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San Francisco in 1996 was a city organized for artists. The city of the creative class, the nonconformists. A city for full-­hearted romantics. And the sad truth is there isn’t much room left for the artist in San Francisco today. It’s just too expensive. The San Francisco I love has become colorle…

Inside the club, there is a loud crowd full of day drinkers and early concert goers. We’re here to see Film School, the top of the heap in SF shoegaze cool, and Track Star, an SF indie/post-­punk, angsty three piece that trades off vocals and sweats heavily into their instruments. I see Peter in th…

Everyone has a gig in ’90s SF. We work jobs but we really slave for an art form that we are still learning how to master. Musicians, painters, dancers, hairstylists, writers, actors, massage therapists, inventors. Everyone is outside and inside at the same time. Everyone works at, and spends a good…

Almost all the people I know in San Francisco who are still making art are either people who were able to buy property decades ago or are, at this moment, knocking on wood hoping they don’t lose their rent-­controlled housing. There is so much money amidst so much poverty and despair that your hear…

The embarrassing truth is I had become somewhat of a townie. I was frequently in a bad mood, disgruntled with the new expensive coffee places and the four-­dollar donuts. I was scowling at fancy cars. Flipping off buildings shaped like glass pricks. Angry at air plants and hand-­milled soap. Raging…