Iconic San Francisco Authors: What They’d Be Up to Today
By Katie Lewin
“Ginsberg wouldn’t have a start-up.” As far as bar-bathroom graffiti goes, this was relatively tame. I spotted it scrawled in non-confrontational violet ballpoint, wedged between a generic “Giants Nation” scribble and confirmation that one Kyle C. was “packing it.” Maybe it’s because I’d neglected to bring my phone with me for my usual toilet-seat scrolling, or maybe it’s because I was four whiskey sours in, but I was intrigued. And unconvinced.
Allen Ginsberg
Allen Ginsberg — for those of us not on a chummy last-name basis — hung out mostly in North Beach, but he might just have ventured south a few streets for that start-up life. Sure, it’s hard to picture the father of beat poetry among hoodie-clad coders bent over screens and breaking only for — umm — Sushiritos? Hacky Sack? (Confession: I’ve never actually spent any significant time at a start-up. Is it that obvious?)
But think about it. In their purest state, when they’re not kicking neighborhood kids off soccer fields or overusing phrases like “disruptive technology,” start-uppers are all about being at the forefront of the future. While lounging on beanbags or crowded around those horrible standing desks. Which, when you think about it, is in line with the beats’ commitment to bucking tradition. Just with more hoodies and less references to “endless balls.” Which actually doesn’t sound like a fair trade.
Robert Louis Stevenson
If Allen Ginsberg would be transforming the cultural landscape with his cutting-edge literary apps, Robert Louis Stevenson would be the rebellious suburban transplant experimenting with atheism, bisexuality and kombucha, in no particular order. This excerpt from his Wikipedia page is textbook newly minted Mission kid, even before the part about the velveteen jacket:
Stevenson was moving away from his upbringing. His dress became more Bohemian; he already wore his hair long, but he now took to wearing a velveteen jacket and rarely attended parties in conventional evening dress.
BRB while I add “and was frequently spotted at the Elbo Room complaining to girls with septum piercings about the death of vinyl.”
Jack London
Anyone who read To Build a Fire in tenth-grade English had two thoughts: “Wow, that dog is kind of an asshole” and “I bet Jack London was the kind of guy who’d invest in some flannels and think it made him an outdoorsman.” Nowadays Jack would throw parties he’d insist on calling “kickbacks” at his Oakland co-op, corner hapless guests to explain how the East Bay is more “real” than the city and insist that growing cilantro in his two-by-four back-porch garden has really made him feel in touch with nature. He’d serve his home-brewed London Lager, complete with a kitschy label. And his puppy would feature prominently in his Tinder profile.
Robert Frost
Don’t let his folksy musings about “nature’s first green” fool you — Bobby would be suave as fuck. The only San Francisco local on this list, he’d grow up knowing the ins and outs of our fair city and be quite the urbanite lady killer. Equally at ease quoting poetry to yoga-pants-clad Marina mamas, flower-child Haight holdouts and Union Square tourists, Robert would DEFINITELY have miles to go before he slept, if you catch my drift. Impressively, he’d also maintain a solid career in finance, a lightly ripped physique and a standing weekly Ultimate Frisbee date with a group of friends he’d glibly refer to as “the boys.” He’d nod sympathetically when his fellow natives complained about SantaCon. But he’d never miss a year.
Maya Angelou
Maya is the only posthumous woman to make this list (hi, Amy Tan!) as well as the originator of my all-time favorite San Francisco quote:
In my twenties in San Francisco I became a sophisticate and an acting agnostic. It wasn’t that I had stopped believing in God; it’s just that God didn’t seem to be around the neighborhoods I frequented.
I refuse to imagine a parallel modern-day San Francisco scenario for Maya that doesn’t involve her being my best friend. I like to think we’d frequent dives like the one I originally read the graffiti in, making friends with the other ladies in line, swapping lipstick and talking smack about the mustachioed try-hards — looking at you, Twain — buying us drinks.
