Under-dressed in San Francisco

The other night, I went down to a small punk concert with my room-mate. It was located in a small gallery, a couple of connected rooms and a tiny claustrophobic performance room. The concert consisted of a small number of punk bands, ranging from as far as Boston, the other side of the continent.

Everyone had a tatoo, and a piercing.

Certainly, this was fringe material, which attracted a fringe crowd. The crowd was a kaleidoscope of anti-fashion fashion and exaggerated individuality. In many cases, the audience appeared to have considerably more time in dressing up than the performers themselves. Velvet jackets were prominent, throwback school uniform looks. Lots of latex. And tatoos and piercings.

Except me. I was shamed. Both my room-mates have tatoos. Why didn't I have one? Was it enough of an excuse that I had only just moved here? Since then, I've kept my eyes peeled and have noticed the near ubiquity of indelible body decoration in this city. Just why is it that tatoos, formerly the domain of Hell's Angels and ex-convicts have crossed over to the fashion conscious.

It may have something to do with authenticity, an idea that one of the few non-tatooed American friends of mine had suggested. San Francisco is a city where one is pressured to be non-conformist and individual. But then it becomes ridiculously easy to be wild and crazy when it is expected of you. No one bats an eye-lid if you roar down the street with a pink mohawk in a nun's habit. Yet, this permissiveness takes away from the effort involved in being an individual. If one is expected to be wild and crazy, then one is immediately a little tame. As such, other methods are needed to show the world that you really mean it. Hence direct bodily mutilation.

We the Healthy

I have now been living in California for two months. I have exercised more in the last 2 weeks than the last 2 years combined. My poor aching bones. The fitness fever - it surrounds you, it embalms you, thousands upon thousands of fitness fanatics with their talk of carbs and aerobics and running and power and rock climbing. It's inescapable due largely to do the excellent stridently sunny weather and the the large green open spaces. Then there is that surface venner of good Californian smiley feeley West Coast cheer. Cheering you on to self-actualisation, to spirituality, and to good wholesome exercise.

For a city known for its back-breaking hills, San Francisco is a bike city. Down from the hills, there are large regions of flat, bikable plains. There are many bike shops, and like everything else, bikes are fashion accessories. There are bikes that are stylish expressions of the self. Curvy metalic mobile sculptures, with their Easy-Rider handlebars and their earthy low centres-of-gravity. Well-marked bike lanes criss-cross the cities, ferrying socially-aware bike-riders from one hot-bed of activism to another. Yes, biking is a green form of transport.

On weekends, people from work go mountain-biking, rock-climbing, recreational (?) running, ultimate friss-beeing. If you don't sweat or hit the zone, you're not having fun. For me, I have fallen victim to the soccer fever. Every week on a Monday and Wednesday afternoons, we descend onto the pathetic patch of green outside the building to play this quintinsensually un-American game, even though it is. Soccer is played big time in primary and high-school, but there is no professional league. More importantly, it's a popular game for girls to play. So it's a wonderfully mixed gender game we play.