The Tenderloin is a place where time is irrelevant. The neighborhood doesn’t cater to holidays or the hours of slow crossing traffic lights near elementary schools. Most of the residents who haunt the sidewalks don’t care if it’s June first or December first. Life proceeds exempt of theme and times. It’s the perfect place to spend holidays alone. No one reminds you of how alone you are. Christmas day is like any other lapse of loneliness on any other given day, one is no more pivotal than the other.
Other parts of the city torture you with menacingly decorated light posts, smug signs of closure due to family obligations and deserted streets where you secretly long to see the pedestrians that usually stand in your way, obstructing you today, in the hopes of distracting you from the chilling knowledge that you are alone on Christmas.
But on Christmas day, on Larkin and Geary or Polk and Ellis, noodle houses are open and loyal regulars honor their liquor lubricated second homes with a devotion like its any other Tuesday at noon.
I’ve yet to make any bar in my neighborhood my regular spot, its too dangerous for my mental well being. The one bar that I love in an unattached yet personal way is The Geary Hall. A small hallway-length, half-doored establishment that is easily missed by pedestrians not looking for it and represents the space for anonymity in times of distress or celebration. Despite it having regulars and what I think is only three bartenders, none of them, including June (the owner) will ever remember you. And even if this is out of unconscious drunkenness or conscious rudeness, you appreciate it nonetheless. Despite its minimal and outdated decor of off color wood paneling and a stuffed animal taxidermy head not mounted in an ironic but half heartedly iconic way, someone makes sure to line the bar with Christmas lights at the appropriate time.
My favorite bartender is Vivian. She’s German and the size of my thumbnail. Worn with age and spending a lifetime behind this bar, she knows the word to every song on the jukebox and likes me because I speak German with her, although she often doesn’t remember me until I thank her for my drink in our shared native tongue. Then she softens. My language skills are inopportune but so are hers after a certain hour in the night.
After considering the outside of my apartment, I muster the energy to walk the half block to the unmarked half door and find myself in the company of two regulars comfortably spaced apart around the bar. One forever silent and sporting an eye patch and another man who has the saddest eyes but who is usually bordering on dangerously creepy. They both ignore me and I prefer it that way. Let us keep company in silence and acknowledge our need for unacknowledged companionship and whiskey on this holy day.
Why do I find myself here on Christmas instead of the in the familiarity of friends and family? I am an orphan but not orphaned. I choose to be alone because like my neighborhood, Christmas insults my psyche. Isolated from religious overtones, Christmas is a consumer’s paradise, operating on the belief that exploiting your childhood wholesomeness and naiveté will make you buy lots of expensive products… stuff. This is what I tell myself.
For me, my childhood was far from Bing Crosby’s White Christmas after my father passed away and I moved to the United States. I tried to force it, it felt so fake. I didn’t know how to do or what to feel for the Americanized version of my old, almost orphic celebration. My Santa Claus didn’t look like the one on the Coca Cola bottles. After that, I associate Christmas with a bleak realization of reality when held up to the light of the nostalgic Christmas ideal. Much like the Tenderloin, whose history is built of tenement buildings for foreign port hands and the prostitutes who served them. Many of them were immigrants away from their childhood homes and their memories. Like Vivian. Like me. Our reality is a stark contrast from the picture of families picking out Douglas furs or visiting the kittens in the Macy’s windows together. These saccharine recollections don’t apply to us and these streets that lack the acknowledgment of it. I don’t celebrate Christmas because I don’t know how to dream through it anymore and I don’t want to wake anyone up from their sleep. So I spend it here, sitting next to a man with one eye, about to sip well whiskey.
