Hey everyone...

...thanks for all the comments.  I'm fine, I just haven't had anything to say lately.  I also decided Comcast wasn't worth what I was paying for it after my "introductory rate" expired, so I cut my internet/cable/landline.  Turns out I didn't need any of those things anyway.  All the HDTV anyone "needs" is available free through the air...all you need is an antenna.  I'll figure out where I'll get another internet connection, but sorry Comcast...you're evicted.

I'll be back; I just have other priorities I have to deal with for a bit.  Besides, this place REALLY needs to be redone.  Every time I see this blog it reminds me of a room that hasn't been redecorated in years, with peeling paint and wallpaper, and shabby furniture.

Anyone care to redecorate?  I'd do it myself but I just don't have the patience.  Feh.

In Memoriam

Thank you, Stephanie, for your service to the City of Cleveland and Cuyahoga County, and for being the voice of District 11 in the House of Representatives. Most of all, thank you for being a positive role model for a lot of people, and for being there when your community needed you.

Stephanie Tubbs-Jones

September 10, 1949 – August 20, 2008

"Spotted" on Market Street

So I'm walking down Market Street between O'Farrell and Stockton, and about 10 yards ahead of me I see a red-headed vision in leopard carrying a small beast. I thought to myself, "That could only be Veronica Klaus."

I've written about her before, but I just haven't run into her for a while. She has an ongoing gig every Tuesday night at Enrico's in North Beach, located at the corner of Broadway and Kearny. I hadn't seen her in a while, so it was nice to catch up and chat as tourists gawked at Veronica. I'd like to think they were simply dazzled at her sense of beauty and style.


Of course, maybe it was her little friend.


What I love most about Veronica is how she fierces up any occasion without even trying. I mean, these was taken on a very ordinary Monday afternoon in downtown San Francisco. Being the old-skool gal she is, one must take note of her gloves, an article of clothing once considered mandatory on any self-respecting lady seen downtown.

I give you "Monday" by Veronica Klaus:


Her shoes were ridiculously cool. Compare them with those awful Crocs (on the left) you see people wearing these days...I swear, I'm convinced they're made from unsold Jellies that probably sat in a warehouse for 25 years. Crocs are ridiculous, ugly shoes, and anyone who wears them is a slave to bad fashion. It's like any adult man over the age of 25 wearing anything with "Abercrombie" emblazoned across it. Pathetic! Gag!


But seriously...her shoes win.


If you find yourself with free time on a Tuesday night, be sure to check out her weekly performance at Enrico's. Tuesday nights are nice in North Beach, because all the tourists tend to stay down by the Wharf, and most people in the city can't be bothered with this little corner of District 3. This means Monday and Tuesday nights belong to the locals, which means a nice, chill, relaxed vibe permeates the neighborhood like a peaceful fog.

Seriously, come hang out. If you're going to her show drop me a line and come sip cocktails with me at the club while we take in some quality entertainment from the City's #1 chanteuse.

Links:

Enrico's

Veronica Klaus

Scratched, dented, but unbreakable.

After living in San Francisco for 12 years, you see the same homeless people begging for change. Some of them are just lazy. Others are con artists. Others are mentally ill, which makes it difficult for them to maintain a stable existence. I generally have more sympathy for the latter, but I also respect the "homeless" people who have found an entertaining hustle, like this guy.

Some of these homeless people, upon being helped, can help themselves out of a situation in which they'd rather not be. Others are...well, imagine some of those homes in the Lower Ninth after Katrina. They're kinda like that. It's gonna take a lot to rehab them, if indeed they're rehabable. Unfortunately, that means these people often fall through the cracks, where they end up scrounging out an existence on the streets of San Francisco and other fine cities near you.


Take, for example, this guy. I don't know what his name is, and even if he told me I'm not sure I'd be able to understand him because he just kind of moans and groans at you through what remains of his molars. To the uninitiated, this can be a bit unnerving, especially when he's drooling or foaming at the mouth on a sweltering October afternoon.

