Pangaimotu Sunday

Pangaimotu is a small coral islet about one mile off the docks of Queen Salote Wharf in Nuku’alofa, the main-island capital of the Royal Kingdom of Tonga. It’s a small family-operated pleasure resort on its own little island, and is host to one of the kingdom’s largest coral reef reserves.

On the boat ride from the wharf, Pangaimotu catches your eye like a not-so-distant paradise. With the hot Polynesian sun beaming down on you, the little motorboat that ferries you there just isn’t fast enough. After ten minutes, you’re there. The wooden ramp on the dock leads you straight under a banana leaf thatched roof. You order a drink at the beachfront bar.

Pangaimotu is especially popular on Sundays, because just about everything else in the kingdom is closed. On the Sabbath, it is unlawful for Tongans to work, trade or even create noise disturbances. There are no sporting events and all contracts signed on Sundays are void. The only people allowed to do business are a few select foreigners that operate somewhere off the main islands. Such is the case at Pangaimotu.

Everything here is so tiki, but it doesn’t look like it was done on purpose. You get your drink and find a seat on one of the wooden benches in the dining area. You're right on the water's edge.

People from everywhere, mostly Tonga, are laughing, splashing and playing in the warm clear water below. They’re on the beach playing volleyball, lounging on the sun-drenched deck and lying around in hammocks. Some are out snorkeling over scores of tropical fish, while others are busy eating under the restaurant’s shady canopy.

Food is a big deal in Tonga. Plates stacked high with fresh tropical fruits and huge servings of local seafood are brought to the table next to you. You also order a meal.

After lunch, you spend most of the day the day strolling around the pristine beaches, and wading in what feels like a heated fishtank. About 100-feet offshore, there is a half-submerged ship wreck that you can climb-up and dive from. But, you’d have to swim in line with a bunch of youngsters in order to get your turn. You end up snorkeling.

Little florescent blue fish brush by your legs, and a couple sea cucumbers explode when you step on them, emitting huge white stands of sticky-icky nasty goo that clings to your feet and legs like some jelly adhesive. Jumbo starfish stare up at you from underneath the water; they are orange, and yellow and purplish black.

After an hour or two, your skin begins to prune and the bar begins to lure you ashore. You spend the rest of the afternoon making friends and sharing drinks. Within a few hours, Pangaimotu gets quieter, and folks start gathering around the deck area to watch the fabled Tongan Sunset.

Smears of pink, red, and tangerine begin to glow across the tropical sky. The fresh ocean breeze picks-up and hundreds of palm trees gently rustle in the background. It becomes one of the most tranquil experiences you could ever imagine. You just sit and watch. Amidst the wavering silence and the unquestionable beauty, you can’t help but thank god for Sundays...and Pangaimotu.

Garden of Edo

The city of Edo (modern day Tokyo) was a deliberately planned environment. Attention was paid to how it would grow, and how it grew - and eventually, it grew out of control. The face of the city changed drastically as it blossomed, and the many fires, or “flowers,” of Edo helped to make that possible.

The “Seeds” of Edo

When the powerful and patient warlord, Tokugawa Ieyasu, finally seized his opportunity to take administrative control of Japan, he knew just what to do. By waiting until after the death of his rival for autonomous power, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1537-1598), and then slaughtering the armies that supported him at the consequent battle at Sekigahara (1600), no more daimyo warlords would be able to stand in his way. Ieyasu was Shogun. De facto ruler of Japan.

When Tokugawa Iyeasu relocated to Edo in 1590 it was a swampy little fishing village, marked by a neglected fortress built by Ota Dokan in the 15^th century. But it had potential. It was far enough from Kyoto to start a new shift in government.

In essence, Edo was re-born as a dream. It was an intentionally planned metropolitan seat of power and protection, well positioned both spiritually and geographically, and it was built to grow in a particular fashion. The city’s inhabitants would adhere to the strict social codes and standings within the hierarchal order of the shogunate regime.

The civic development of Edo would be paid for by the daimyo warlords of Japan. Each of the wealthiest families would eagerly give a large portion of their resources to the construction effort of the Shogun’s castle, as well as their own grand estates in Edo. All of these new homes were situated close to the main compound where Tokugawa and his entourage lived, so that strict levels of social control could be enforced, collectively.