As I take my seat and consider Vivian at the end of the bar, I realize I don’t remember where in Germany Vivian is from. I know she’s been in this neighborhood a long time, but I can still hear her heavy accent. She takes her time pouring booze into a chipped glass for a customer who has walked in after me, stopping periodically to sing the words to “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young at the customer that ordered the drink. I watch her as she finishes their money transaction. She notices me watching her and saunters over in her tight black sparkly tank top and snug low-wasted jeans. I don’t think dressing age appropriately is something Vivian has ever considered. And why would she? She’s a bartender in a dark bar, she could easily pass for being in her late 20s given certain circumstances; excessive booze and very dim lighting. You can tell she was a knockout in her salad days. She asks me in German, how I’ve been and where my boyfriend is. I appreciate her memory of me but avoid answering both questions since they coincide with why I’m here as one on Christmas. She must know that but I don’t question her intention.
"Where are you from again in Germany, Vivian?" I ask in English.
“Meh, a small town outside of Regensburg, you’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Do you remember your childhood there much? Did you like growing up there?”
“Natürlich!” She responds, “but that was a long time ago," she says quietly and turns to sing to her audience. “Jet” by Wings just came on and she can’t miss an opportunity to show off her singing chops.
I still haven’t ordered a drink and she comes back, realizing the same. “What are you drinking, Schatz?”
“Whiskey soda, please.”
As she pours me the drink, I think back on my own childhood in Germany. The Christmas eve celebrations I had with my father and brother. The anticipation of seeing the tree decorated, the Christmas Markets, leaving my shoes outside of my door in anticipation of oranges, nuts and sweets; it all happened at night since we celebrated Christmas Eve and not Christmas day. It makes my memories even more mysterious and unreal, the night does that. None of the components of these memories still exist for me, and I question the validity of these memories. I ask Vivian about her past Christmas’ growing up in Germany.
“Oh, they were magic," she says, her eyes lighting up and her words containing more enthusiasm than when she sings along to the juke box. “But a little scary,” she admitted. “I was always worried I would get coal in my shoes instead of sweets. And… Krampus,” she whispers with a shutter.
Ah yes, the hooded beast Krampus that I feared perhaps as much as Vivian, being a naughty child myself. I had actual nightmares as a small Germanic babe, that entailed opening my eyes to see the filtered light poking through the inside of the Krampus’ potato sack as he carried me away to his lair to punish me in ways a child cannot make sense of yet. Needless to say, Germans are masochists through and through.
“In my home town, he wasn’t even a beast!” Lillian explains, drawing me out of my dark recollection. “He looked the same as St Nicholas, except meaner. Still the beard and everything, except in a dark cloak.”
That had been my experience too, the dark foreboding companion to the superstar that was
St Nicholas. St Nich was the magic man my father claimed to have business meetings with. It made me think my dad was the coolest for negotiating advertising campaigns with the godfather of Christmas. On many occasions I had received bundles of coal. While, I knew my father was trying to scare me into behaving, I think he underestimated the dread Santa’s counterpart played in my anxiety over Christmas and life in general.
“I don’t like Christmas and it’s because of that rotten Krampus,” says Vivian. I could have agreed but I knew it wasn’t true for me. Many other things factored into my distaste for the holiday but I couldn’t rule out the origins of my misgivings. Perhaps it was Krampus that I should blame all this sadness on. Identifying my feelings isn’t the same as admitting them.
Vivian is looking at my empty glass, as surprised as I for my swift consumption.
“Another?”
“Yes,” I reply immediately.
Vivian considers me without fulfilling the order. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you...with your friends tonight?”
This question startles me. She asks me like I had no choice or nowhere to go. Did I? “I didn’t work tonight. Those were my only plans. I’m glad you’re working though.”
“I always work on Christmas.” I look at Vivian as she says this and recognize the disconnect in her eyes. It’s the same as mine.
She turns and snatches the bottle of Jim Beam and starts pouring it into a glass swaying from side to side as she begins singing along to the juke box again. She sets it in front of me and says, “This is from me, Fröhliche Weihnachten.”
I smile and say while not looking her in the eye, “danke shön.”
“You never really speak German to me. You must practice more.”
