They Don't Like Graffiti
They don’t like graffiti in the ‘Sco’ no more – but I do.
The first time I visited San Francisco was in around 2000. Not much had changed in the seven years prior to my next visit. There were still pieces running that I remembered knocking me on my ass from the first trip.
Sabers Rest in Peace Tie mural south of Market still had crack heads and junkies posted up out front of it like 20 deep. They were lined up covered in abscesses doing dope in the streets freely like it was the thing to do. The streets were smashed and I still felt like a miniscule toy amongst the momentous destruction. I had upgraded my supplies a little at least though. I had pockets full of nice drippy mops and squeezer markers where before I only had only sorry little china markers and Marks-a-Lots. The graffiti bug was still in me but I found myself a little shook to freely tag in the streets openly in front of crowds of people. I’d lost a little nerve since the age of 18.
The worst change was that I now had faces to go along with the names which I once revered so mightily. Almost without exception when I meet a writer I instantly stop liking their shit. A shitty personality will almost always trump even the best artists’ work. The scene in SF is pretty corny. The entire toy to mid level writers were goony scenester kids that looked like vegan-bum-homo hybrids. And without exception all the savages were sad looking dudes who enjoyed smoking crack. I’ve never really been a dick rider so it wasn’t too hard to become disillusioned upon meeting the motley crew of fucked up graffiti writers. Luckily, I didn’t have any famous three letters after my name so they pretty much ignored me or engaged me in somewhat normal conversations.
Our bus rolled into town just before sunrise and we made it to the homies apartment in the Fillmore just as the sun was coming up. We debated grabbing some sleep and instead hit the streets at daybreak to check out the graff and do a little tagging. Unfortunately, I was born with a second toe larger than my big toe and I royally hurt it standing up on my tip toes to put up a sticker. My weight came down on my mutant second toe and I was instantly a cripple for the rest of the trip. I hobbled around for seven or eight hours checking out the streets. I was bummed. I reneged on many missions due to my little pussy injury. I was still down to hang out at Delores Park and drink Tecate tall cans and smoke blunts though. The homies that I was with in the ‘Sco’ were much more into the graffiti “scene” than I was. It seemed that everywhere we went they would introduce me to such and such dude who was a writer. They would share their little gossip and be on their way. The first “superstar” that I met reminded me of this really weird Canadian dude I used to be in rehab with. If you looked at him you would never think that this Birkenstock wearing kid would have his name absolutely fucking everywhere. He did though; there was no doubt about that. The funny thing about most writers, most decent writers at least, are that they really aren’t psyched on graff that isn’t done by themselves or their homies. I guess this holier than thou attitude is at the heart of the graffiti game – the ego constantly pushing you to do more and more than the next guy.
The coolest writer that I met was a little seventeen year old street kid who had more tags and throw ups in the streets than I could even comprehend doing in my lifetime. He partied with us late into the night eating my whole tin of Altoids and some day old Burger King fries tainted with cigarette and blunt ash. He was one of the only humble dudes that I met who was actually slaying shit ruthlessly. The other was an older dude who looked fried out on some heavy acid. He’d been grilling shit for decades and had even passed through my tiny little home town years ago. It was strange to all of a sudden have faces to go along with all these names. It was also weird to meet someone and then suddenly notice their shit in the streets where I hadn’t before. One of the dudes looking out for us and showing us around was a writer but I really liked him because he didn’t seem to give two shits about graffiti or the scene and he always had a cynical or asshole comment to lay on you.
