CounterPulse, a great performance space South of Market run in large part by San Francisco activist and historian Chris Carlsson (blog here), started its Spring Talk series two weeks ago with a lecture on the San Francisco general strike of 1934 and the Oakland general strike of 1946. Last Wednesday, Greg Gaar gave an amazing […]
Archive for the 'San Francisco Streets' Category
This is not one of the aforepromised heavy posts, but will likely be of interest to some of the San Franciscans who read this blog. I’ve been getting involved in some political/social volunteer work that I haven’t mentioned, really, in this blog as I haven’t wanted others I’m working with to worry about whether or […]
I got sick in India — most every American does. Upon return to the United States, I had a falling out with the family physician, and in the five years following I did not see a doctor about this lingering illness. This past September, my friend Emily convinced me to go to the Haight Ashbury […]
There is something like a household rule against ethnography inside the house — prejudiced, perhaps, but understandable. And subjects object to interviews in the rain. This bites. Studio rent is too damned expensive.
Friday night was the fiftieth anniversary of the Six Gallery reading, at which Allen Ginsberg first read his poem ‘Howl‘. The poem was scandalous for its day in several ways, not least of which was its overt homosexuality. LitQuake had an anniversary reading with all sorts of famous San Franciscans, but I couldn’t afford a […]
I’ve been a little gun-shy, these days, when it comes to posting about fieldwork. It progresses, but very slowly. Something crazy, happened last week, though, which has jack-all to do with the lives of the people I’m interviewing, but which might be related to my work:
Worry brings an end to a person in Wood Building.
It’s been a rotten couple of weeks. Rotten month, actually. Kind of a lousy year. Hasn’t been this bad, though, since the week in Adwafo in which I realised that I hated Asante culture and myself. (I did, for the record, learn to have a certain respect and affection for both.) I feel constrained against […]
I get up, and we shake hands. I say ‘I’ll be back in a couple hours.’ ‘It don’t matter.’ ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but I’m bringing something.’ ‘Now that do matter!’
‘Homie, when you write this down, it’s going to be the craziest story you ever told.’