why I don't leave my SF Safe Zone anymore

Going downtown for a Davidson College alumni drink thing last night, I was struck by (1) hot hot the guys are leave work around six-thirty from jobs in the Financial District are and (2) I never seem to leave my SF Zone any more.  I can't remember the last time I was in North Beach.  And I am sure I have spent some ironic time in Fisherman's Wharf much more recently than I have been to the Marina.  My Mission outings, generally for black-box theater or honky tonk fare, are targeted destinations— are as far away from the hipster blocks as I can make it.  While I feel I have isolated myself a bit in this City that has So Much, I am comfortable spending my time in the Cole Valley, the Castro and South of Market.  My version of "venturing out" from these places is for theater (and the occasional shopping or cocktail) on the seedier side of Union Square.  I know these neighborhoods and they know me.  I like that I can go for something known and yet be surprised.  I know I can go out alone yet be surrounded by people who know my name  Last weekend just stepping out for a haircut, I spent over half an hour at the corner of Castro and 18th visiting with and endless array of friends passing by.

Last night the alumni event was at Rickhouse on Kearny at Sutter.  As I was walking up from the Montgomery Street station, my first thought was, "Why don't I come out here any more?"  As I approached the bar, I thought, "Oh, that's right.  Because I don't need to to douche."  I wondered who chose their venue for an alumni function.  There was a line to get in.  Really?  A line for a downtown bar just past happy hour on a Thursday?  Other than overwhelming volume, underwhelming service and a pretentious price point, there was nothing really to recommend it.  Maybe I'm just an old bear.  The crowd was very Young Professionals.  Guys who would have last decade been described as metrosexuals and college graduate girls hunting aggressively for professional boyfriends.  If I were straight and in my early twenties I might have thought this was "the bomb" or whatever the kids are calling it these days.  Maybe I was just a little bitter in my maturity when I noted that the guys were predominately very young, very fit, and generally handsome and all with full heads of hair.

I am also still off carbs and booze and my mood has been firmly ensconced in grumpy if not crotchety of late.

Rickhouse is the newest rough-hewn manifestation of the Trendy Whisky Bar.  I loathe all things trendy, and the crowd was definitely trend-chasing (but not trendsetting), and full of people who by appearances drank whisky because it was the new cool thing to do.  As someone who suckled on the teat of whisky long before it became The New Cosmo, I admittedly look down my nose at the bourbon-come-latelys with a bit of smugness and disdain.

I'm realizing now I am just sounding like a dick, or someone who will grow up to be a scheming caretaker ultimately foiled by a couple of meddling kids and their pesky dog.  Put me back in a bear bar and give me a cocktail and a carbohydrate and I'll perk back up.

But deliver me from the douche.

On the bright side, I met a Davidson alumna in line I hadn't seen since the last one years ago, and inside I got to catch up with two good friends I hadn't seen perhaps since I left Davidson in 1993.  Kristin lives in SF and I have only run into her once—as she ran by during Bay to Breakers.  Molly is a mother of two (three?) now in Arlington and just happened to be out here and came to the event.  Despite the voice and the crowd, we had a good catch up.


What prompted this rant in the first place, and brought to mind the scene last night, was this gem found via Uptown Almanac:  Douchey and Hipster.  The white boy rap about the young men who consider themselves SF Playahs, and the girls who love them.



This is why I keep it in The Zone.