“Alternate attendance” further pledged daimyo allegiance to Tokugawa rule, and kept them nearly incapable of becoming wealthy or powerful enough to pose a threat to the regime. This would also ensure his lords that the fate of his domain and family would be shared by the fate of their own.

“The Flowers of Edo”

The population in Edo grew fast, and most of the homes in Edo were made of wood and other combustible materials. They were often packed very tightly together, with little or no space between them.

Fires broke-out regularly, especially in the Low City. Many were far-reaching and often destroyed much of the city, causing many fatalities. About 100 fires broke-out during the 15 generations of Tokugawa rule in Edo Japan. These fires were often started in the most densely populated areas of the city during the dry winter season, when Edoites warmed their homes with burning charcoal.

“The city was proud of its fires…and occurred so frequently and burned so freely that no house in the low city could expect to last more than two decades.”[1]

As devastating as many of these fires were, they were often seen with a bit of irony, not only as deadly catastrophes that left Edo and its inhabitant in ruins, but also as catalysts of civic change and the cause of redevelopment and reconstruction, which often addressed the practical and social needs of the changing times.

“Edo no hana” (the flowers of Edo) became a concurrent theme throughout the history and fine arts of Japan.

A “Flower’s” Bloom

“The Great Fire of Meireki turned Edo into ‘Great Edo”’[2]

Reports of arson were not uncommon in early Edo[3]. On the 18^th day of the 3^rd year of the Meireki Imperial Era, an uncontainable fire began to spread wildly from the Hongo district in the Low City, up toward Kogimachi and Edo Castle, consuming the property and lives of many on its way.

Otherwise known as the Furisode fire, it was the worst in Japanese history at the time, destroying 60-70% of the city over three days in 1657. The Meireki fire is estimated to have claimed the lives of over 100,000 people.

Tokugawa Ietsuna himself, the 3^rd shogun, barely made it out of his keep alive, after the flames breeched his powder magazine and caused a horrific explosion.[4]

In the days following the Meireki fire, people gathered the corpses of their family members and neighbors. Many of the bodies were sent down the Sumida River to Honjo, for a mass burial. It is at this site that “Edo-in,” or the Hall of Prayer for the Dead was built as a historical marker, in memory for those who died in the consuming inferno.

In the weeks following the blaze, and for nearly 2 years after, reconstruction efforts became a high priority for the people of Edo. The shogunate utilized this opportunity to re-organize his city, and address various social and practical civic situations, particularly concerning the degree of vulnerability Edo had displayed to the Meireki fire, and how it could spread so rampantly within Edo.

Alternate attendance was temporarily suspended, and about 900 tons of near-burnt rice was dispensed to encourage the reconstructive effort.

Taking fire safety and wind factors into account, entire districts were re-planned for safety. Also many daimyo homes were relocated further away from the castle, so as to serve as natural fire breaks. Homes in Edo had to be built in adherence to strict code, and were no longer allowed to display lavish ornamentation and exquisite entryways, which were usually made of highly flammable materials such as wood and bamboo.

Many streets were widened, especially in the Low City, and the far-reaching suburbs of Edo became the city’s outer-limits, decongesting the city to some degree. Old shrines and warrior centers were moved away from the more densely populated areas for protection.

Because of these changes in scope and design, future fires, or “flowers”, of Edo, would be far less devastating than they might have been, at least for the immediate future.

A “Flower” for Love

The best known arsonist in Japan was a 17-year-old girl, Yaoya Oshichi, who lived in Edo with her greengrocer family toward the end of the 17^th century.

In late 1682, she and her family fled from the city as a wild blaze approached her neighborhood. They sought refuge in Enjoji temple, where she fell in love with a boy that she met, who lived there under the care of its resident monks.[5]

Destroyed in the fire, her family home had to be rebuilt, and upon its completion, Oshichi worried that she may never see her newfound love again. She figured that only a tragedy such as the one that first brought them together could bring them together again.

Early in the following year, Oshichi set fire to a building, hoping to able to see her distant love again. The blaze she started grew out of control and destroyed much of the city.