I feel as if Vivian is pitying me now and almost mothering me, but I don’t mind. “It’s rusty and I’m shy. But I remember the words to ‘O Tannenbaum,’” I say. I know this will get her going and almost on cue she starts singing the words. I join in and as she wanders down the bar away from me and I look down at the ice melting into the abyss of my liquor, we carry the tune in perfect unison and perfect harmony to its completion and I know I can leave here when I please.
A new mix we did for the Tales from the Tenderloin zine, this one just in time for the holladaze! Check it out if you’re looking for something warm, something blue, something that’ll fit your holiday mood. Best enjoyed with a drink and a good friend.
A HOLLADAZE PLAYLIST tracklisting:
1. Roy Orbison “Dream Baby”
2. Dinah Washington “Come On Home”
3. Solomon Burke “Cry to Me”
4. Bo Diddley “Another Sugar Daddy”
5. Freddy Fender “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights”
6. The Righteous Brothers “Little Latin Lupe Lu”
7. The Strange Boys “Heard You Wanna Beat Me Up”
8. The Rolling Stones “She’s So Cold”
9. The Brian Jonestown Massacre “Caress”
10. The Ramones “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend”
11. The Talking Heads “Road to Nowhere”
12. The Smiths “Shoplifters of the World Unite”
13. The Waitresses “Christmas Wrapping”
We're havin' a party! This Saturday (12/20) we're gonna be releasing the third issue of Tales From the Tenderloin, which we're calling the HOLLADAZE edition. There's still one more day to send in your submissions, which you should do (!!) but so far it's all looking really good! We think you'll think so too! Anyway it's all going down at 9pm at VACATION (651 Larkin) and there's gonna be some killer bands, a (hopefully) pretty cool zine, good friends, and all the booze you can carry in! We hope to see ya there.
"You hear Tales From the Tenderloin is doing a holiday edition?"
That's right! We are currently putting together the first annual Tales From the Tenderloin HOLIDAZE edition! As always, we're looking for your Tenderloin tales, drawings, comics, advice, photos, and other miscellanea, but this time around all with a special holiday twist. Whether you celebrate Christmas or Kwanza, by giving or by receiving, with family or with your cat and a bottle of wine, we want to hear from you!
Possible entries might include: tales of holidaze past, tenderloin santas, TL holiday cocktail recipes, gift ideas, how to holiday on a budget, new year resolutions, a treatise on love and mistletoe, and on and on. Whatever you think might be a good fit!
The deadline for submissions then is December 15th, which you can send to [email protected], and the release party will follow on Saturday, December 20th. More details on that to come.
In the meantime, submit early and submit often! We look forward to hearing from you! And, if the holiday spirit so inspires, let your friends know too!
Thank you everyone who came out for the volume 2 release party! We had a lot of fun and we hope you all did too! In particular we want to thank the Lovesick Deejays for the killer tunes, Anthony Martinez for the photos, PBR for the beer, and Diane Ramirez, Lyndsie Fox and Stephen Kral for all the great art (which will be on display at the loin till the end of the month, by the way).
For those who couldn't make it out, there are copies currently available at the loin, Public Barber Salon, Vacation and RS94109. Make sure to grab one before they run out!
Otherwise, we hope to see you next time. And in the meantime, keep sending in submissions for volume 3--we're excited to see what you're all working on!
Hey! We're ready to release the second volume of the zine, which we're super happy about, and so we're throwing another party! The release party will be on Thursday, July 3rd at the loin (602 Eddy @Larkin) from 7-11pm and will feature the latest and greatest party jams from the record collection of Lovesick Deejays + free beer (!!!) courtesy of PBR. We're excited! Oh, and the first 50 zines will have temporary tattoos with them, so get there early if you want one!
The release party will also double as the opening for The Freaks Come Out At Night, an art show with new pieces from Stephen Kral, Diane Ramirez and Lyndsie Fox. As a biased commentator, well, I think it's gonna be one for the books! Hope to see you all there.
