Those of you who have ever visited me out here at the palatial Chateau Sur La Plage, aka The Sandbox, know that this really is a fabulous neighborhood. Quiet, no shortage of parking (an exception to the rule in SF), and where some folks have a front yard, I have the Pacific Ocean. Next stop, Honolulu. I love the fog; it's a small price to pay for those clear days when you can count the bugs crawling around on the Marin headlands.
Until recently, what my immediate stomping ground had always been missing is a decent little watering hole to go sit and have a nice beer with the nice neighbors. For years we had The Sand Bar just around the corner, which I always derisively refered to as The Very Worst Bar In San Francisco (and that's giving it the best of it). A place where women could go to get beat up. Always a fine layer of vomit coating the sidewalk on Sunday mornings. I could cross the street to walk by on my way to the corner store, and even then I'd be nauseated by the whif. In short, the most downtrodden hellhole populated by the worst kind of toothless derelict career alcoholics. Made Moe's Tavern look like The Top Of The Mark.
There was a palpable cry of elation in the neighborhood when in 2002 the sheriff padlocked the door, telling the owner to get the hell out because it just wasn't cool to be dealing coke to underage homeless folks after hours. The doors remained shut for 18 months, and we liked it that way.
One day last summer I was walking by, and found the door open. I poked my head in, and there's my buddy Les James, tools in hand, gutting the place, telling me he had bought the lowly Sand Bar and was planning to turn it into a cool new Sunset bar catering to surfers and musicians. Former Sand Bar inmates would have to take a driving test before they were allowed in, and any comments to the efffect of "I was friends with the old owner" would be grounds for immediate 86 stautus. Aside, Les James is a swell fellow, one of SFs truly great drummers, and plays with the bands Red Meat and Plain High Drifters. Go see them. If you don't like country music now, you will...
Fast forward to about 2 months ago. The bar, rechristened The Riptide, is humming along nicely, and the clientele has improved 100%. There I am at the bar, feeling nice, chatting aimlessly with the others who are glad the place is open again in a non-lame way. I had allowed Cheryl The New Bartender to use me as a guinea pig for her martini skills (she needs help, but I'm happy to do my part).
There's one in every bar, of course, but the guy directly across from me was starting to explore the depths of his cups verbally. After he muttered for a minute about the "new yuppie fags in my bar" and how "this crap music was too fucking loud", I pegged him as a hold-over from the old days. In his late 50s, ponytail and balding (WHEN will that end?!?), complexion of deep-fried beef jerky, sucking on a shot of something vile and brown. Then he started yelling about the noise. I suggested quietly that this wasn't The Sand Bar anymore. He didn't like that remark, apparently.
Now, anyone that knows me knows I'm not an aggressive fellow. I've never really had an opportunity to hone any real fighting skills at all (except maybe while I was on the worst fencing team on earth in 10th grade) because I can't recall anyone ever picking a fight with me, and figure there's no point really. I haven't thrown a punch since maybe the second grade. I like it that way.
Laughing Boy got up from his barstool and came over to me, apparently to voice some objection to my offhand remark. As he was walking over I stood up to show him that I was at least six inches taller and 60 pounds heavier than he was, but he seemed intent on starting it all up. I smiled at the little daggers coming out of his bloodshot eyes (pointing in different directions I might add), and that set him off. He shoved me with both hands in the middle of my chest, I tripped over my erstwhile barstool, fell just perfectly on my ass, twisted my left ankle. The little man turned tail and ran out the door before I even hit the floor.
The moral of the story-- you can take the angry little drunken asshole out of the horrible little derelict-haven bar...
Come visit me at Fly Bar on Saturday nights. Divis and Fulton here in SF. Always nice to check the ID of a friendly face...