I mentally refer to him as Marvin 'cause he probably starvin and doesn't seem to be doin no turkey carvin. UPDATE via Moby: I will never mentally call him Marvin again. His name is Freddie. I don't know what his story is, his history, or where he's from. When you walk past him, he makes some moaning noises and tries to talk as he looks at you with his one good eye. He holds his head high as he tries to keep his balance on his fragile, twisted legs, and makes [one] eye contact with you. He's not being lazy, he's working the only hustle he knows so he can eat. He's not mentally disabled, he's physically disabled. I'm not even sure if he's homeless, to be perfectly honest. While he's usually pretty presentable and isn't wearing filthy or torn clothes, I think I can safely assume this doesn't mean he has a 49th floor corner office at 555 California Street, either.

He can barely talk. He can barely see. His ear is missing a chunk. He's had a rough, rough life. I don't see a future for him at Ernst & Young or Bechtel Corporation anytime soon. Tottering in the middle of the sidewalk and throwing himself at the mercy of pedestrians is how this man survives. Who is he? Where did he come from? How did he end up begging for change with a soggy McDonald's cup at the corner of Market and Valencia in front of a Travelodge?

The one thing I've noticed about this man is he has an unbreakable spirit that is very real, and very human. As I stood there watching him for a minute or two, I noticed when people brusquely push past him, he doesn't hang his head in shame, throw attitude, or even respond. He simply holds his head high with dignity.


Then he just waits for the next group of pedestrians. Some people even walk twenty feet out of their way to avoid passing him altogether. It'd be funnier if it wasn't so, well, disappointing.


So since his schedule was light this particular afternoon, I asked him if I could take his photo (in exchange for a generous tip I placed in his cup, of course). His eyes instantly lit up, and he gladly mugged for me. He didn't see the amount I put in his cup. He didn't even look down, as it didn't seem to matter to him the slightest bit. He just seemed glad someone was looking at him instead of past or through him. In the years I've been seeing this guy on the street, I've never seen him in such a good mood.

Giddy-titty to the max, this one was.


I'll be honest. I had never realized he was so...human. Yes, I've always been aware he's a member of my own species, but suddenly, I saw a very real personality emerge. His language skills may be impaired, but his unbreakable spirit shines through his - dare I say - startlingly articulate, character lined face.


Turns out he's not much of a threat, and I've never heard him speak (or moan) one speck of smack about anyone. If anyone in San Francisco is reading this and encounters this dude on a regular basis (he's in front of the Castro Theater often, and I've seen him outside The Mix or Badlands), you don't have to shoulder-smack him as you walk by or give him attitude. For the love of Deuteronomy, look at him. He's harmless. I suspect no matter how crappy your day is, it's going better than his, especially if it's raining. You don't have to give him a cent, but returning the eye contact and smiling pleasantly instead of scowling doesn't take that much energy.

Besides, why would you scowl at this guy? Are you really that important? Should that even be socially acceptable to begin with? He's not some obnoxious drunk with his "money for beer" sign, so does he deserve to be treated like one?


Here's to you, Marvin. Thanks for reminding me that no matter how bad my day gets, it's nowhere near what you encounter on a regular basis. Thanks for introducing me the friendly guy who lives inside that defective, damaged body of yours. Thank you for showing me you don't have to be a "homeless advocate" to simply treat another person with respect and dignity.


Mostly, thanks for helping me keep everything in perspective.

See you on the street.

UPDATE

Moby left an awesome comment that I wanted to put here. Thanks, Moby, for filling me in on Freddie. We have a few "Freddies" over here in North Beach as well. They're harmless and well-behaved, and the beat cops leave them alone. They're essentially neighbors living without rent payments.

His name is Freddie. Having encountered him several times in a work capacity I can confirm he is not faking.

Most folks incorrectly assume because he has a crippling physical disability that his mind is too. He is actually quite intelligent and I don't blame him one bit for "working" his condition. He is one of the few 915's (PD code for homeless) who are truly in need and cannot take care of himself w/o assistance. He is also well known in the Castro and many of the local businesses help him convert his change to dollars, give him food, etc.

Sometimes, he gets overly aggressive or suffers an attack and emergency services intervene.

He is one of 3 homeless guys in the city I go out of my way to give cash and/or food too. I address him by name and look him in the face, even if I have nothing to give.

Awesome. Now I know his name. I've seen him have one of those attacks outside Badlands once and I felt really bad for him. There's a woman who hangs out front of my apartment building every day. I should probably know her name.

Amber.

I have several non-human nieces and nephews in this city, and I'd like to introduce one of them to you.

