 80 years later and their sign is still out front, along with twelve homeless people who have adapted the name of the boutique as slang for their drug of choice. Ghosts don't wear clothes, chump.

The Cool Girl.

The cool girl has legs that turn heads. She can wear the tallest heels and loves to show off her new looks every Friday and Saturday night in the trendiest places in town. She only hangs out in the TL because anywhere else would be passe. She does a few lines to stay up all night and never misses the best parties. Rich guys with nice watches who work in finance buy her drinks and clothes and cars. She lives with Robert in his condo atop Cathedral Hill, in the building that looks like the Capitol Records tower. She is the hottest girl on the town.

And then someone introduces her to "Chris." They start "hanging out" on Friday nights to give her energy after work, and then she starts using on Saturday to get out there for the real parties. Robert dumps her and kicks her out of his place when she hooks up with her meth dealer one weekend. Broke and without a place to stay she moves in with the dealer in his TL apartment and he buys her a few new miniskirts and pumps. He introduces her to his neighborhood friends and then a really nice guy or two she'd really get along with. A few years later her cut is 50% and she still rocks those high heels up and down Larkin street. Ghosts love pink miniskirts and coked-up chicks who put out.

The Cool Guy.

The cool guy is so fucking on it you don't even know. He's kind of famous, too. He plays noise-rock with a guy that was once in a really well-known local band, and they get written up in the Guardian every couple of weeks. He's super authentic and real so he lives the classic rock musician life. Parties start after the show and finish when the Laotian family downstairs cuts the electricity to his apartment. He knows all the dives with cool bartenders, and he gets quick service and free drinks when he turns up. He only works ten hours a week doing some freelance for a website to cover his rent and burritos. He puts everything else on his dad's Amex. His shit is off the hook.

And then his style of music goes out of style like leg warmers and those shirts that change color when you touch them. He freaks out when his hair starts falling out, and the dot-com he's been getting an easy check from has to cut expenses when things get tight. He spends more time at the bar and tries to chase the old scene. 20 years later he's still there, but he's wrinkly and bald and his trucker cap and mullet aren't ironic anymore; they're his fucking style. Ghosts dig retro, bitch.

The Cool Neighborhood.

The cool neighborhood fucking rules. There are lots of funky (and affordable) apartments and you can totally walk home from the bars. The area has a real urban feel and the skid row aspects add a touch of edgy realism. It's got a reputation for being dangerous, but nobody like you ever gets robbed or shot, just pimps and drug dealers. Gay couples and artists have been moving in for the past couple years and there's even some cool coffee shops right on your block. You had better get in now before prices go way up and you miss out!

And then somebody like you gets robbed and shot. The media runs the story ad nauseam and your parents call and offer to pay half your rent if you move to a safer part of town. A few years ago there was always some cool new bar or boutique opening up, but now it's the same stuff everyday. There also seems to be more homeless than there used to be, and you kind of wish you had more space. Everybody else feels the same way and pretty soon the neighborhood is reclaimed by drunks, parolees and immigrant families. It is definitely not cool to live there anymore. Ghosts aren't cool, not even on Halloween.

Get out while you still can!

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