In Edo, arson was capital crime, rightfully so, as the city was prone to massive death and destruction by such acts. Oshichi was dragged through the streets of Edo in shame, and publicly executed for her disregard for safety and the law.

Yaoya Oshichi was pitied by some of the citizens of Edo because of her youth and beauty, but a great deal more were outraged. Either way her story is an immortalized legacy within Japanese culture and is the focal point of many kabuki plays, books, and woodblock prints.[6]

Hikeshi: Tending to the “Flowers of Edo”

“Sonae areba ureinashi” is a Japanese proverb which is similar to “An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of remedy,” as expressed in English.

Certain precautionary measures which deterred the massive outbreak of fire became law, early in the Edo period. For instance, shopkeepers were required to store large buckets of water, just in case they were needed.

Fire brigades would soon be established for each district, and numerous watchtowers would be erected, so that if a blaze did break out it would be noticed, and then isolated, quickly. This way, these “flowers of Edo” could be more easily nipped at the bud.

Even before the great Meireki fire, the Tokugawa required all daimyo to organize fire brigades (hikeshi) that would operate on a rotating basis, following the Okecho fire of 1641.[7] Needless to say, the great fire of 1657 proved these daimyo brigades inadequate in dealing with blazes on a large scale, so the government organized additional brigades that would be directed by retainers.

The first brigades responded only to blazes in and around the areas where the city officials resided. If a fire were to break out in the Low City, where most of the commoners lived, the firefighting brigades of the elite were not ordered to assist in extinguishing the flames. For this reason, the city commission developed even more brigades to protect the people and property in those areas.

Firefighting techniques in Edo usually consisted of fire isolation. Neighboring homes would be torn down to create a fire break in the immediate vicinity of a blaze. They also used manually-operated wooden water-pumps, which produced just enough water to wet the roofs of the surrounding structures, so that they wood be less likely to add fuel to the flames.

Highly revered in popular Edo culture, the firefighters themselves (gaen) were usually rowdy, young and energetic men from the lower classes, that were esteemed with a certain degree of courage and recklessness, which was implicitly necessary for the operation fire control in a mostly wooden city.[8]

The different brigades (hikeshi) were known for their rivalry amongst competing factions from other districts. Fistfights among them were not uncommon.

These firefighters shared a strong group mentality and expressed it in a number of ways, including traditional Japanese tattoos (horimono), as a display of masculinity and solidarity amongst comrades.[9]

The Wilt of the Tokugawa Regime

Tokugawa government could not sustain itself, nor its original codes of conduct and social control forever, not only because the warrior leader was not very highly revered after a couple hundred years of peace. The times were changing again, and the people of Edo, as well as many other parts of Japan, were growing tired of the out-dated administration.

The 15^th shogun, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, lived in Kyoto while mass rebellion began to blossom in Edo.[10]

Early in 1868, Tokugawa forces were defeated in the first battle of the Boshin War, and by the time of the massacre of his loyalist’s armies at Ueno in 1868, the shift was very clear. Actually and metaphorically, it was mostly a battle between swords and guns. The Tokugawa shogun had lost.

In 1869, the young emperor Meiji came to Edo to re-situate his administration, and secure its control over the country’s most burgeoning city. By this time, the “flowers of Edo,” as well as the influences of the west, were both well on their way to becoming the blooms of Tokyo modernity.

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[1] Seidensticker, Edward. Low City, High City . 1st . New York : Knopf, 1983.

[2] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

[3] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

[4] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

[5] Shimbun, Yomiuri. "Access My Library." www.accessmylibrary.com. 13 November 2003. 13 March 2007 .

[6] Stevenson , John . One Hundred Aspects of the Moon . Leiden Netherlands: Hotei Publishing , 2001.

[7] Kido, Okamoto. "Hanshichi Torimonocho." Japnese Lterature Publishing Project. 14 Mar 2007 .

[8] Kido, Okamoto. "Hanshichi Torimonocho." Japnese Lterature Publishing Project. 14 Mar 2007 .

[9] Stevenson , John . One Hundred Aspects of the Moon . Leiden Netherlands: Hotei Publishing , 2001.

