Letter

I’d meant to visit State Bird Provisions for years, but I’m not in San Francisco too often and reservations are hard to get. So when I booked a return appearance at The Green Arcade to promote Soviet Stamps, I made a reservation right after finding a flight. I’d know Stu and Nicole in Chicago. I even briefly worked with Nicole at Red Hen Bread. I’d hear about their restaurant from time to time and make a mental note, then forget about it.

On the flight west I started J.A. Baker’s The Peregrine. It’s another bird-themed thing I’ve heard about forever and finally got to. I don’t care about birds one way or another, nor for nature as such, but the way Baker writes about obsessively observing, following, and trying to understand this one animal is not like anything I’ve read before. Few writers could make sitting in a windswept, gray countryside for months sounds so exciting.

Deborah met me at the airport, then we went for lunch and a walk. San Francisco has transformed in recent years from a fabled counter-culture mecca to a creepy tech-bro dystopian nightmare. We walked the loop of Sales Force Park—an elevated, artificial green space above a bus depot. Fountains bubbled to announce arriving buses as young tech drones strolled about on their lunch breaks. It reminded me of the near-future of Her; everything is tasteful and muted, a melding of technological and seemingly artisanal, but all slightly off. It’s as if a computer rendering program generated all the ingredients of a place people might spend leisure time in, then combined it all and 3D-printed it into reality.

We arrived at the bookstore a little after 6pm, greeted Ben, then left to get coffee. The place he recommended was closed so we looked up another place a few blocks away. When we asked the girl at the counter for coffee, she didn’t seem to know exactly what were asking for. Looking at the menu, we realized the place was some sort of space-age teahouse. At the very bottom-right there was something coffee-based. It came cold but the girl said it could be warmed up. There were many different kitchen implements and devices behind the counter. It looked more like an experimental test-kitchen than a cafe. The name was Urban Renewal or Urban Waste or something. We left with our coffee-adjacent concoctions and walked back to the bookshop.

Ben was nervous about nobody showing up, but a bunch of his friends filtered in and we had a fun, rambling conversation about my book and our long friendship. It makes things easy when you know a guy over thirty years. Patrick, the owner, asked where we were eating and when Deborah said State Bird he seemed jealous. We said our goodbyes and walked the half hour to the restaurant. 

I didn’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t the lively, hectic scene we walked into. State Bird is an endless dance of staff bringing by small plates dim sum style. Each thing is either a combination of ingredients I would’ve never thought of, or a rejiggering of some staple in an elevated, refined style. But there’s no pretension in presentation. It’s a fun place to be in a way fine-dining often isn’t. I guess I expected it to be more serious. Stu stopped by and chatted a few minutes. It’s nice to see someone I knew long ago doing so well. He sent out a bunch of free plates. We were treated like VIPs. Between the amazing food, the good conversation, and a bottle of something called Vranac from the former Yugoslavia, it was a memorable meal.

The next day I hung out with Ben for awhile, then headed to the airport. The flight back made a brief layover in Las Vegas. I deplaned and bought a corndog from Nathan’s, for reasons I can’t reconstruct. it must’ve been the blinking, flashing one-armed bandits lining the airport hallways that spurred that questionable choice.

Back on the plane, my new neighbor was a bruiser of a woman who took up all the airspace at shoulder height, so I spent the three-hour flight in a half-twisted lean into the aisle. Nevertheless I read a bunch more of The Peregrine, which took me far away from crummy, human-filled sardine silo to which I was confined.

Great art will do that. Even if it’s about birds. Which, as I’d mentioned before, I don’t give a flying fuck about.

Two months after launching a Patreon account I pulled the plug. I wrote thank you notes to all the contributors (most of whom read this newsletter, so, thanks again!) and shut it down. There are many reasons but it boils down to the queasy feeling I got every time I opened the Patreon page. It just never felt right.

I never got a handle on what I should be doing there once people committed to sending me money. I sent out a bunch of art and books as rewards, somewhat haphazardly. Posted some art and writing I was working on. It all felt nebulous. No beginning or end.

Someone told me recently that people are making a bunch of money off newsletters these days. But I can’t bring myself to paywall mine. I use it as a kind of sketchbook, in addition to sharing news. I don’t know that it would feel right to charge readers for such an incomplete, unpolished thing. Over the last five years, since I quit Twitter and Instagram, this newsletter has been my main online soapbox. I get more out of writing it than readers get out of reading it I suspect.

There was none of the same satisfaction with the Patreon. It reminded of the worst aspects of Kickstarter and social media. That insatiable need for reaction and approval. The sense of a shapeless, ever-growing organism that swallows all one’s efforts with little acknowledgement, aside from the implicit, drug-like need to continue.