I realized that the people in the streets were looking at me funny when they would see me taggin’. Perhaps the same people who expected it from my young self were disgusted by seeing a full grown man fucking shit up. The denizens seemed to be fed up with the constant proliferation of graffiti. How was it that all us kids were never able to find a useful hobby and continue to roam the streets littering the town with incomprehensible scrawls? The locals seemed to have a genuine disdain for out of towners coming through their city and killing hard for a while and then moving on. It seemed that every writer had something to say about such and such homie who had been killing shit for years but was under recognized or appreciated. One thing I will say about the locals is that they certainly have their own unique handstyles. It’s called bus hopper style and their tags are really beautifully gritty and in one continuous flow. Handstyle wise they are only rivaled by Philly cats (who have the most amazing tags imaginable). It seemed like the novelty of graffiti had worn off to the average square citizen. Where graffiti once was something iconic and admirable about their city they now just seemed annoyed by it.
We would hit the streets nightly (well, I stayed home for most of the super gnarly missions honestly) and walk through the hood into the Tenderloin to hang out with the crack heads and trannys – the only place in America where it was still kosher to fight in the streets. We even befriended a local drug dealer named E and would occasionally stop to share a blunt with him in his staircase while passing through the Fillmo’. One time I had somehow been elected to carry three paint bags through a particularly gnarly looking hood at three in the morning. A SFPD cruiser slowly rolled by but didn’t stop to sweat me. They probably felt like I had enough trouble being a skinny white boy schlepping shit through the ghetto.
On Saint Patty’s day we decided to get shitty and hit up the ‘Loin’ for some good old fashion debauchery. I drank a shit load of Guinness as my buddies tried to talk up the haggard artsy females. The bathroom of the spot was grilled with tags and I added to it every time I had to piss. Unfortunately the liquor worked through me something nasty (as it always does) and as the night wore on and the beers and shots piled up I had a strong desire to start tagging the rest of the bar (not the first time this impulse has come over me) and whipped out my trusty Woodcraft. I started nonchalantly at first just hitting little corner spots on the sly. My big homie (and when I say big I mean massive like six foot six three hundred plus pounds) got in good with the bartenders by picking up a little Mexican dude causing trouble and throwing him out and they started feeding us all shots in celebration. My other homie was busy sucking face so I got bored and started tagging more. Probably not a good idea right? I started getting more and more obvious hitting the windows surrounding the bar and the raw wood paneling. I thought the drunk crowd was none the wiser until some big burly John Candy look-a-like tried to tackle me. Soon chaos erupted and the whole fucking place was out for my blood. My huge homie was nowhere to be seen – asshole – so I dipped and dived my way to the door.
Being a pacifist at heart and never ashamed to run from a lynching I barreled out onto the streets quick. When John Candy tried to tackle me my head smashed into my fresh tags covering my hoodie and hands in white ink. I thought I would be able to walk away from the situation cool as a fan, but damn was I wrong. My little homie saw what happened and was able to break away long enough from the chick to say: “KAI – RUN”. Shit he didn’t have to tell me twice. I hit the first block I came to but much to my chagrin it was uphill (goddamn you San Francisco). I ran hard as the yeast from the beer uprooted in my stomach. The big homie was still nowhere to be seen but luckily my other little homie is a full fledged maniac and probably the fastest sprinter that I know (he’s passed me many a times when we were being chased). He was able to navigate to the front of the angry mob; I looked behind as he ran backwards and fended them all off while shouting me encouragement. Being as inebriated as most everyone else, I kept pushing myself to keep going while the others ran out of gas. The Guinness started coming back up and I just kept hitting corners. Finally, I was so exhausted I hit one last corner and took a chance by hiding in the front of an office area. I expected to see the whole angry mob pass by cartoon style but only one dude was left at this point, the bartender. He quickly saw me ducking down and approached me. I stood up and tightened my jaw preparing to get hit. All he said was: “Dude, just please don’t tag in the bar. I have a lot of friends who are writers and I love graffiti. Just respect the bar.” I’m sure he would have sung a different tune with his angry mob of locals behind him. I just laughed and continued puking while walking away. It wasn’t enough to stop me from tagging but it was certainly enough to stop me from tagging inside crowed establishments where everyone is sauced up. Not without a car waiting at least.
KAI1
