Santarchy: In New York, the Saturday Night before Xmas. Drunken yuppies dress up as Xmas-related figurines and lose their collective mind publicly.
In San Francisco, seemingly any Saturday night after Thankstaking because of course no one can simply agree on doing something collective just once, so every little posse's gotta take matters into their own damned Bay Area hands.
So my first conscious brush with Santarchy was quite accidental last year. It went a little something like this:
I was innocently walking home. I was stone cold sober. A piss-poor bone chillingly cold Saturday night before Xmas. December 17,2005. When I suddenly realized:
Something is afoot in San Francisco.
And it looks like a goddamned drunken santa/elf convention out there.
I am telling you, the streets are scary tonight. There are santas in every crevice. Not just your run of the mill bell ringing salvation army santas either. Not the homeless fellow trying to get a buck in a santa cap, which completely and utterly sucks on 8 million levels.
I'm talking a santa/elf paramilitary takeover. I'm talking santas in stilettos, santas in fishnets, santas who pull down their beards to swill beer. Groups of santas in the street, shaking fists and cursing cars as they get nearly mowed down. Gaggles of elves fighting with other elves. Cold santas hopping foot to foot awaiting the bus. Frat-culture-stereotype santas. Santas waving bells screaming Merry Christmas, just shy of taking off your cheek off by their sheer proximity. Elves calmly in line to take 20s from ATMs. I started to count them. They are everywhere. In the four blocks near my house, I counted no shit over 39 santa/elves in just under 4 minutes. And I am not even counting the santa/elves who were all at Zeitgeist (a big ol ol-school-turned-pro hipster biker bar place a block or so from me) because such attire won you a free drink in which to completely drown your dignity.
I helped three santas either readjust their beards and/or find their cars. (Elfin Man: "Dude. I parked it on Valencia and 14th. Where IS Valencia and 14th? Where AM I?" Response: "Physically, you are on 14th and Guerrero. Does that help you at all? Because if you cannot find your car, it is perhaps a sign from Santa and his elves you should maybe not be driving.")
It's like community theater and I never got the flyer. It's like loud, furry, red white green roach swarms. It's like an epidemic. It's like the Castro during Halloween. It's like Fantasia, part 2: the LSD Really Kicks In. It's also like... a little annoying.
And let me tell you it is DUMPING rain and friggin freezing (ok, freezing for me, not freezing for you new york types, I know....). But does that keep the skimpily clad santas and the elven eared folks at home? Noooooooooooooooo. They are taking over.
One block 'til my house I passed a slower moving gang of santa/elves on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, on my right, I saw a crew of 6 santa/elves chowing down sausage sandwiches together. The restaurant bunch, sitting in the window, sees the sidewalk crew and starts banging on the window. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Santa Kin! Santa Kin! And the crew on the sidewalk starts hoopin and hollerin back and clanking those crazy bells. And as I tried to maneuver my way through the madness, a third batch of elf-santas saw me and started "merry xmas"ing me like popcorn. Like this (imagine high-pitched helium-esque Alvin and Chipmunks voices): Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! (Just keep going as they pile up in your ear.)
And I stopped and said:
Seriously, what the hell is going on around here? Where did you all come from?
And they giggled and smiled and cackled and grinned and said in those 90 rmp sped up record voices, "Ooooooh, isn't it wooooooonderful?" and "It's like a christmas miracle!" (I kid you not - verbatim) and popcorned "Merry Xmas" me more. And I stopped. And I looked at them. And I said:
Actually, I find all y'all deeply deeply disturbing.
And though I admit to the creepings of a maniacal and somewhat incredulous grin making its way to my face by the time I passed the puking-in-the-median-and-on their pointy-curled-up-shoes santas, just imagine if I were some christmas-adoring 3 year old who still believed in santa. Were I then on the street around my place, on so many levels, I would be fucked up for life.
So....
My friend M-Pants, who is worldly and wise about anything related to costume dressing, Burning Man, and other rituals that scare me, heard my rant the next day and responded.... oh, Santarchy. That was Santarchy, Granny (Aside: she calls me granny. You may not, but she can).
She's all calm. Like I should feel better because that freakiness has a name. Right. But she told me the history and all. Like anything with a history makes it ok. Like the Spanish Inquisition? OK? Lots of history. Right.
So my really long-winded point? One of the things she told me was that it takes place all over the world the Saturday night before Xmas. There were hundreds of thousands on debaucherous Santas in Moscow this year, apparently. Look it up. But did you get M-Pants' wording, people? THE. THE = ONE specific.