This is Amber the American Red Nose Pitbull; she belongs to a good friend of mine. I've known her for the past 7 years, and have watched her mature from a rowdy, mouthy puppy to a well-behaved, mouthy middle-aged lady. Here, she sat nicely for me.


She's quite curious...she's actually one of the smartest animals I've ever met. Her problem solving skills are impressive.

Look at her...does she look like a killa to you?


She likes to show you her mouth.


If you live in SF, and have a well behaved, non-spastic pet, and want a portrait done, by all means send me an email.

Damn you, Darin.

So I'm reading Darin's latest post, and this particular passage caused me to laugh just as I was taking a sip of tea:

And now there's these two queens sitting next to me, quackin' on and on about how they shall be tuned into Bravo tonight, watching themselves on the Kathy Griffin show. Quack Quack, ya ol' hens. Go lay some eggs someplace else. I've got a Coke in my hand and I'm not afraid to throw a disapproving look your way.

I, of course, inhaled some tea with my initial guffaw, which caused my diaphragm to spasm, thus forcing the tea/air mixture from my lungs with explosive force, creating quite an aerosol cloud. The tea sprayed everywhere, including all over my computer, and was accompanied by a huge freak hurricane force gust of wind that snapped my flag outside and came tearing in through the open windows. Everything on my dining table and and coffee table was instantly blown all over the room and onto the floor.

EVERYTHING.

Newspapers, a candle, bills, a paperback book, even a baseball cap was swept away. As the cap went flying off the table, it hit and upended my coffee cup, spilling all over what had been a stack of mail before three quarters of it ended up strewn about the room. The cup then fell off the table and broke on the floor in the middle of a puddle of tea (which was, naturally, being soaked up by the paperback book and my PG&E bill that oh so conveniently landed face-down directly in the middle of the mess). The contents of an ashtray (which I was planning to empty in the next 30 seconds before it was emptied for me) were also blown all over my tea-soaked laptop, which created a muddy, ashy mess on the screen and keys. All of this occurred in less than five seconds. I'm not kidding.

So I'm sitting here, looking at the carnage, and thinking, WTF? Did we just have a windquake? Where the hell did that come from? Since when does North Beach have micro hurricanes that last 3 seconds and cause utter chaos?

I know Darin was somehow involved.

That clucking old hen. Yeah, I hope you laugh so hard you lay a big brown egg. Pttttpppthh.

Happy Pride. :-)

The photo above was taken by Kelly Stern, who posted his coming out story and asked his fellow bloggers to post his photo and share their coming out stories.

I actually have more than one "coming out" story, as I initially came out of the closet to a select group of close friends (well, it was more like timidly poking my head out) when I was 19 years old, then re-entered it when I joined the Air Force the following year. I eventually came out for good when I was 23, but that was a different time, place, and circumstance. So for 2008 Pride, I'll share the story of my initial gay debut.

Picture it...Cleveland, Ohio. The time, July, 1990. [Note: I posted this before Estelle Getty's death; I'm not being morbid.] Not exactly the most gay-friendly time in our nation's history, and Cleveland wasn't exactly the kind of place where you could just burst out of the closet and put on an outrageous display of faggotry. It wasn't the gay dark ages, but it wasn't the most enlightened time either. Keep in mind HIV was ravaging the gay community, and AZT had only been on the market for three years.

Yes, it was a different time, for sure.

I had moved out of my parents house and into an apartment on a tiny brick alley off of Euclid Avenue in University Circle, just down the street from the Euclid Tavern punk rock palace. My roommates were Cleveland Institute of Art students, and most of my friends lived within a few blocks of my place.

This particular evening started out at a neighbor's apartment across the street from mine. They had transformed their brick porch into a "hot tub" with plywood, carpet liner, garden hoses, and railroad tarps (don't ask...they were all engineering students and made their own alcohol). I heard my phone ring from across the street (one of those old landlines with a rotary phone with a loud bell), so I leapt over the side of the porch onto the sidewalk, shook myself like a dog, and scurried across East 116th Place, carefully dodging the broken glass in the gutters and actually answering the phone on the 7th ring. It was my [straight] friend Ron, calling to inform me he was having a "get together" at his apartment, which was only a few blocks away. Since I was living on my own for the first time and didn't have much money for food or haircuts after rent and utilities, I was quite the slim and trim and suntanned young kouros with a shaggy mop of thick blond hair that hung down in front of my eyes. Hell, I was 19 and free. Who needed food? Besides, pitchers of beer were $1 each at the Hungry "I" club across the street from the Euclid Tavern, and they didn't bother carding me, so many nights that was all the sustenance I needed.