[10] Naito , Akira. Edo, the city that Became Tokyo: an Illustrated History. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 2003.

Times

Throughout our own histories, there are a number of pivotal moments that help each of us to define ourselves, both in terms of our past identities and those of our futures. Group identities are formed when a number of people share an experience, geography, or ethnicity, creating a unified psychographic which is integral to the coherency of any given society. Each of us has our own interpretation of that identity.

My experience with earthquakes seemed pretty sheltered until October 17^th 1989.

I’ll never forget it.

My friend and I were playing Nintendo on one TV and watching the ‘Battle of the Bay’ World Series on the other. My mother was cutting hair in her make-shift salon in the laundry room of our 1-bedroom duplex in Redwood City, CA. It was 5:04 PM.

It came all of a sudden. It was like I heard it coming. I dropped my video game-

controller, sprang to my feet and shouted ‘it’s an earthquake’ almost before the floors of my home started trembling beneath my feet. I braced myself within the closest doorway.

When my mother came running over with her apron on and everything, towing her client in full perm-dress and smock, and my friend and 5-year-old brother started approaching, I realized we were all seeking refuge under the same door way.

We just huddled there as our home was shaking violently around us. Things were falling. Things were breaking. We were freaking out. It was crazy.

When it all stopped, the first thing we did was turn to each other, and then the TV.

The only network news we could actually tune-in to, with our little ‘bunny-ear’ antenna receiver, was running its station on generator-power. They were reporting heavy damage as well as power outages all over the bay area, on channel 7 ABC News, shortly after the 6.9 Mw (moment magnitude scale) quake and its minor aftershocks struck.

This was the first major earthquake in the San Francisco Bay Area since 1906. According to the University of California at Berkeley Seismological Lab[1], it caused 63 deaths, 3,797 reported injuries and close to $6 billion in damages, making it the most costly natural disaster in United States history at that time. The rumble itself lasted only 15 seconds.

In Chapter 5 of A History of News, Mitchell Stephens writes: “Societies depend for their unity and coherence on a sense of group identity. A group identity can be forged by geography, ethnicity or shared experiences.’’

We, as an identity group, forged by our shared geography, and consequential experience, have many different memories of that day, and timeless little stories to tell.

Most of us who experienced the great quake of 89’ remember exactly where we were when that big one hit, and exactly what we were doing. We all share a certain definition of ‘our’ natural disaster, and how ‘mother nature’ pertains to catastrophe in our little cities by the bay.

I was fixing a sandwich, almost 10-years later, in the kitchen of my then girlfriend’s messy 1-bedroom apartment. It was ‘4/20’ (April 20^th), the day that all of my stoner friends and I would celebrate our love of marijuana with a trip to Golden Gate Park for yet another ad-hoc gathering of pot-heads. It’s an annual thing.

In 1999, however, the date took on another meaning for me.

My girlfriend called me back into the living room and pointed to the TV set. I just remember thinking: ‘Oh my god! That is Terrible! What a buzz-kill!’

A couple of teenagers, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, went and had a shooting spree at their high school in Jefferson County, CO.

After their homemade bombs failed to detonate and explode in the cafeteria during lunchtime, according to Slate[2], they shot and killed 12 of their fellow students and a teacher, leaving 24 others wounded before finally committing suicide in the library of Columbine High School.

Aside from being utterly heartbroken for the families of the students that were killed in this massacre, I felt angry at the parents of these psychopath youngsters for not paying close enough attention to the activities that developed under their roofs.

I remember being concerned for my own family, and thinking about what kind of example I was setting for my younger brother. I realized that in this ‘crazy world’ we need to keep an eye on each other sometimes, as well as be there for each other when and before it really counts. I spent the rest of that day at home with my family.

The Columbine Massacre became a source of trepidation in people’s lives; just hearing about the event on television, and in the newspapers, caused moms everywhere to sweat in fear.

Because of Columbine, another one of my “group identities[3]” has been forged. Together, we are continually shocked at what the human being is capable of.

On October 30^th 2006, I flew out of the house, running late for my commute to class. I hollered ‘Bye Nonni’ on my way out the door.

