The Tenderloin's 'Beautiful Losers'
January 14, 2005
Those who know "The City" fairly well know that San Francisco's Tenderloin district can be a pretty dicey place to live. For some whites, it’s even a frightening place to walk through. The knowing looks—or silly middle class expressions of sympathy—get old pretty quick when you cop to living here. And for six years too, remaining somehow, miraculously, unmolested.
There happens to be a certain kind of person who washes up on this side of the Barbary Coast. Call them “Beautiful Losers”—a term borrowed from Leonard Cohen’s autobiography; more on them later. These “TL” residents seem to embody discernable traits and some of their characteristics provide hints for those inclined to investigate larger social questions.
Those whites who live La Vida Tenderloin live either at the margins of society or unexpectedly find themselves here confronting a scrambled life. They didn’t come to the Bay Area to get with Oracle; they came here to get away from something: a stiflingly provincial hometown, a depressive episode, trouble with family or the law, a directionless life. These wanderers rarely arrive flush; the Social Darwinism of the rental and hyper-competitive job markets take care of the rest.
Very few college educated people of any race stick around here very long. The only one I can think of among my peer acquaintances is an idiosyncratic woman of Iranian heritage. American-born people particularly get going quick—most often off to a comfortable "professional life" on the Westside. Or, if they’re creative types, they migrate down south to the too frequently radical chic Mission.
When you stroll through the Tenderloin though, there’s something old and hence essential about it. It’s been here a while—you step back in time. Whether gazing at the Orientalist architecture of the Alhambra Apartments or the odd flying buttress, this is an urban American neighborhood that remains pretty much as it was once the cataclysm of 1906 had been overcome.
This place is a time warp, a very pleasant time warp. Even if there are any number of things to quibble with regarding Frank Norris-era San Francisco, architecture isn’t one of them. Really look at the “post modern” lofts in SoMa for proof.
The "Tizzell" (as one local Snoop Dogg enthusiast once dubbed it) has long been has long been the weekend place to be for better element Bay Area residents with an appetite for vice. There's never a shortage of weekend warrior jackanapes cruising for ass in their gawdy SUV's.
Flesh pot massage parlors, affordable digs, dives, cheap eats, transvestite prostitutes, the mentally ill, gangbangers and twisted characters swirl around you. In this way bleeding heart San Francisco keeps its conscience--and coincidentally, its tonier neighborhoods--clear of the human detritus of American society. Pen them into the Tenderloin and other neighborhoods--the open-minded, lifestyle liberal approach to human despair.
While confronted with this disorienting social kaleidoscope, one may also forget for a while that nearby American capitalism is cutting edge and throats. Big ups, Bechtel! But in the Tenderloin, the corporate chains, aside from the odd fast food dispenser, are kept largely at bay; there's simply not enough disposable income around.
The Tenderloin has of course changed dramatically in the intervening century. In the 1970s, the rest of the world arrived, displacing the upwardly and outwardly mobile white working class. While there remain a fair number of white seniors and young folk, many current residents fled the annihilation of American Indochina.
Arab and Muslim shop keepers are well represented, as are their wives and daughters who will return a smile with a fleeting glance of acknowledgment behind their hijabs. Children of every imaginable hue poke their cherubic faces out of dank apartments on sunny days.
The TL has seen its share of political fights over the years. In the 1960s and 1970s, developers were determined to spread Manhattanization ever westward. They sought to demolish old apartment blocks, as they had to devastating effect around what is today Yerba Buena Gardens.
Unlike that mostly Filipino community—linked as it was to the dying maritime trade—the Tenderloin’s residents fought back. Improptu meetings were held, previously quiescent constituencies made their voices heard; and the developers were forced to shelve their most ambitious plans. As a consequence, hundreds upon hundreds of rent-controlled units were spared the wrecking ball.
More recently, during Mayor Willie Brown’s reign, a reform slate swept into power on the Board of Supervisors, SF's entertaining legislature. The TL’s rep is the “passionate” Chris Daly, who once almost went toe to toe with Brown.
Daly came out of a housing activist background and has won friends in the neighborhood thanks to his pugnacious approach. Daly’s popularity hasn’t suffered much for his occasional profane outbursts. He may even have been inspired by his quasi-mentor, the legendary, foul-mouthed Eastside State Senator John Burton.
Given the way the insults of the Chron’s one trick pony, Ken Garcia, play here—“we right-thinking people are rational; the progressives are a bunch of knuckleheads”--Daly should remain locally popular.
