Field recordings of the Mission

Here’s more info:

Adam also plays in the punk band Sweat Lodge. The emoji is a ;P

Maybe Muni should spend that $1.2 billion on these sweet light rail cars built by a Russian tank manufacturer

Rather than, say, this boring old stuff they’re talking about getting:

[Awesome stuff via Chilliam]

[Boring stuff via SF Gate]

Slender Man is having trouble putting up new curtains

(Boy, that’s gonna be a real weird nightmare tonight.)

[via @mdwidget]

There is an 80s action hero living in Bernal Heights

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You can tell by those rad laser parallelogram decals and that sweet teardrop window:

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If the A-Team ever gets back together, that’d make a mighty fine ride! And if the situation calls for a bit more maneuverability, he’s got you covered too:

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If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe . . . you can finally pick up that antique secretary desk you found on Craigslist.

Hey no big deal but here’s Terry Zwigoff and Robert Crumb getting down to Craig and Meredith

Craig Ventresco and Meredith Axelrod are San Francisco legends in my book. Glad to know I’m in good company with Robert Crumb and Terry Zwigoff. Why don’t you join this elite club of ragtime, early jazz, and blues fans and get down to Atlas Cafe on Saturdays 4-6pm?

Don’t forget we interviewed inverviewed Mr. Zwigoff in 2012! He was a delight.

Tagger writes ‘Fuck your gay art’ over beautiful Clarion Alley mural

A reader explains:

Long-time local artist/muralist icon MATS!? (Mats Stromberg) attempted to repair his Clarion Alley mural yesterday. Later that same evening, this happened: http://j.mp/1mevTwl. (Why yes, that does say “Fuck your gay art”— a testament to the maturity of the tagger.)

As someone commented on Facebook: “I find it Ironic that this guy is targeted Mats Stromberg of all people…. His comics and art are all about the living at the bottom of the barrel…. and in clarion alley no less…” Indeed.

Sad shit. Mats!? rules!

[Photo by James Patrik]

The ‘best burrito in the city’ is facing eviction

Three years ago, Mission Mission’s Andrew Sarkarati proclaimed the plantain burrito at Cuco’s the best burrito in SF. (It was controversial both because any blog post involving burritos is controversial and because Cuco’s is located not in the Mission but in the Lower Haight.) It’s a really excellent burrito.

Cuco’s has been threatened with eviction before, but this time it looks like the landlord really means business. Hoodline reports:

Two months ago, we reported that tenants of a building at Haight and Fillmore had received a letter from their landlord outlining strict criteria for living at the address, including a minimum annual salary of $100,000 and credit score of at least 725. That story ignited a firestorm of attention, and the landlord, who was soon identified by various media outlets as Robert Shelton, quickly retracted his letter.

Now it seems he’s turning his attention to the ground floor tenants at Cuco’s.

In a letter postmarked June 24th, an attorney for Shelton informed Cuco’s owners Domingo and Carmen Campos that the restaurant had to shut down within thirty days.

Read on for more info and photos of the letters from the landlord.

Capp Street serenade

I wonder if this is the guy who locks his keyboard to a bike rack in front of Taqueria Cancun.

[via Capp Street Crap]

That time in 1894 when bike messengers had to carry mail from Fresno to ‘San Fransisco’

The fine folks at Mission Bicycle Company were digging around in some public archives and came upon an awesome story. So they made a cool patch to commemorate it:

1894 found the United States in a deep depression. The infamous Pullman Strike crippled rail service west of Detroit all the way to the California coast, isolating San Francisco. No trains meant among other things, no mail.

In response, a bicycle mail route was organized totaling 210 miles, divided into 8 relays, and occupying 18 hours. The route offered to carry a letter via bicycle from one end to the other for $0.25.

This patch is a replica of the original stamp present on each letter carried. We retained the misspelling of San “Fransisco” for authenticity.

At least they didn’t call it Frisco! (Just kidding, that would’ve been fine.)

Check out this map:

Get your patch at the Mission Bicycle shop on Valencia, or online here.

The beholder’s eye

“It’s a clue.” he said as he slammed it down on my desk. I couldn’t see what he had put down. Firstly, because my eyes were closed. Secondly, because I wasn’t sitting at my desk, I was curled up beneath it. Vic, Helen and I had closed down the Latin American the night before. Or was it this morning? In any case, we had also opened it up this afternoon. That kind of week. I had gone back to the office to get some blogging in, but I don’t think I actually did any. And now all I could see were three pint-sized margaritas floating in front of me. I swatted at them fruitlessly.

“Hey. Hey!” Allan’s low top sneaker kicked me in the arm. “I need you on this. And I need it now.”

I was lying on what felt like a burrito butt and a gum wrapper was stuck to my cheek. My maid was on vacation. “Did you bring me coffee?” I croaked from my little dusty bed. It was just about five, and I couldn’t get as far into the afternoon daylight as I used to be able to without some slow drip.

“I’ll put a pot on. Let’s get to work,” Allan’s kicky feet walked away from my desk. “Commenters want to know, is this art?” I slowly crept out and slithered into my chair. The sideways sunlight cut through the office fog of dust, slicing it to ribbons with help from broken and uneven venetians.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, finally getting a look at the photo. It was an oddly shaped paint dribble. It almost seemed accidental, but something about the curvature suggested intent. Allan was hot on the trail of a new tagger in town. Someone who approached every untouched spot in the city like a beautifully blank surface with the potential to be a new Mona Lisa. Or at least one of Reyes’ letters.

“Don’t worry about that, just suss out the meaning.” Allan plopped a full coffee mug on my desk. The sound of porcelain against oak was pleasing. As was the hot drop that splashed out and burned my hand, teasingly. I took a long sip, searing the roof of my mouth and probably also my throat. The Mission Mission office’s snack budget didn’t reach as far as the fancy neighborhood boutique cafes. This was brown bean water. But it would do.

Half an hour later, I had this.

I brought it to Allan. He was lost in thought. “Someone’s been passive aggressively hate-faving my tweets. Can I just disable all engagement?”

I didn’t know. “I don’t know,” I responded. “Here’s your image.”

“Ariel. You’re so literal. This is quirky and whimsical, but it’s not what I need. This goofy lil’ ankle biter, this isn’t what we’re after. It’s great, it’s fine. You did your best. But take a look at these. I went ahead and had Extra Pizza Toppings take her own crack, and I think she found it. I think she found both of it.”

And he was right. She found something. “Go with this,” I said, “Something about people looking like their pets.”

“Huh.” Allan frowned. “Could it really be that banal?”

“You can’t spell banal without anal.” I grabbed my whisky flask from the middle drawer of my desk.

“What they hell is that?”

“I dunno. A joke? A headline? An out of context status update?” I grabbed my hoodie off the rack and flung the door open. “I’m meeting a commenter who’s ready to go legit, I’ll find you at The Alley, I’ll be there by the time the sun burns into Sutro.” I closed the door behind me, this day had posed too many questions and I was all out of answers. I stepped out onto Mission Street and stumbled East into the Capp Street wind.