Nonni (Italian for Grandma), who I had lived with since I was 13, was making pumpkin soup in the kitchen. It was the day before Halloween, her favorite holiday.

My long day at school ended with me listening to a voicemail from my mother, telling me to call her immediately because of a family emergency.

It turns out, while I was in class, my Nonni had been struck by a pickup truck while crossing the road, just blocks from our family home in Redwood City. She was pronounced dead the next morning at 2:00 AM, October 31^st 2006.

Until that day, she was a sprite and healthy 73-year-old woman. She has a whole lot of friends and family that love her. Hoards of people showed up at our house crying and offering support, neither of which really seemed to help matters much.

On the eve of her death, I spoke with a reporter from the Redwood City Daily News about my grandmother in great lengths. As a 1^st semester journalism student, I was dealing with news from the inside out, and for the first time. It was hard to do.

My entire family is devastated, having never dealt with death in such a tragic way. Together, we are trying to pick up the pieces and do what we can to make her proud.

By Mitchell Stephens’ definition of “group identity,” my family identity has been forged by an experience that has changed all of our lives, forever. Our identity, much like our Nonni, is truly preserved in our memories, aspirations and values.

News has not only kept me informed over the years, for better or for worse, but it has also carried the terms of my identity, as an individual, and as part of a larger group. For this reason alone, the news I seek should be consistently responsible, reasonable, thoughtful and fair, as any great society, and individual should be.

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[1] http://seismo.berkeley.edu/seismo/faq/1989_0.html

[2] http://slate.msn.com/id/2099203

[3] Mitchell Stephens. Chapter 5 of A History of News

SFC Graffiti: A Documented Legacy

Jeloe started appreciating graffiti in 1983. He and his father were leaving a San FranciscoCandlestick Park, on a bus headed home. At 5-years-old, he looked up, and on the roof of the bus he saw an entire world of colorful lettering and characters. His dad explained “tagging,” and that it was “wrong;” and also that people get away with it by just hitting anyone who gives them any lip. Jeloe remembers thinking: “cool…” 49ers game, at

Since then, Jeloe has become a recognized graffiti artist in the bay area, and all over the world. But San Francisco was his training grounds; his alma mater, if you will. He’ll never forget the graffiti scene that The City breathed for most of the last three decades. It was an open-minded melting pot of crafty colors, arrows and flow; moving doo-dads and bits blasting into a free-formation of art, birthed in the city by the bay, by way of paint and ink, and the minds of its young creators.

Like the city itself, San Francisco street art has transformed a lot over the last 25 years. Between 1993 and 2000, people from all over the world flocked there to do graffiti, and the scene they found was already in full bloom. The local styles became internationally known for their diversity and unique flare. The City was a serious Mecca for the art form. But things have changed. Harsh penalties keep only the heaviest risk takers active on the streets. It’s not what it once was. And it will never be that again.

“It’s in a stagnant phase now,” says Jeloe. “A lot of the people who were into it got pushed out because of the risk of catching a strike on your record. Some of the people with a lot less to lose stayed behind.”

Jeloe says there are still a lot of talented people grinding out graffiti in San Francisco, but a lot less than there used to be. It’s just a lot different now, he says; this was before the dot-com boom, and post-millennial gentrification set in. Nowadays, just about every piece of property is protected by some anti-graffiti watchdog.

“It was a fun and exciting place to be,” says Jeloe. “The schooling I got from paying attention to, and being a part of, what was going on there is priceless. You can go to DeVry or you can go to Harvard. For graffiti, San Francisco was Harvard.”

“But, I don’t have anything to show for it except my pictures and my words.”

Because of the inherently temporary nature of illegal graffiti, many artists photograph their work whenever possible. But gathering a comprehensive collection of media that truly illustrates San Francisco’s graffiti movement is not a task to be taken lightly, and especially not without the right connections.

Nic Hill’s film “Piece by Piece,” part of KQED’s “Truly CA” series of independent documentaries that showcase The Golden State, delves deep into this rich history alongside the people that lived it. Over 100 hours of interview and footage have been cohesively edited into a journey through art, culture and controversy. Piece by Piece is a living record of a time lost. It premiers Sunday night at 6:00 p.m. on KQED channel 9.

