Boozing with the future white collar criminals of the world in their natural habitat is no fun; that’s what this writer found out one night at the turn of the last century.
Also we got to walk amongst these rich douchebags and the women who would hold their noses and marry them someday, who wore business clothes to the bar and spent so much time and money on personal appearance that it translated into a legitimate power move over the poors.
Believe it or not, in order to be a fair nightlife journalist and try to appear unbiased toward the squares who never crossed our radar on the more lowbrow side of town, we omitted some of the ugliest occurences and made this evening in the Marina sound a lot less awful than it was.
But any closing night of a bar in any subculture is bound to be frightening to outsiders; it’s 20 years later now and people in graffiti-tagged glass houses shouldn’t throw beer bottles. We’re all trying to be kinder in our speech and more open-hearted so, cultural differences and all that.
This is the 35th entry in my “twenty years ago this week” project from when I was a nightlife columnist at the Bay Guardian, once the country’s largest family-owned weekly newspaper. These “Dilettante” clips, compiled on my portfolio page, create a serial portrait of San Francisco culture at the turn of the century (1997-2001).
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