The newsletter has never felt this way. By having to put it out every Monday, I have a kind of structure to my week. Every week starts with a new newsletter. All the Patreon did was add stress. In order to offer something worthwhile to readers there I’d need to take something away from the newsletter and that was too high a price to pay.

It may seem crazy to turn down money. Considering I only promoted the thing here, my Patreon could’ve been judged a success. Instead, it felt like a dead end. I wonder sometimes about other eras, when artists had patrons. What and how much did they lose by submitting to their sponsors’ wishes and whims? If Patreon is the cyber era Medici, did those Italian painters feel as crummy back then as I do now coming hat in hand to ask for help?

I’ll continue trying to figure out ways to get by from my work. The low-price art sale I started last year will continue. Just about any painting I have on hand can be yours for $200 or less. I’ll keep carrying my books in my bag everywhere, in case I meet someone who wants to buy one. What else can I do? I’m open to suggestions.

The same day I pulled the plug on Patreon I got an amazing package in the mail. Lynda Barry sent me a signed copy of her new book, along with a note about Soviet Stamps, and a check. It was the most flattering feedback I’ve probably ever received. The fact it came from a certified genius was icing on the cake. I sat at the coffee shop with tears running down my face rereading it.

I got a new coat. The old one wasn’t worn out but had been wearing on my nerves for some time. A vintage job bought at a vintage shop on Milwaukee, it was grey with prominent fur collar. Or faux-fur, as I found out from my itchy, burning neck the first time I wore it.

The coat fit well in the store mirror. I liked how it looked. It made me look like an Edward Gorey character. I attached a bunch of old Soviet buttons to the furry collar to decorate it. It was from the 50s or 60s. A substantial piece of clothing. It had heft. For a week or two the novelty of the thing made up for its deficiencies. The most glaring problem was lack of pocket space.

I carry a lot around with me. A sketchbook in one pocket, a notebook in the other. An mp3 player (was an iPod, upgraded recently to an Activo CT10) in a third. A Parker Jotter always in the inner pocket. Wayfarers and prescription glasses wherever they’ll fit. Gloves, a scarf, and a winter hat stuffed into all remaining spaces.

I took the coat in to a Chinese seamstress around the corner from my place. Her store had no signage in any language; just a bunch of mismatched furniture in the window. She emerged from some inner sanctum after I’d stood inside the door a minute. I asked her to extend the pockets to reach the bottom of the coat, mid-thigh. She said it wouldn’t look pretty. I said it was practical not cosmetic. Besides, who looks inside of someone else’s pockets to inspect workmanship?

Her alterations made it possible for me to carry all I needed to carry, but soon the coat’s other drawbacks came to the fore. I couldn’t wear the thing without a scarf to protect the back of my neck from the synthetic fur collar. I lost the bottom of its three buttons while riding my bike. The other two buttons strained as I pedaled so eventually I just kept the coat unbuttoned while riding. The weight of the thing was a drag too. I felt oppressed by it to the point that I dreaded putting it on. When I took it off inside, it took up room, almost like an extra person. It was cumbersome. On a recent plane trip to visit my parents, I chose to where a sport coat and a sweater just to avoid having to stow the thing on the plane. It wouldn’t have been unreasonable for Southwest to’ve charged me for an extra seat.

Buying a new coat less than two years after this one felt ridiculous. I like wearing my clothes till they’re nearly rags. But something had to be done. I didn’t want an article of clothing in my life that caused stress. I like clothes I don’t have to think about. So I took a trip downtown.

Macy’s was having a winter coat sale and I found a nondescript blue number within 15 minutes. It had snaps and a zipper rather than the dreaded buttons and appeared to have the requisite amount of pocket space. I paid and went into the men’s room to change. The first stall I tried didn’t have a hanger, so I moved down to one with the entire door missing. For a fancy downtown department store, this bathroom was run down and seedy-looking. Forgotten.

I took the old coat off and removed the Soviet buttons and the recently-acquired Yellow Cab badge. I was about to fasten them to the new one when a disheveled man appeared by the first of the stalls. I went back to what I was doing, but could still see him in my peripheral vision, seemingly hesitating before checking the first stall. Then he moved closer and I turned to look at him. He had his dick out and was stroking it, a question mark in his gaze. I gathered my coats and walked out past him.

Out in the brisk winter air I felt ten pounds lighter. The new coat felt like a weight off my shoulders. I went for a coffee in the Monadnock, to finish what I’d been doing, away from prying eyes and stroked members. A few minutes later I was back outside, lugging the old coat like a corpse, dead weight. I thought of finding clothing-drop-off spot but couldn’t think of any downtown. I wanted to be rid of the thing. Waiting for the bus, I noticed the deep window sills on the first floor of the Monandnock, laid the thing there, and walked away relieved.

Perhaps my masturbating friend from Macy’s will find it. It’s perfect for his purposes.