Google Street View of 1961 Ford Dr., Cleveland, OH.

I walked over to Ron's place, which was located at the corner of Ford Drive and Hessler Court, quite a notorious old apartment building in University Circle. I think he had something like 15 roommates. It was where I saw my first John Waters movie besides Hairspray, and where I learned to just embrace my inner freak and not be embarrassed about my inherent dorkiness. One time, I brought over a bottle of prune juice, and Ron and I kept filling our mouths with it and leaning over the balcony of his first floor apartment, pretending to barf up vile brown liquid in front of every person walking by the place. It was cheap summer entertainment, and we got to gross out unsuspecting passerby. Sweet.

Like I said, embrace the freak, no matter how classless or sophomoric.

Ron had a large assortment of friends; they were gay, straight, and bi, students at Case Western or the Art Institute, or the occasional townie such as myself. On this particular torrid July evening, it was 95 degrees with 100% humidity, and air conditioning was nonexistent. So, to cool down, someone came up with the brilliant idea of running over to a liquor store and picking up ten pints of Häagen-Dazs, where we would each pick out our favorite so we'd have ten different flavors. At the time, for me, that was cookies & cream. Still one of my fave-a flavas, yet it's unfortunately taken a backseat to Crème brûlée and Honeybee (not to mention Ben & Jerry's Cake Batter and Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, which is like hitting a crack pipe). Anyway, I digress. Upon our return, we all sat in a circle on the floor of that first floor porch you see in that photo above, each with our own spoon. We then passed the ice cream around so we all got to eat a pint, yet sample the cornucopia of delightful Dazs offerings. An ice cream Lazy Susan, if you may. It was a brilliant, low-tech way to cool off on that hot summer evening.


Someone jumped up to put on some music, and soon the familiar guitar riff at the beginning of "How Soon Is Now" by the Smiths floated across the brick pavement of Hessler Court. Not everyone at the party knew each other, so as we sat there, we had an informal meet & greet. State your name, where you're from, and briefly describe yourself. When it was my turn, one of the Case students, a very out-loud-n-proud gay young man sitting directly across from me, spoke to me directly.

"So, Mr. Chad Fox," he said, carefully choosing his words, "what's...your story?"

"My story?" I asked.

"Yes, your story," he replied. "Tell us your story." He stared directly at me, which made me nervous.

"Well, I was born in Euclid, raised in Cleveland Heights, and now I live in Cleveland. I like ice cream, moonlit walks down Prospect Avenue, puppies, maple trees, and aluminum siding on other people's houses."

"Smartass." He lit a cigarette. "I think you know what I'm getting at." He exhaled, and sat back, waiting.

I looked around. Everyone had stopped talking amongst themselves and turned to look at me.

"What are you getting at?" My heart was pounding.

"So are you gay or straight?" He took a long, long drag off his fag, and blew the smoke directly at me.

"Yeah, Chad...I've been wondering that myself. You're hard to read sometimes," said the young woman sitting next to me.

My throat tightened. My heart raced. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead, making my hair stick to my face. The song droned on.

There's a club if you'd like to go
you could meet somebody who really loves you
so you go, and you stand on your own
and you leave on your own
and you go home, and you cry
and you want to die

"Um," I stammered. "Um...well, I guess...I think I just don't know."

"Do you like boys?" someone challenged.

"Boys are nice, yes," I managed to croak, staring down into the pint of pistachio I had in my hands. Boys are nice? Are you serious, Fox? Nice adjective you just unpacked there, kid.

"Oh, you're going to make him tinkle, stop," said one cute guy I had been furtively cruising for several weeks, and had also been at the hot tub party across the street from my apartment earlier in the evening. "Chad, it's okay. You're amongst friends."

When you say it's gonna happen "now"
well, when exactly do you mean?
see I've already waited too long
and all my hope is gone

At this point in the conversation, I looked up. Instead of the scornful faces I was expecting to see, everyone was wearing a friendly grin and looking at me. I glanced at Ron, and said, "I...I guess...well, I'm...you know."