In the already iconic mayoral race to replace Brown in 2003, the eccentric Green Party standard bearer Matt Gonzalez nearly defeated the downtown-backed pretty boy Gavin Newsom. In the run up to the poll, TL pranksters pasted hideous Frankenstein posters all over the 'hood, depicting Newsom as “Gavinstein - Monster.”
Others had slogans like “Read my lips, I’m a flunky for the Rich.” Gorgeous Gavin was depicted as having dollar bill rolls shoved into his mouth and ears. All this might just have been a hair overwrought, as our management theory-minded Vanity Fair model has been a pretty clear improvement over Brothuh Fedora and his cronies.
On the weekend before the vote, national Democrats were badly rattled. They had Clinton and Gore come out to fire up their well-paid troops. These jitters came in spite of the fact that Newsom had a 10 - 1 fundraising advantage and a two year head start in organizing a campaign. Of the votes cast election day, Gonzalez won 52 - 48%. Newsom won only by virtue of a highly coordinated absentee balloting operation, and of course because Republicans voted for him overwhelmingly. Had Gonzalez won--it would have been a political earthquake, somewhat akin to the victories of Socialist mayors in Milwaukee in the early 20th Century.
This is not to say that local politics doesn’t go from the playful and sarcastic right into the absurd at times. This is evidenced by the massive graffiti catty corner from the Phoenix Hotel. In honor of der Gropenführer, as Gary Trudeau dubbed him, it reads: "KKKalifornia über Alles!!!" That third exclamation point made a difference.
Another instance of local political silliness comes from back in 2000. At the time, I was a humble intern with the Guardian and so dutifully attended a “grass roots” political meeting put together by the misnamed Committee for a Better District 6.
At this inaugural meeting, the bizarro Nulty Brothers were heatedly arguing with a certain Frederick “Miss Kitty” Hobson. The dispute centered on who would seize control of this august body, made up as it was of two dozen stragglers. In this particular instance, if this was meant to be a melting pot, we were cooking shit.
Well, it soon became clear that reasoned debate wasn’t going to settle anything. So, the cops were called and “Miss Kitty” was dragged off, caterwauling about fascism and so forth. At the close of the festivities, one Nulty partisan darkly muttered that an obese poor soul in a wheelchair was “a Brown apparatchik.”
Local White Pathos, such as it is
As for the accoutrements of low-income big city living—a decent selection of bars and restaurants—the TL has them in spades. There's Tommy's Joynt, Tacqueria Cancun, Tulan, The Kebob House, Golden Era, Pakwan, Lahore-Karachi, the Vietnamese sandwich shop, and Thai House Express.
The Lafayette Café on Hyde by Eddy is a good place to get started; a hearty breakfast is had for under $4. The squeamish may be put off by the occasional bruncher seeking to smoke crack in the recesses of the red faux leather booths.
One of my most fondly remembered San Francisco Thanksgivings was spent at the delightful Brown Jug, where Herb Caen’s write-up on this venerable dive still hangs. I promptly situated myself at a table with two burly shit-talkers. They were going about razzing the assembled throng, intermittently howling odes to the Tenderloin. Soon enough, a handicapped, elderly Filipina from the bar slurringly suggested that they "shut the fuck up before I come over there."
Duly chastened, these two lovable thick necks started badgering their, to that point anyway, silent senior citizen companion. This kingpin was decked out in a dashing three-piece suit, featuring a complementary fedora; the feather in his cap matched the hanky in his breast pocket. Between bouts of Budweiser, of which there were many, he would randomly exclaim: “Bring on the girls! And bring on the coke!” Later on, gramps, a tall-tale telling Arkansan and I would retire to the corner of Hyde and Eddy to divvy up a doobie.
Half a block further up Hyde, next to Mr. Cheng’s laundry and across the street from my hovel, I got to see my first human bleed to death from gunshot wounds. An African American man was killed in a drive by; he had multiple gaping wounds in his chest.
I was drinking at the Brown Jug at the time, probably on a Monday night when complementary chile-con-carne lures football enthusiasts. Upon hearing the shots, it seemed like everyone immediately streamed out. I stayed in, at first because I was shaken, then because I wanted to resist the rubber-necking impulse.
In the end, it seemed like something necessary. A white woman was embracing the dead man’s thighs and wailing hysterically. As the blood trickled down the sidewalk, long-lost friends reacquainted themselves, nonchalantly chatting and back-slapping as the crowd gathered.
