Reflections on the Hippy City

(The subtitle of this journal entry is not meant to refer to any sort of drug induced state—although that would also be appropriate with regard to San Francisco—nor is it a reference to the film starring Dennis Hopper which was produced in the 1970s. Instead, it is a reference to our class’ grand excursion—which we certainly hyped up prior to departure.)
Instead of writing my reflection on our trip to San Francisco, immediately after our return, I decided to wait for 24 hours and let my mind sort through the entire experience. The first thing which I must talk about it the absolute ridiculousness of air travel in the post 9/11 world. Watching everyone empty their pockets, remove their shoes, and empty all of their belongings reminds me of a films which I used to watch in history classes. What were these films about? Surely everyone must remember the horrifying scenes of Nazi concentration camps such as Auschwitz and Dachau. It also seems antithetical to me that we are told that the measure which are in place are intended to protect us and our freedoms. Ha, imagine that, protection of freedom by placing strategic limits on freedom. Benjamin Franklin once said, “Those who would give up essential freedoms for momentary security deserve neither freedom nor security.” Maybe we in America do not deserve the freedom which we have enjoyed up to this point. If we value comfort and stability over the ability to make our own decisions regarding the exercise of liberty then we have truly forgotten the most essential principles upon which this country was founded.
Furthermore, what is the goal of terrorism? The United Nations has defined terrorism as the deliberate targeting of civilians with the intent of influencing civil or political decisions and policies. We fear a future terrorist attack on this country (heedless of the fact that an attack on U.S. soil is no longer at the forefront of Al Qaeda’s agenda) so much that we will pursue whatever means necessary in order to prevent such an attack. By limiting the freedom and confining the liberty of the American population, we have allowed terrorism to succeed. Terrorism is not about overt military invasions or traditional coup d’etats. Terrorist organizations simply do not possess the necessary amounts of troops or advanced logistical arrangements to carry out such operations. Thus terrorism seeks cause drastic and pervasive changes in the civil, political, and social order of countries by causing decision makers to rely on emotion, rather than reason, when they are making decisions: the goal of terrorism is fear. As FDR once said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Fear is such a powerful human emotion that if we are not constantly watchful for its influence, it can easily take over.
Now that my reference to political jargon is over, I can delve into the matter of San Francisco itself. A good starting point for this would be North Beach, the first stop on our tour of San Francisco. So much has changed about this area of San Francisco that it would almost certainly be unrecognizable to members of the Beat Generation if they were brought back from the grave to investigate their old haunts (no pun intended, of course). The Hungry I which used to be a hang out poets and writers has been transformed into a strip club, attracting seedy characters of every ilk: moral degenerates, businessmen seeking to escape the monotony of their lives, etc. While the Hungry I has experienced a negative change since the era of the Beat Generation, City Lights Bookstore has experienced enormous benefit and expansion. What used to a very small, underground publishing company has grown into one of the most popular bookstores in San Francisco. Some of the store’s enhanced reputation is surely attributable to the Beat Generation’s attainment of celebrity status, but some of it must surely be from the Beat Generation’s influence on people’s thoughts about literature and poetry. I, however, also think that City Lights and Lawrence Ferlinghetti have capitalized on the celebrity status, romanticism, and nostalgia for the Beat Generation. Instead of publishing inexpensive poetry and selling books for cheaper than most places, City Lights sells tiny, 70 page books of poetry for 13 dollars and sells books for the same expensive prices as Borders or Barnes and Noble.
It is, however, most commendable of Dr. Ferlinghetti to have pressured the city of San Francisco to rename various roads (read: alleys) after beat poets. Looking down the alley next to City Lights Bookstore, renamed Jack Kerouac Alley, I realize just how influential the beats were in this West Coast city. In Utah, we seem to name streets after Presidents and other such political figures, never have I seen a Utah road named after a literary icons. People pass by this alley and look up at the placard, invariably stopping to take photographs. On first glance, many of these people would never strike me as fans of Kerouac. People in business suits, a thirty something male with his prudish blonde girlfriend, even an Italian pop star recognizes the significance of this alley so much that she has chosen to use it in her upcoming music video (maybe it’s just the cobblestone pathway and the elaborate paintings on the wall, maybe it’s the lighting here in this alley between Columbus and Grant Streets, but I truly think that it is the magnanimity of Kerouac that has lured her and her entourage to this particular city, to this particular alley, beside this particular bookstore, on this particular night. “Of all the town’s in the world” why’d she have to go and pick this one—I’m pretty sure that this is rephrasing of a quote I heard in a movie once, I just can’t remember which one.) Unfortunately for me, this Italian “princess” has interrupted my groups presentations and I am unable to present on this night. Perhaps it is better this way, maybe I can cram everyone into our hotel room, gather round my laptop (the very same on which I am writing this account) and listen to some “Bird” while I explain Bebop Jazz and some of its influences on the beats. No description can do justice to Bop, only experience incites fulfillment. I believe it impossible for anyone to truly grasp the nature of bebop and its unique place within the Jazz genre without hearing it, specifically without hearing “the bird fly.”