"Gay?" he finally offered.

"Yeah."

Ron chuckled. "Like I give a shit," he said.

"Yay! Chad's gay!" someone yelled, and everyone laughed.

Everyone, that is, except me. I was fighting back tears and a lump that was rising in my throat. For the first time in my life, this awful, heavy burden was lifted from my shoulders, and I felt like I could truly be myself. I quickly collected myself, passed off the pistachio, and was handed a pint of cookies-n-cream. I took a deep breath, and dug into it, smiling. I had just taken a huge step, and it was good.

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does...

Later on, we all drunkenly walked down to the Cleveland Museum of Art, where we frolicked in the fountain at 2:30 in the morning before the police chased us out of there. It was a great "coming out" even if I had to go back in my familiar old closet for Air Force basic training 13 months later. But that night, I was finally free of the shame and self-loathing that had defined my adolescence and teenage years. I could stop lying to myself and finally be...me.

And that, my friends, is sweeter than any ice cream I've ever had.

Good job, DPT!

I just want to give much-deserved kudos to the San Francisco Department of Parking and Traffic. Seriously, you guys are "real smart" if you ask me. I cannot thank you enough for your professionalism, and your competence. Really, you guys are just first rate. Tops! All of ya!

Let's review your work, as seen here in Russian Hill, shall we?

Take a gander at this [obviously] illegally parked car:


Hmmm...does it have a valid parking pass? Let's check.


Huh. Interesting. It's a current, valid pass, and the registration is also current. Obviously, someone owns this car, and has driven it recently. I'd even venture to say it's possibly insured (liability only, I suspect).

Never mind the fact the rear bumper appears to be resting on the ground. Maybe it's one of those wacky "low riders" or something.

But hold on just a gosh darn minute! Area "C" (as indicated on the SF DPT neighborhood parking pass on the bumper) is Nob Hill, and these photos were taken at the corner of Broadway and Hyde in Russian Hill, literally twenty feet from the end of the "C" parking area. Doh! The boob who owns this specimen of automotive excrement has to move it in two hours! Chalk time! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!

You know you love chalking. It's what you do. Better chalk the tires real, real good so the owner will know he or she's done a Very Bad Thing! Get those tires! Get 'em! Chalk 'em! Make 'em chalky. In addition to your regular scribbling be sure to get some nice squiggles on there too.


Now that's what I call a "well chalked tire" if you ask me. Ooo I need me a cigarette! If there's any doubt to the owner that the car needs to be moved in two hours, then obviously the owner is a complete idiot who should not be driving anywhere anyway. If anything, you DPT people are thorough! What a chalk job!

Let me take the time to tell you that so far, the DPT is doing a super job. Really. You DPT guys never cease to amaze me with your efficiency and ability to think critically, and on your feet, especially in unique situations such as this one. Apparently, this automobile's owner was nowhere to be found, as it appeared the car had been there for much longer than two hours. Do you know what that means, DPT?

Oh yes. YES. YES! YES!!!

Tickets! Tons of 'em! All stuffed under this notice informing the obviously clueless scofflaw owner his or her car is parked illegally. Two things, though...take note the front wheels are curbed correctly, and try not to lick your chops and make "yummy noises" so much as you write the tickets. It's disturbing.


Just in case you can't see what that slip of paper on the windshield (covering a pile of tickets, I might add), I'll zoom in on it a bit:


Somewhere, there is a ball, and you guys are ALL on it like flies on dog poop. That (in case that last sentence confused you) means you are on the ball. So far, so good. You've identified a potential "problem vehicle" and are punishing the owner with citations, warnings, and copious amounts of blue chalk on the left front tire. For your effort, I give you a nice big gold star, because you guys, on the whole "effort" front, are truly, truly #1.



See how nice that gold star is? You like shiny things? Me too! Shiny things are the main reason it's so difficult for me to get my chores (or blog entries) done.

Shall we continue?

Let's.

Now, I am not a Department of Parking and Traffic traffic enforcement officer, and of course I'll never have parking and traffic-related skill sets they possess, nor will I be as eloquent and refined as your average San Francisco Department of Parking and Traffic enforcement officer. In fact, Big Dummy was one of my nicknames given to me by a coworker at Chandler's Shoes 20 years ago. Hell, I'm so dumb, instead of taking the 44 O'Shaughnessy, I take the 22 Fillmore...twice.