Just down the street is the New Princess Market, staffed by a pair of brothers from Tulkarem on the West Bank, along with their Yemeni auxiliaries. Here the pathos of the TL can get pretty thick. Many things have been learned here. Prominent among them is the fact that Yemenis are pussies because the Saudis still occupy some of their northern lands. They’re not as cowardly as the Palestinians, though. Why, they don’t even have their own country--ha ha ha! At least we fight back is the rejoinder. The Israelis are still kicking your asses and they always will. Sometimes, that finishes it.
Just to illustrate that whites too can indulge in gallows humor, one of my favorites once dropped this. “You know, I like women who smoke. I mean, if they’re willing to put poison into their bodies, maybe they’ll let me sleep with them.” This sage also offered: “Look, I’m flying to Chicago tomorrow and I want you to call your people to make sure that my flight lands ok. Got it?” Our life weary clerks did not take offense. In memory, he’s still referred to as a “sweetheart.”
The jibing between two African American customers and our sarcastic Arab friends left me ice cold. “Why don’t you go back to your own country and stop exploiting our community with alcohol, you sand nigger? You don’t drink the shit, camel jockey; you just make money off it. Fuck you!” “You’re the nigger," "Willy" immediately retorted. "They didn’t have to drag me over here on a boat. I came over here willingly. And, big surprise, now I’m fucking you too!” Then it ended, in laughter and a handshake. The consumer was then advised to “get out of my store, motherfucker:” Arrivaderci, Tizzell style.
It should be noted that in my experience, the New Princess clerks are more aware of the intricacies of current events, and not just with respect to the Middle East either, than probably 80% of the American public. They also feel compelled to Americanize their names. Jabril becomes Jessie; Wa'il becomes Willie and Osama becomes Sam. Majid, the only one who insists on using his Arabic name and whom I mistakenly called Jabril for a while, sarcastically suggested: "Just call me 'Mike,' that might be easier for you, white boy." I told him to go blow up a bus full of school kids. Fun.
Up Hyde two more blocks stands the stately Nite Cap with its flickering neon sign depicting a napping crescent moon. Some time ago, two Westside friends wangled their way into a bartending gig here. Drinks on offer included the ever-popular "Mango Poontango" and the effervescent, Jaegermeister-tinged "Surfer on Acid."
We were trying to build community. And it came off reasonably well, as suggestive, mutually enjoyable interactions with random patrons proved. One night some Marines came in and we discussed the newly-birthed war in Iraq. They knew it was a lie and a grab for oil as well as any SF leftie. And yet they had, thanks to their fathers they told me, their "duty," their "honor," and their "job to do," all of which superceded the moral dimension completely.
Up and over on Geary is the celebrated Ha Ra, named for the two founding brothers--Harry and Ralph--boxing enthusiasts both. Today, the Ha Ra, with its many historical photographs of past patrons and bygone boxers, is presided over by the legendary Bostonian Karl Kickery.
Known by the slumming element, via the Bay Guardian, as the "Cocktail Nazi," Karl is actually an inquisitive elderly gentleman with a great belly laugh and an encyclopedic knowledge of film, mafia history and noir mysteries. If you get to know Karl a little, he'll regale you with all sorts of stories. Ask him about his times in New Orleans and the Mafia Kingfish, Carlos Marcello sometime; or he can school you on John Cassavetes.
Traveling towards downtown on the northside of Geary one finds the diminutive "No Name" bar. A smart alleck Westside Filipina owns the copyright on that. That's what we not-so-young people call it since the name "Geary Street Bar," as it is known to patrons, is not indicated by any visible sign. Here the gentle, rotund, raspy-voiced Harriet keeps the home fires burning at night. If you're really lucky, you'll stumble in when J.P. is holding court; I can't even do a single anecdote justice—such was the force of his smirking, jeering nihilism.
Then there's R.J.'s over on Leavenworth, presided over by a trio of Korean ladies, among whom Susan is the most enjoyably irascible. This was long the destination for Sunday football hijinks—a few tighteners (six Budweisers) before a busy day of retail work never hurt anybody.
Susan knows how to expertly execute the "sly" bartendress back-and-forth, offering you 2 "free" Budweisers in return for her watered-down $8 shot. One might consider steering clear in the evenings, things can turn a little weird—like Susan passed out on the bar to the apparent consternation of exactly no one—o
