SF: Fashionistas

In Paris, women are hard-wired with fashion sense. Check out a girl on the street (of any age–it doesn’t matter in France) and you’ll see chic. Not the put-together look that was originated in an online catalogue, but a sexy, distinctive appearance that may be a careful mix of vintage and vogue. San Francisco is cosmopolitan too, but in this one arena, Fog City has let me down.

You’ll see exceptions in the financial district, but most San Francisco women dress as if their closets yield only one or two options. Uniform one is the yoga-pants ensemble, and it comes in only one color: black. Pair the black yoga pants with a short jacket, ill-fitting and possibly purchased at La Goodweel, and lace up a pair of sensible black shoes. The shades of black absolutely should not match, the yoga pants being slightly over-washed and faded against the more pristine jacket. On top of it all, notice a looping neck scarf...layered in a third shade of nothing.

Uniform two is the jeans uniform. Worn long and slightly battered (as if retrieved from the closet floor), the jeans uniform gives relief from the tedium of the yoga-pants ensemble and is positively showboat in comparison. Top with the same jacket (to give continuity throughout seasonal changes) and, yes, finish the look with the neutral-hued scarf, avoiding any references to the color wheel. In deep summer (that's 60 in San Francisco) polish off the outfit with flip-flops and a pair of sunglasses. Makeup is taboo. The San-Fran-Face is straight out of Ward B.

It’s easy to spot a tourist in San Francisco. She will be shivering from lack of layers. New white running shoes are a dead giveaway. An expensive tangerine-colored jacket paired with sharply pressed slacks from Brooks Brothers screams East of the Mississippi. Add an expensive, hand-crafted necklace (so large as to put one’s face in the shadows) and you be looking at wealthy , of-a-certain-age, and South of the Mason-Dixon line.

I’ve yielded to the uniform–but only so far. I’ve shocked San Franciscans by wearing my capri pants and huaraches in July. It’s a pairing that wears well under multi layered scarves and jackets. I have in fact shown up in church wearing colors, and occasionally jewelry. I know, I’m always one to push the rules.

I did leave my makeup trowel in Kentucky, but–even in San Francisco–I’ll never answer the phone without my mascara.

San Francisco: Not Quite

Soaked by February rain

laundry sings

from a balcony on Cabrillo.



Dog whines on leash

and steps tap

syncopated rhythm



Look up

walk smart

leap sidewalk Mary



It's wet season in the Richmond

and we are

not. quite. gentrified.

San Francisco: December 31

The last fog of the year
make lists
collect remnants
of Christmas meals, chop, bag
mince for an audience of one

Stir up tortilla soup,
cut cilantro, yellow squash,
vidalia and

at last

the piano
play (badly)
and know
enchantment lives
between
the sharps and flats.

San Francisco: The Basket Case

Today, an oppressive fog. Or smog, from the fires north and south. The Dow plunged. A barrel of oil reached a new high. When the mail came, our water bill was $833.99, which--yes--we're looking into. So I've retreated into the baskets. The Dale Chihuly baskets I saw at the De Young Museum yesterday. The magical baskets.

To describe the installation is like trying to recreate water or heat. Or like trying to explain intuition or a fleeting memory. There was darkness, there was light, transparent color, there was one floating form, and then another. I believe it was Sontag who said photography is a secret within a secret. I felt the same about the line of baskets, with their sister baskets, woven, incised, stacked, nested, cradled. They were like bubbles of a past I couldn't quite grasp. Like a word I could see but couldn't recall.


I remember my father coming back from the farm with an arrowhead in his hand. I remember standing by the little mound of earth in the woods and knowing that underneath there were pot shards and charred bits of some past lifestyle, but to scrape beyond the surface would somehow mar the moment as well as the past. This is how I felt when I saw the baskets, warped, cradled and stacked--they were a reflection of a reflection. I wanted to cry for a memory that I couldn't possess but could filter through my hands, just for an instant.


At home, I checked my email and learned that a tree had fallen on one of the rental houses in Kentucky. Cleo was crying for a walk in the park. There was dinner, the gym. But I was lost along the cradled baskets, in a color called 'tabac,' a woven line, following a link to nowhere and everywhere.

San Francisco: Conversation Overheard

Photos of Jack Kerouak and Alan Ginsberg were looking on, and so was I.

The young man was a teenager, clearly from out of town, and his act of offense was to stroll into San Francisco’s most famous bookstore and ask for “a sports book -- any kind of sports book.”

The two clerks at the front desk paused, and in tones condescending, told the young man he wouldn’t find anything like that here. He persisted. "Just anything, a biography, sports photos, something I can take home to a friend."

The clerks shrugged and looked at each other, smirking. Try downstairs, one of them said. The young man turned from the front door and headed toward fiction. "That’s the upstairs dude, try the steps that go down." They were enjoying this.

To my relief, the young man walked out the door. But the clerks weren’t done with him. They replayed the scene, enjoying the encounter with this young midwesterner who didn’t have a clue. This was not a San Francisco moment.

For the last two weeks I’ve been punishing myself for not saying something, or doing something. "Excuse me," I’ve said. "Are you always so rude to your customers or just having a bad day?" Hey," I’ve injected-- "Try a little kindness." "You creeps,"I’ve blurted. "I’m never coming in here again."


Most of all I’ve wondered–what kept me from saying something?