We are over the moon to say Tales From the Tenderloin issue no.2 will be coming soon!!!! Submit Submit SUBMIT! your tales, photos, comics to talesfromthetenderloin.tumblr.com TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS!
Yes, yes, it's true! In recognition of all the support, good vibes and requests for further submissions we have received since the release of volume one (which, thank you!), we have decided to start the submission process once again, this time for the volume two.
We will be sticking with the same format as last time (six 5.5 by 4.25 inch pages + cover and back), and will once again be looking for drawings, comics, stories, photos, anecdotes or any other creative ideas you might have that in one way or another are connected to the Tenderloin.
The deadline for the second volume is June 20th and the release party will be on July 3rd at The Loin.
Please send all submissions to [email protected] and we will get back to you as soon as we can. And remember, submit early and submit often!
First and foremost we would like to thank Jack Morse and the good people at Z Space for hosting this event! Bonnie Danger for DJ’n all night; keeping rumps shakin’ and the par-tee hoppin’! Bryan Whalen and Pabst Blue Ribbon for donating beer—xoxo you rule! Matthew Miller for lending your hand and expertise, Anthony Martinez for taking photos and capturing memories; much appreciated! Last but certainly not least thank you for showing up, for your love and your support. All you beautiful people made our night and next day!
Yewwwwww!! Tales From The Tenderloin zine release / BART Life art show was a great success and equally killer time! Send in some submissions, as this will be a quarterly collaborative zine. If you have zero crackhead stories we’re sure your friends do. So sip on gin, juice, berr, coffee, whatever your poison is, and get to drawing, writing, or picture taking San Francisco’s lovely Tenderloin. If you couldn’t make it last Thursday pick up a free zine at Public Barber Salon TL, Vacation or The Loin. Also be on the lookout for round two…
Since time immemorial the coming of the New Messiah had been rapped about by the likes of televangelists, Appalachian podunks, and the Westboro Baptist Church, but it wasn’t until a grey, piss stenched morning, Monday, March 17th, year of our Lord, that The Christ finally reappeared on the corner of Hyde and Eddy, right outside The Brown Jug Saloon.
It was the type of morning where feces of unknown origin lay smeared across the sidewalks amongst needles, discarded prophylactics, partially eaten Mexican food, and other detritus and debris all testifying to the weekend before. Pigeons, likewise, had done their own renditions of Jackson Pollocks with their bodily functions on the surrounding awnings and decrepit, half dead tweakers danced with themselves in the reflections in shop windows as if the night had not ended and for that matter never would.
It was Queeny and Scallywag Pete that first attested to the sudden reappearance of the Son of God; they claimed He magically just appeared out of thin air, knocking over a half-empty bottle of Miller High Life and startling a group of Honduran teenage crack dealers in His wake (but let us note, Queeny and Pete have been known to make allegations even more so preposterous in the past.) It was also claimed that that their was a certain glow, or aura about Him, but the more skeptic of readers will note that this could very well be attributed to the glare of neon beer advertisements reflecting off His lush brown hair and white satin robes.
“Hey Jesus, I’ll suck your dick for twenty dollars!” Queeny blurted, but the New Messiah responded with only a soft, graceful bow, and a smile that could assure even the most ardent of sinners the unwavering flow of His pure and unconditional love. With that, Jesus made his way eastward, onward toward The Comeback Bar and The 21 Club.
“I have returned my children, fear not, it is I your New Messiah.” Spoke Christ, yet our Messiah received not a glance in reply other than further solicitations for sex and offers for schedule II narcotics. Over the course of a few blocks however, our Lord and Savior did manage to attract a small congregation behind His march; this included a red-nosed drunkard who appeared to have no idea where he was going, a crackhead with a rat’s nest of filthy, dreaded hair carrying a grey blanket over his shoulders, and a 6’4” Latina transgendered woman who continuously licked her lips and mumbled “Ooo Papi.”