But somehow, in its transmoglification over time, the THE got lost. Which means that the two Saturdays of December I was in San Francisco, neither of which were THE Saturday before Xmas, little spouts of Santamas-Santacon-Santarchy arose. And wove singing and blathering down my street in bunches. Veeeeeeery anarchist. Hats off to y'all, but it unfortunately means I have to hunker down and hide under the covers up to THREE Saturday nights before a holiday I otherwise ignore anyways. Sigh.
Here is what I have to say about that:
Go Elf Yourself
Happy best-day-to-take-a-walk-in-San-Francisco-except-Thankstaking-Day....
Smooch.
12.10.2006
How to Wear Down People Who Have Vowed to Hate You
1. The 'Kill them; kill them with kindness' approach.
I take sweet pleasure in picking away at the petrified toxic armor of the scads of rude sarcastic unhappy sourpuss depressed angry and depressing adults (and youth, but really there are many less youth) who flock to spend their day within the walls of our most esteemed school district. It's hard to tell which came first, the chicken or the egg on this one, since the school district does appear to cause grumbliness in the most well-adjusted happy souls. Caustic spreaders of blanket negativity, these folks require a slow but steady regiment of someone like me: grinning, laughing, happy in spite of them me. It makes them insane. They resist. They fight back. They up the ante. They say some seriously stupid, nasty shit. And I grin. I smile at them all the time. No matter what. Even when I am telling them what they said is bullshit. Which I do. A lot. But I don't engage. I just keep breathing and smile, and I say something really, really nice and yet truthful. I smile for real, the kind of smile that includes your eyes and results in what folks call "laugh lines" or "crows feet," depending on your gender and outlook on life. And it takes them a while to catch up with what just happened, by which time I am singing my way down the hall. And meanwhile, I let their poison run down my back and shake it off my legs with a twitch. Because these people? They have not met my family. So they have no idea what I can stand and what I can dish out.
I would say it takes an average of six months to have them saying hello to me, smiling and talking with me. And then I know I have broken them. I have done it so far with three adults at my school this past year alone. The Grin Approach - it leaves no visible bruises.
2. The 'Torture them; torture them like a pebble in their shoe' approach.
Equally effective, this technique involves some serious hunkering down and digging in of the heels. Luckily, my Capricorn sun/Scorpio rising origins leaves me scarily stubborn. This is an effective approach with people whose first instinct is to reject anything or anyone new or that they cannot control or don't understand.
This is the approach I have chosen to use with the professor who attempted to block my admittance into this piece of crap Masters program I am currently so disgruntled about. She first tried to ensure that I was not admitted, even though her reasoning just made their department look ridiculous (which turns out to be accurate, but nevermind). She argued that grief and loss had nothing to do with education, and I should get a counseling degree. I laid it out for her one track at a time, schooled her ass and then essentially forced my way in over her protests, basically by refusing to hear her. I call this the Insert-Fingers-in-Ears Ignore 'Em, Keep Moving, and Explain Later (widely-practiced in this good ol teaching district) while Killin'em with Kindness approach (with some logic and threatening mixed in -- it was a bit of a blended approach).
But she really didn't realize how bad it would be until she became my professor. Yes, the one who makes us highlight bullshit. Like that is a surprise. She certainly made it clear she was not having me. And yet, for the last four months, I have been wearing her down while ignoring her attempts to Alpha Male me. Again, she has clearly never met my family.
At first she tried to argue with me, push me around, discourage me, question me, get me to leave. She almost won. But slowly, she started to get it. Well, she both started to get what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it, and she started to give up the fight. And then tonight, she sent me back a paper, saying in her most eloquent way (she is an English Teacher professor, by the way): 'I am being impressed by your good writing, Sarah. You got the talent, girl!'
Huh? OK, so she needs an editor. Whatever - we will ignore that. The point is.... She now loves me. It's actually a little disturbing. She cares infinitely more about my thesis and my completion of a masters at this point than I do. But in your face, Masters in Navel-Gazing and Piece of Shit Education. Bite me.
The long and the short of it? Don't mess with me. I got all sorts of patience and I get biblical on people, just like my name.