“The film offers a good opportunity to learn what the movement was all about,” says Hill. “It’s a celebration of the beauty of art that is gone forever, and the lives of the people who created street art in San Francisco.”

Hill says it’s more difficult than ever to do graffiti in San Francisco. Mayor Gavin Newsome’s zero tolerance position on graffiti has driven a lot of talented writers out of town, he said. And while new graffiti emerges almost every night, The City tries to paint over as much as possible, almost every day.

“The entire N Judah tunnel used to be covered with burners; it was like a preserved art gallery in there,” says Hill. “But about a year ago, the city painted over everything; and now anytime someone gets up, it gets covered up right away.”

“Graffiti is an important part of our society. It’s free artistic expression in a land of consumerism and big business control. It’s arguably the last form of free speech.”

Hill used to write graffiti in San Francisco, but found that his artistic expressions were not limited to that medium in particular.

“Graffiti was sort of a stepping stone for me,” says Hill. “I was really able to gravitate toward graffiti, and I got into filmmaking from there. It’s all about channeling creativity—there’s a similar connection.”

On Monday afternoons, Dave Warnke, a local street artist who recently “retired” to start a family, teaches high school students to look at their own graffiti a little bit differently. At Street Styles, an after school visual arts program at Root Division in San Francisco, teenagers explore the line, color and composition techniques used by popular graffiti artists and taggers.

“A vast majority of the kids are, or have been active vandals,” says Warnke. “The goal is to tunnel their interest in art into something more legal.”

Four years ago, Warnke created Street Styles to offer a class that he never had the opportunity to take. And by actively separating the art and the act, he helps students find a middle ground between graffiti and vandalism.

“Graffiti is very fashionable now, and accepted in the mainstream culture. It helps sell movies, clothes and even sodas. It’s getting more respect than ever, from the art world, but the act is still illegal.”

Warnke says the goal of Street Styles is to get young artists off the streets and away from other crime. He wants to teach them skills and create a positive safe place to create and share their work, with context. He helps them understand the concerns of property owners, as well as the laws and other risks associated with graffiti.

According to Warnke, The City’s Graffiti Advisory Board is getting increasingly “hardcore” about cleanup and punishment. He plans to meet with the board’s chairperson, Mohammed Nuru, this week to discuss graffiti issues, and to advocate on behalf of young graffiti artists like his students.

“These kids want to make art,” says Warnke. “Many cops, teachers and residents want to stop them. I want to be a bridge between those two warring factions.”

Nuru is also the Deputy Director of Operations with San Francisco’s Department of Public Works. Under his leadership, the 25-member Graffiti Advisory Board meets once a month at city hall to share information and advise the city on possible legislations and ordinances to abate illegal graffiti activity.

“Graffiti is not art. The main difference between graffiti and art is permission,” says Nuru. “There’s nothing good about going and defacing someone’s property.”

According to Nuru, the number of graffiti related arrests the city makes increases every year, and more often than not, the apprehended artists are from out of town.

“Our city is a destination for a lot of these vandals,” says Nuru. “We’re spending millions of dollars fighting graffiti, when we could be using that money to make the city more green and clean, and to help the homeless.”

Nuru says that the city is doing everything they can to arrest as many illegal graffiti artists as possible, and that they’ll follow up with prosecution. That can mean a minimum of 100 hours of community service, probation, curfews and restraining orders from certain parts of town, a year without a driver’s license; and even time in prison.

“This isn’t about us not accepting the art; it is how it’s done that’s the problem,” says Nuru. “Without permission, it’s completely unacceptable.”

In the early 1990s, with the closure of such legally overlooked graffiti venues as “Psycho City,” which was a series of empty lots on Market Street where artists threw up huge burners and tags in broad daylight, illegal street art exploded in San Francisco. This was when many young artists became overnight criminals.

The San Francisco Police Department states that up to $400 worth of graffiti damage is punishable by up to 1 year in jail and a $10,000 fine. More than $400 worth can be punished as a felony, even for minor, by up to 3 years in state prison and a fine of up to $50,000. Parents and guardians of minors arrested for writing graffiti can also be fined, and even jailed, for failing to supervise their children.