That's what I call thinking.

I did, in a rare moment of lucidity, find one glaring fault in the otherwise seamless SF DPT protocols & procedures exhibited here.

Can you find their error? Take a look at this photo:


I'm no student of DPT culture. But, there's one thing that I do know. Cars that are missing the entire rear axle, including the wheels, are not easily moved in a two-hour time window.

Do you see where the rear wheels are supposed to be, DPT officers? Do you? What do you see there instead? A tire? No? What do you see? Daylight, huh? Well, cars can't roll on daylight, can they? What exactly makes you think this car is capable of being moved under its own power?

So, DPT...maybe, just maybe, do you think this car is possibly stolen? Do you think maybe someone is really upset that their vintage Mustang convertible is missing? Do you think maybe this car was dumped here after someone ripped out the entire rear differential, axle, and wheels?

Or, do you not...think?

My heart goes out to the owner of this poor Mustang. Look at it...it's obviously been unceremoniously dumped along the cable car line, someone stole it for a pair of its shoes (and feet, for that matter) in addition to the Department of Punk-ass Tards chalking up another one, and it's literally choking on parking tickets...all in plain view of the tourist-packed cable car line.

Real bang-up job there, guys. That's quite the geyser of competence I'm seeing here. Instead of calling in the plate number to the SFPD to see if it was stolen, so the owner can be notified their Mustang has been found, it's much better to ticket it until you're crosseyed and then have it impounded, thus subjecting the hapless owner to further sadistic, bureaucratic abuse.

Heh. Supposedly, you don't have to pay parking tickets that accumulate on abandoned, stolen cars, but the DPT is quite adept at not clearing tickets that have been paid or voided. Oh, and good luck re-registering this poor thing next year. Nothing like finding out your registration is on "hold" because of unpaid San Francisco parking tickets after standing in line at the DMV for hours. No wonder they have bulletproof glass.

I have had the displeasure of having to recover a stolen vehicle in the long-term impound lot at Pier 70. When I asked them where the car was, they gestured to the sea of cars and said, "Out there somewhere." Good thing they told me, because I probably would have looked everywhere but where all the impounded vehicles were stored. Silly me would have been hundreds of miles away in Reno, running around some random supermarket like a retarded baboon on crack, utterly baffled as to why I couldn't find a 1987 Toyota Camry in the middle of the goddamn produce section.

Out "there" somewhere. Geez-oh-man where do they find these Einsteins?

Feh.

I've got one thing to say to the Department of the Path of Least Resistance:


So here's an idea. Why don't you print these out and stick 'em up in the break room down there on South Van Ness:



And yes, I agree the city would be chaotic without the DPT but do they have to be so lazy and incompetent? And if this is "proper procedure" then I think a major revision of policy is in order.

Just my two cents, whatever it's worth.

PS... After some reflection I decided to remove something I said about someone earlier because I realized it just wasn't very nice.

Tee hee hee.

So I'm in the Peet's Coffee on Polk Street, perusing their delicious assortment of somewhat overpriced, quasi-delicious baked snacks, when I suddenly started el-oh-elling at the selection between the Carmelita Bars and the Almond Tea Cakes.


Giggling to myself, I took a closer look to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing.


Any day I get to laugh at something because it sounds naughty, especially if it wasn't intended to sound naughty, is a good day.

A very good day indeed.

Eyesore.

Am I the only one in San Francisco who absolutely detests the new Bank of America signage at the Castro branch? Did someone take it to the prom, only to have some dumb jock throw pig blood on it? Is it a bank I'm looking at, or a snuff flick? Yes, B of A, we realize the dignified old Hibernia Bank building has been part of your evil empire for a while now, like a castle you've conquered. But do you have to shove your banking lifestyle in our faces with that horrid red unibrow?

Now don't get me wrong, unibrows are fine on people, or even Muppets. I've seen some pretty amazing unibrows in my existence. But on a building?

Please, Bank of America...rethink your horrible red signage, as it's not necessary to visually assault the Castro on a daily basis. Lose the unibrow and try a white or silver background instead of red. Just give the building its dignity back.

Like the North Beach branch:


North Beach B of A photo credit: sfnorthbeach.org