Kim explains the Hungry I as we stand on this street (I forget the name) surrounded by ostentatious building: strip joints, bars; if this were the 1940s or 50s these would be brothels and the “suits” wouldn’t be here. My attention is distracted from lecturing redheaded beauty by the redheaded, nearly-naked beauty who stares out at the men (and a few women) from her neon sign securely fastened high on the concrete wall—tempting them to indulge their deepest desires. What did she do to end up there? The poster woman, a symbol of the continued objectification of women in our society (oh, but women have been liberated…)—did she choose to have her effigy forever leering out over this “pathway of pleasure and sensuality?” Strip joints hold little allure for me, after all who would want to stare at women who only appear gorgeous because of copious amounts of makeup (disgusting stuff), alcohol, anti-depressants, and a cornucopia of various other drugs—both legal and illegal? Those who are desirous to investigate these pleasure palaces but restrain their desire, what would William Blake say about them? Surely they are cowards and weak men, who are too afraid to give into their emotions. Relying on enlightenment-bred rationality is the only thing that is known, the only thing to be trusted.
Stroll over to 1010 Montgomery (sounds like an introductory course on the history of Alabama). An unremarkable, probably long forgotten is the significance of this place. I too am unimpressed by this apartment, which appears no different from those which surround it—cookie cutter method for everything, conformity brings sanity. After all, it is not the place which is important but the work which was produced here. Stating that the work was produced here is also a lie, it was produced in the head of one crazy (at one point, quite literally) homosexual Jew who just so happened to be staying, momentarily, at this particular apartment.
Returning to City Lights—in support of the Capitalist machine—I buy The Viking Portable Edition of William Blake’s works and a Walden-inspired memoir entitled Vernon. $20 for 2 books (one of them used, although no visible wear), what a fucking riot. I guess I shouldn’t complain though, I’m used to paying for text books at this point. At this point (I am now writing 6 days later) I have forgotten the most important detail of this entire evening: where the hell we got food. I can, fortunately, recall the delicious, fresh clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls which we had for lunch, seated on an old bench overlooking the ocean (more specifically the polluted water which surrounds the ferries), the islands, the Rock, somewhere out there…God. I am unable to recall exactly what we did after North Beach…oh well. I’m thinking that I just slept because (here comes the bitching) the dang professors (god bless both of their balding heads) have us scheduled for departure at 8 AM.

It seems to me, now, in a moment of reflection, that we went to Greco’s Café following the tour of North Beach. A quaint little coffee shop, frequented by all the hip cops. What a nice place to stop, and read for a moment, or reflect and write a poem on a rather large rodent. The most interesting thing about the post-tour tour this night is the Irish pub with the mural of the great Irish writers: Joyce, Yeates, Wilde, etc. Literature and literary icons have such allure for me lately.
(To diverge, momentarily, from the topic of this journal entry—our trip and the academic tour—I really do like SF public transport. Then again, I really do like public transport in general, but am not able to ride it back in Utah due to the remote location of my living quarters. Returning to the meat of this writing…)
8 AM and I’m downstairs, waiting for the group. A couple people are milling about and I can hear the chatter of several others descending the century-old wooden staircase. 8:09 we’re all here, well the students anyways. Where’s Carl? Not here…of course…he hasn’t adjusted from Mormon Standard Time (anyone willing to petition the US government and the UN to rename Mountain Standard Time?). 8:15, Carl has arrived and we’re off—off to see the Wizard, the Berzerk Wizard of Berkeley. Another gorgeous day in San Francisco, I’m certainly glad I packed that pair of shorts.