When they arrived at the corner of Turk and Taylor, outside the notorious 21 Club, Jesus and His newfound followers came to a halt, and after a peaceful pause of meditation, made their way into the bar (all except for the crackhead, who for unknown reasons had been repeatedly banned from the establishment.) The 21 Club was populated with a myriad of different screwballs, transients, veteran alcoholics, drug dealers, drug consumers, and various other inner city yokels guzzling watered down beer and conversing amongst each other in assorted states of incoherence. Jesus pulled one of the few empty barstools out from the bar, climbed upon it, and began His speech: “Children, it is I, the New Messiah, the one true Son of God, come again after two millennia, in the name of love and goodness, to heal the sick and the troubled, it is I, your salv..”
“Shut the fuck up, f--got!” Someone yelled as another lunged an empty Corona bottle straight at Jesus’s head.
“Yeah, we’re trying to listen to 2Chains!”
“Yeah this song cost me a fuckin’ dollar on the internet jukebox, f--got!” At that, our Divine Protagonist and company were ushered swiftly and harshly back onto the sticky, trash strewn Tenderloin sidewalk. Jesus buried his face in his hands.
“Oh Father, what hath become of the world?” He cried, His sacred tears dropping to the concrete and mingling with a puddle of dog urine and spilt Mountain Dew. “Has Satan spawned himself so deeply? Has evil so thoroughly polluted thy earth? Well we shall cut this demonic tree at it’s root! To Babylon! To the bankers!” Jesus regained His composure began His march back through the tenderloin and onward to the Bank of America building at Market and Van Ness. By now, a group of almost a dozen drunks and other miscellaneous miscreants had begun to follow Him, most of them thinking that because they were going to a bank, that maybe He was going to withdraw money to give to them. Others were just curious to see what further hijinks might ensue.
When they got to B of A, after inciting much uproar in their path, they were firmly denied entry by the two hire-a-cops guarding the door. Before Jesus could speak, His mob (which had now nearly doubled in size) erupted into chaos.
“I want my mothafuckin’ money!” A woman yelled.
“Yeah that n--ga brought us here ‘pose to give us some money. That why we here.” Another woman in a motorized wheelchair added. The mob quickly became on the verge of a riot, with everybody clamoring about being owed money, or having had just walked eight blocks for nothing, or whatever jargon some of the more unintelligible specimens cared to interject. The security guards phoned for backup and within minutes four squad cars descended upon the corner of Market and Van Ness at which point nearly everyone dispersed back to their varied corners of the TL, except for Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, who had knocked over a trash bin and was now foaming at the mouth, screaming and demanding to speak with the head banker.
“Damnit, Willie.” One of the officers said as he pinned Christ to the ground and cuffed Him. “This shit again? Did you stop taking your meds?” Jesus, struggling, continued his tirade which had now descended into incomprehensible babble.
“Somebody get an ambulance over here! Looks like back to 72 hour lock up for ol’ Willie. Next time take the pills the doctors give you, okay buddy?” An ambulance came and took Christ to the San Francisco General Hospital and after a few days time the people of the Tenderloin had forgotten that He’d ever even been there at at all.
On Thursday, April 17th, we'll be releasing the first volume of Tales From the Tenderloin at Z Space. The release party will also double as the opening reception for Bart Life an art exhibit featuring drawings and paintings by TFTT editors Diane Ramirez and Stephen Kral centered around the charming and not so charming daily incidents, encounters and absurdities of taking BART and MUNI. There'll also be free beer, a full bar, and party jams spinning all night, courtesy of Lovesick Deejays. We hope to see you there!
Address: 450 Florida, SF, CA 94110
When: Thursday, April 17th, from 8-11pm
Also: the deadline for the first volume is the end of the month, so submit soon if you'd like to be featured! The issue is shaping up nicely so far, but perhaps the piece it's missing is... yours?