I take sweet pleasure in picking away at the petrified toxic armor of the scads of rude sarcastic unhappy sourpuss depressed angry and depressing adults (and youth, but really there are many less youth) who flock to spend their day within the walls of our most esteemed school district. It's hard to tell which came first, the chicken or the egg on this one, since the school district does appear to cause grumbliness in the most well-adjusted happy souls. Caustic spreaders of blanket negativity, these folks require a slow but steady regiment of someone like me: grinning, laughing, happy in spite of them me. It makes them insane. They resist. They fight back. They up the ante. They say some seriously stupid, nasty shit. And I grin. I smile at them all the time. No matter what. Even when I am telling them what they said is bullshit. Which I do. A lot. But I don't engage. I just keep breathing and smile, and I say something really, really nice and yet truthful. I smile for real, the kind of smile that includes your eyes and results in what folks call "laugh lines" or "crows feet," depending on your gender and outlook on life. And it takes them a while to catch up with what just happened, by which time I am singing my way down the hall. And meanwhile, I let their poison run down my back and shake it off my legs with a twitch. Because these people? They have not met my family. So they have no idea what I can stand and what I can dish out.
I would say it takes an average of six months to have them saying hello to me, smiling and talking with me. And then I know I have broken them. I have done it so far with three adults at my school this past year alone. The Grin Approach - it leaves no visible bruises.
2. The 'Torture them; torture them like a pebble in their shoe' approach.
Equally effective, this technique involves some serious hunkering down and digging in of the heels. Luckily, my Capricorn sun/Scorpio rising origins leaves me scarily stubborn. This is an effective approach with people whose first instinct is to reject anything or anyone new or that they cannot control or don't understand.
This is the approach I have chosen to use with the professor who attempted to block my admittance into this piece of crap Masters program I am currently so disgruntled about. She first tried to ensure that I was not admitted, even though her reasoning just made their department look ridiculous (which turns out to be accurate, but nevermind). She argued that grief and loss had nothing to do with education, and I should get a counseling degree. I laid it out for her one track at a time, schooled her ass and then essentially forced my way in over her protests, basically by refusing to hear her. I call this the Insert-Fingers-in-Ears Ignore 'Em, Keep Moving, and Explain Later (widely-practiced in this good ol teaching district) while Killin'em with Kindness approach (with some logic and threatening mixed in -- it was a bit of a blended approach).
But she really didn't realize how bad it would be until she became my professor. Yes, the one who makes us highlight bullshit. Like that is a surprise. She certainly made it clear she was not having me. And yet, for the last four months, I have been wearing her down while ignoring her attempts to Alpha Male me. Again, she has clearly never met my family.
At first she tried to argue with me, push me around, discourage me, question me, get me to leave. She almost won. But slowly, she started to get it. Well, she both started to get what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it, and she started to give up the fight. And then tonight, she sent me back a paper, saying in her most eloquent way (she is an English Teacher professor, by the way): 'I am being impressed by your good writing, Sarah. You got the talent, girl!'
Huh? OK, so she needs an editor. Whatever - we will ignore that. The point is.... She now loves me. It's actually a little disturbing. She cares infinitely more about my thesis and my completion of a masters at this point than I do. But in your face, Masters in Navel-Gazing and Piece of Shit Education. Bite me.
The long and the short of it? Don't mess with me. I got all sorts of patience and I get biblical on people, just like my name.
Officially Pronounced Healed, I am Set Free
But not before the usual mind-numbing pain.
Daily Deep Quote: "Without getting sick, there is no transformation. Without darkness, there is no healing." I have pleeeeeeeenty of replies to that, but I will abstain (enjoy that you have avoided diatribes #76-84).
And now for our class agenda... Short but deep.
Maybe so deep I get the bends. And yes, that does say:
Please don't ask me what that means.
Daily Deep Quote: "Without getting sick, there is no transformation. Without darkness, there is no healing." I have pleeeeeeeenty of replies to that, but I will abstain (enjoy that you have avoided diatribes #76-84).
And now for our class agenda... Short but deep.
Maybe so deep I get the bends. And yes, that does say:
Closing
Houston
Thanks beauty
Closing
Please don't ask me what that means.
12.09.2006
It's Survival of the Fittest... But How Fit Am I, Really?
We are all about circles today. Circles of tangelos. Circles of paintings. Circles of pain. Today is brought to you by the following object: the Circle. Our Medicine Wheel has never been more edible.
Capturing a rare glimpse of the very offical Circle Hug Healing technique in action, shortly before being enveloped in it. Now imagine me sighing, putting the camera down, finding a couple backs on the outskirts, opening my arms and leaning in to those backs, eyeballs rolled up, trying to touch nothing but pressing just my fingertips against the shaking arms of people hugging other people's backs as though their very lives depended on it. Another very long sigh while somewhere muffled in the center, the Object Of the Circle Hug Healing (the OOCHH) sobs uncontrollably, ostensibly in relief.
Unfortunately, there are people who are NOT in the center who are also weeping. They are called Healing Hounds. The Owlette? Let's call her a healing hound, ya know, one of those people who always wants to be the person in the center, being healed?