Visiting UC Berkeley is like experiencing my dream world in concrete form. Political junkies eat your heart out, Berkeley is the place to be. Upon setting foot on campus, I am immediately able to locate several distribution centers for several liberal newspapers and politically oriented fliers and posters—advocating various protests, events, speakers, etc.—cover virtually every square inch of the standard billboard area. There are so many layers of posters stacked on top of one another that it may be possible to dig through all of these posters and find the original fliers advertising the protests and sit-ins from the 1960s. By the time we depart from campus, the main plaza has become even more congested with politically oriented groups’ tables arranged on the fringes of the plaza: an ISO group, an MSA group, two different tables (one quite obviously ran by a Zionist) advocating peace in Palestine (I refuse to call it Israel until they stop building settlements and quit trying to wall the Palestinians in to Nazi-style ghettos), and many more. I am quite disheartened that Amnesty International does not have a representative running an information table among this myriad of political causes. It is still early, they are probably still in class.
Listening to the presentations on the Teach-in, the protests, and the FSM which occurred here on the Berkeley campus makes me wonder what has happened to us. My generation, although composed of nearly 70 percent democrats, is one of the least vocal generations in a long time. Where are our political protests? We have become complacent and/or apathetic. The antipathy of kids (and make no mistake about it, we are certainly still kids. The average person my age resides with their parents until they are approximately 24. How can you be classified as an adult if you are still living with your parents?) has engulfed the entire nation. There is one emerging trend, however, amongst kids a few years younger than I: resumé activism. I’m not quite sure what to think about this particular phenomenon. In a lot of ways it is a truly magnificent thing, helping to spread awareness about issues. At the same time, however, I have my reservations about the motives of these “activists.” But who am I to question the motives of anyone in anything. I can only control me and only have insight into my own mind, maybe these kids really do believe in what they are doing. Maybe things are changing…maybe.
I like the concept which Berkeley has going on with newspapers. Blown up copies of the front pages of at least twenty different papers (both domestic and international) line are located outside of the Free Speech Café. What a fantastic way to get your information and then to verify it and compare it with other sources to determine the bias presented in each—all news has a bias, because all life has a bias. Why doesn’t Weber adopt this policy? It doesn’t seem like it would be that expensive. Maybe we could even talk the papers into donating the copies. Hopefully Chris will follow my suggestion and recommend to the Senate that Weber look into establishing a similar enterprise on campus.
I must say, that of all the places we visited while in San Francisco, the one which I was most uncertain about what to expect was Haight Ashbury. Had a section of the city which had been the central hang out of the hippies in 1960s truly changed all that much over the course of nearly 50 years? From everything that I have read, Haight Ashbury was not only the point of convergence for the hippies but also the hot spot to acquire drugs—initially limited to LSD, Marijuana, and other such hallucinogens but then escalating to the worse (mentally and physically) drugs such as Heroine. There are some signs in the Haight that the hippy mentality and influence is being forcibly extricated, replaced by a semblance of a typical college town. On the fringes, near and in Golden Gate Park, the presence of drugs is still very manifest. Walking past McD’s I am offered Marijuana by at least 3 people and Heroine by 1. Entering the park itself does not bring reprieve, as I am accosted by two young African American males—neither of whom can be that much older than I—with offerings (or exhortations) of marijuana. Too bad we’re on a school sponsored trip and I’m trying to impress a girl or I would be much more curious about this weed. How good is it? Is it really even weed or have they simply mixed a little tiny bit of weed with your standard, household oregano in order to increase their profits? If it is real, how are they able to sell it here, out in the open, in a public square without harassment from the police? It has been so long since I smoked weed, I have forgotten what it’s like. These shady cats, dealing their wares on the side of the road are frightening…and yet…marijuana does hold such an allure. Oh well.
Everyone else cuts out of the Haight to pursue various other adventures (where the hell they all went I am still entirely uncertain—scattered by the four winds only to reunite with us at some later hour in a quaint coffee shop). But I am the smart one, hanging out with the old, balding men who know the history of the area—after all, that is what I am interested in—with the rest of our small group composed entirely of girls. (Only one is really of any great concern to me.) Yes… I am the brilliant one. We return to the hotel, I am not to depart anymore this evening.
