no one knows
Work sent me on a wild goose chase in San Francisco over the weekend. On Saturday, I was supposed to conduct an interview with a band and check out a live acoustic set by the same band put on by a local radio station. The only catch was, the only word of confirmation I'd gotten was, "Everything should be fine," which I'm starting to realize means, "Yeah, look, no one actually wants to come out and say, 'no' so instead they say 'it shouldn't be a problem,' and then ignore you until you give up trying and forget about the whole thing."
I made all the calls, left the messages, wandered around the city--no interview. I did get to see the live acoustic set, though, and that was really good. I was more frustrated than bummed that the interview didn't happen; I should be used to it by now, but there's other ways I'd rather spend a Saturday than leaving multiple messages for a tour manager that I know will go unreturned and constantly checking my cell phone to see if I missed a call.
Luckily, I was down there with friends and coworkers, who were all reuniting with friends who had moved away, some of whom I knew, and some I didn't. It didn't matter, though, because we drank a lot of booze. Starting in the daylight hours, even while hunched over my phone, I sank into a pleasant Guinness buzz while listening to stories of other people's good times. I laughed and asked questions and snapped group photos so they could have keepsakes. I was a witness, someone who hadn't heard all the old familiar stories.
San Fransico's scenic and dirty at the same time, which I guess is par for the course for every city, but the hills, the bay, the bridges and the views of the ocean are breathtaking, and you can see all these things while tripping over junkies. I have mixed feelings about the city. I have a good time there, even though the hipster set in San Francisco is notably snobbish, and for some reason, I usually get lost there--luckily at seven miles by seven miles, it doesn't take long to find your way again.
Saturday made me wonder if I'd just been going to the wrong places in my previous visits. We bar hopped through the Mission district--more than a gaggle of shouting rowdy drunks--and the hipsters encountered were polite and friendly. We even hit up places where the drinks were cheap. I visited the same killer taqueria three times in the same day and ate my full each time, drank Beam and Guinness and whatever beer was cheap and still felt good enough this morning to wander around Fisherman's Wharf like a big dumb tourist. Bands should flake out on interviews more often.
I made all the calls, left the messages, wandered around the city--no interview. I did get to see the live acoustic set, though, and that was really good. I was more frustrated than bummed that the interview didn't happen; I should be used to it by now, but there's other ways I'd rather spend a Saturday than leaving multiple messages for a tour manager that I know will go unreturned and constantly checking my cell phone to see if I missed a call.
Luckily, I was down there with friends and coworkers, who were all reuniting with friends who had moved away, some of whom I knew, and some I didn't. It didn't matter, though, because we drank a lot of booze. Starting in the daylight hours, even while hunched over my phone, I sank into a pleasant Guinness buzz while listening to stories of other people's good times. I laughed and asked questions and snapped group photos so they could have keepsakes. I was a witness, someone who hadn't heard all the old familiar stories.
San Fransico's scenic and dirty at the same time, which I guess is par for the course for every city, but the hills, the bay, the bridges and the views of the ocean are breathtaking, and you can see all these things while tripping over junkies. I have mixed feelings about the city. I have a good time there, even though the hipster set in San Francisco is notably snobbish, and for some reason, I usually get lost there--luckily at seven miles by seven miles, it doesn't take long to find your way again.
Saturday made me wonder if I'd just been going to the wrong places in my previous visits. We bar hopped through the Mission district--more than a gaggle of shouting rowdy drunks--and the hipsters encountered were polite and friendly. We even hit up places where the drinks were cheap. I visited the same killer taqueria three times in the same day and ate my full each time, drank Beam and Guinness and whatever beer was cheap and still felt good enough this morning to wander around Fisherman's Wharf like a big dumb tourist. Bands should flake out on interviews more often.
2 comments:
You think you're a tourist?
When I went there I went to Alcatraz and took the cassette tape tour.
I went to Jack London Square and bought postcards.
I rode the trolleycars.
I took pictures at Golden Gate Park.
So... Uh.. No autograph, huh? Damn..
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