The venerable CHH is not to be confused with the Required Individual Closing Hugs Offerings (RICHO). Both happened. I survived both.
12.03.2006
I Heart Locally Owned Movie Houses
Bless the Balboa Theater.
Only 5, count 'em 5, independently run theaters left in "lefty" s.f.
And the Balboa Theater is one of them. And even though they are way the fuck out on the avenues, as inconvenient by bicyle, walking, MUNI, or car as possible from my house or most of your houses, I suspect, I am still going there. Why?
10, count 'em 10, reasons to hightail it over to the Balboa Theater:
10. Meem-ami live right there. OK, that is a bonus special to me. So you might want to substitute in the following... Some seriously good food lives right there. All around that theater. Even on the same block. And we all know that kick ass food in sf? Hard to find (yeah, right). OK, so let's go back to the part where MeeAmi live over in those there parts. Hmmmm.
10 (revised). The Balboa Theater is actually located on Balboa Street, unlike Balboa High School, which is located as far from Balboa Street as humanly possible, or Washington High School, which is equally far from Washington Street, or really the plethora of other SFUSD schools named the same names as streets but located not even a little near those streets. Which somehow makes sense but confuses people anyways. The point? Ah yes, the Balboa Theater is both sensical AND not confusing. Good times.
9. They run first-run movies.
8. They serve veggie dogs.
7. They run shorts before the main flick movie.
6. They serve spicy popcorn.
5. You can buy passes and use them even on the weekends.
4. On your way out of the theater is a board with index cards and pencils and tacks. Here you are encouraged to write and post up your reactionary view of the movie you saw not even 10 minutes before, which makes them doubly funny since of course people are all emo (for better or for worse) right after movies and say things like: "If you want to dip your cup deep in OLD LADY, see THE QUEEN." Thanks people. Really. Cheers.
3. They let you in free on your birthday. Awwwwww.
2. They are not so crowded (so do your duty to keep them alive, people).
1. They sponsor some weird-ass contests on their website
http://www.balboamovies.com/
and the guy who won the last one was at our screening and he won a .... Making an Oscar Acceptance Speech. So that is what he got up and did, wearing a tux type item, clutching an Oscar statue, to us, the viewing audience, just before the movie started. Cute. And kinda weird. And cute.
So despite their rock-hard, sciatic-nerve crushing dirty ass seats, questionable sound system, and sky high baby screens, I am there. And you should be, too.
Only 5, count 'em 5, independently run theaters left in "lefty" s.f.
And the Balboa Theater is one of them. And even though they are way the fuck out on the avenues, as inconvenient by bicyle, walking, MUNI, or car as possible from my house or most of your houses, I suspect, I am still going there. Why?
10, count 'em 10, reasons to hightail it over to the Balboa Theater:
10. Meem-ami live right there. OK, that is a bonus special to me. So you might want to substitute in the following... Some seriously good food lives right there. All around that theater. Even on the same block. And we all know that kick ass food in sf? Hard to find (yeah, right). OK, so let's go back to the part where MeeAmi live over in those there parts. Hmmmm.
10 (revised). The Balboa Theater is actually located on Balboa Street, unlike Balboa High School, which is located as far from Balboa Street as humanly possible, or Washington High School, which is equally far from Washington Street, or really the plethora of other SFUSD schools named the same names as streets but located not even a little near those streets. Which somehow makes sense but confuses people anyways. The point? Ah yes, the Balboa Theater is both sensical AND not confusing. Good times.
9. They run first-run movies.
8. They serve veggie dogs.
7. They run shorts before the main flick movie.
6. They serve spicy popcorn.
5. You can buy passes and use them even on the weekends.
4. On your way out of the theater is a board with index cards and pencils and tacks. Here you are encouraged to write and post up your reactionary view of the movie you saw not even 10 minutes before, which makes them doubly funny since of course people are all emo (for better or for worse) right after movies and say things like: "If you want to dip your cup deep in OLD LADY, see THE QUEEN." Thanks people. Really. Cheers.
3. They let you in free on your birthday. Awwwwww.
2. They are not so crowded (so do your duty to keep them alive, people).
1. They sponsor some weird-ass contests on their website
http://www.balboamovies.com/
and the guy who won the last one was at our screening and he won a .... Making an Oscar Acceptance Speech. So that is what he got up and did, wearing a tux type item, clutching an Oscar statue, to us, the viewing audience, just before the movie started. Cute. And kinda weird. And cute.
So despite their rock-hard, sciatic-nerve crushing dirty ass seats, questionable sound system, and sky high baby screens, I am there. And you should be, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)