Saturday morning, silly sailing to Sausalito. I guess I don’t know what to expect of this trip, I’m not even sure what Sausalito is. We watch the seals as we wait—patiently—for our ferry over to Sausalito. I can’t help but wonder what kind of life that would be, to live like a seal. Are they happy? Would I be happy if I lived such a life or would I go absolutely, stark-raving mad from the pure, endless monotony? And the people, oh how I hate to be stared at…I can’t even imagine being stared at all hours of the day. So yes, the seals don’t have worries like us (bills, cars, etc.) but they must have concerns and anxieties in their own lives—indubitably all living creatures must have concerns which are exclusive to their Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Genus, and/or Species. Some may call this personification, giving a human trait such as concerns or worries to animals, but I can’t help but feel that all living things have similar functioning minds (not to be confused with the biological brain) as well as unique personalities. It is simply a matter of being able to detect what exactly that personality is and how it is physically manifested from one creature (to use a general term instead of going through the myriad listed above) to the next. Sure we can detect physical manifestations of personality in demeanor in human because we are human, but just because we can’t detect those same things in other creatures, does that mean that they don’t have or experience them?
A rather uneventful ferry ride (or is it fairy ride? It is San Francisco after all…) across the bay, first to Tiburon and then to our destination: Sausalito. The one thing worth noting is the jack-ass German tourist who deems is necessary to step in front of me (and consequently the field of my camera) just as I am snapping a picture of Alcatraz. My picture is now desecrated by the presence of some old guy’s shoulder and neck in the right corner, while the picture which he was posing for likely turned out pristinely. Oh well…
Looking back through my camera now, I am left bewildered at my decision (or was it ever really my decision to begin with? Determinism anyone?) to take mostly pictures of landscapes, skylines, and wildlife, with only a few pictures of the group. I have half a dozen pictures of Alcatraz from the ferry ride, but none of any of “the group.” Maybe subconsciously I can’t stand any of you cats.
In hindsight, I guess I still can’t figure out what was so great about Sausalito. Unloading from the ferry, we are greeted by a man playing a guitar. Strangely there is a plastic dog sitting on the man’s lap, arranged so as to look like he is assisting in the strumming of the instrument. Wait… was that an expansion of the doggy diaphragm? It was indeed. This is surely animal abuse or cruely. The poor little creature if being man handled, forced to wear an a costume and sit in the most awkward positions. But it does dig the Doors, all is right with the world after all. If I lived in San Francisco or any other city with a large population of transients, I would be dirt ass poor. I feel so bad for these people and have to be very diligent in keeping my hand away from my wallet when they approach me, asking for money. Damn altruism. Gotta keep moving, away from the man with the abused dog.
Cruise up the road to a tiny burger joint that is bursting at the seems with patrons. The line extends half way down the block, man these must be some fantastic good burgers. I wait in line for 20-25 minutes for this burger. Watching, intrigued, as they assemble the delectable creation of beef, bun, and veggies. Peering perilously over the partition as the beef is cooked on an ancient grill. A lot of flavor must be engrained in the grill, it appears as if it has not been cleaned in over 20 years. After all that wait, I am disappointed by the burger. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I dropped the burger on the asphalt and had to rip off most of the cheese, which had been contaminated. Too many fries for Yulia, Kim, and I to eat, time to make friends with these trash birds—seagulls. Much braver than Utah seagulls (isn’t that a misnomer?), these gulls would likely take the food right out of your hand if you held it out long enough. I try, but withdraw my hand whenever one approaches, afraid to loose a finger to the snapping beaks of one of these voracious varmints. Maybe what the beach boys were really saying was, “I wish they all could be California gulls.”
Now, onto the quintessential tourist thing in SF: walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. I still don’t get what the significance of this bridge is: it is neither extraordinarily long nor insanely high, neither extremely heavy nor uniquely designed. Maybe it’s just the orange paint—like bulls to red, we humans must be attracted to orange. It is a frightening prospect to walk across that bridge though. On the one side you’ve got a near-two hundred foot fall and on the other you have speeding cars and trucks. Pick a side, any side, either one can spell instant death or at least terrible pain. Carl says the bridge is a mile long, he’s mad. My guess would put the total length at 2+ miles, because it did take us over an hour to walk it.