San Francisco residents are also being encouraged to help the city curb illegal street art on their own. The city offers its residents monetary compensation for anonymous tips leading to the conviction of anyone doing illegal graffiti in San Francisco. Other programs give local volunteers the ability to paint over street art themselves.

Merle Goldstone heads the Department of Public Works’ Graffiti Watch Program, through which residents are encouraged to adopt four city blocks where they would work to prevent and remove graffiti from public property.

“We notify private property owners of graffiti, and give our volunteers the training, supplies and permission to remove it from public property,” says Goldstone. “We want the city to look clean, and keep people feeling safe.”

But beyond the immanent threat of graffiti, and beyond cleanliness, there is also the soul of a city to worry about. There was a time when a local a grassroots art movement grew into a microcosmic legacy that is purely San Francisco. This was when tolerance and appreciation of abstract beauty seemed to take precedence over the status quo, and over urban development; before “quality of life issues” became such a high priority problem.

“When graffiti is done right, it’s a reminder of the liberality of the city, where there really is diversity and options,” says Jeloe. “Graffiti is physical proof that there are people who are deeply rooted in culture, and they’re not just sheep.”

Subculture City: Postmodern Youth in Tokyo

In the streets of Tokyo’s Harajuku district, Hitomi, 15, wears lime green knock-off Converse All-Stars that she customized with a handful of safety pins. An ankle bracelet of multi-colored plastic beads is wrapped around an orange sock, which overlaps her sky-blue fishnet leggings. She’s wearing a pair of day-glow trousers under her lacey silk skirt, and she has topped it all off with a shiny red sash. Her wrists and neck are buried under plastic-beaded bracelets and vintage–looking sweat bands. She wears huge plastic rings on every finger and her hair is ornamented with shiny patterned clips, colorful bits of string and fake flowers. Her sunglasses are disco-huge, and under her hot pink polyester jacket, her shirt reads: Fuck You.

Hitomi is one of thousands of young people in Tokyo just doing their thing. For many of them, identity and reality are exercised as freedoms of choice. Like most teens and young adults, they make friends by having similar choices in dress, behavior, outward appearance and places to hang out.

Throughout Japan’s capitol, individualistic youth are creating a variety of niche culture enclaves. These trend setting subculture style enthusiasts are constantly evolving to stay ahead of their own game, and have a sharp postmodern awareness of their own self-image and its flexibility. Youth subcultures have become an indispensable commodity to Tokyo, not only as tourist attractions, marketing opportunities and photo ops, but as living, breathing landmarks for many of the city’s most frequented metropolitan hubs and train stations.

In Tokyo’s dense urban cityscapes, high land and housing costs coerce many people to socialize outside of the home. Certain public transportation lines, and their respective stations, have become breeding grounds for group interaction. Fascination with urban youth and new technologies in Japan, has kept the media spotlight focused on the teenagers that congregate in and round Harajuku, Shinjuku and Akihabara stations.

Cognitive dress, language, sexuality, gender and spatial choices amongst these young people are balanced somewhere on an increasingly blurred line between fantasy and reality. Ironically, it is their collective individualism that allows us to classify them as part of one subculture group or another, but most of these kids want to put their own spin on whatever lifestyle they are a part of. That is why dress is often so important.

There is also a very accessible opportunity for Tokyo’s young people to engage in solicited sex to support their lifestyle choices and consumerism. It’s not always about fashion. But it is about lifestyle choices.

The D.I.Y. Fashion Fanatics and Cosplayers of Harajuku

Harajuku Train Station, just north of Shibuya on the Yamanote line, has become a cultural mecca for young people from all over Japan. Predominantly under 20, and varied in outward style, Tokyo’s trendiest flock to the Shibuya ward’s most frequented hot spots in droves, namely Takeshita Dori and its surrounding side streets. Some of them are make-it-yourself dressers, with a flared-out fashion-forward sense of personal statement embedded into their extravagantly stylish attire. Others let the costume they wear bring the fantasy character within them to life.

For years, hordes of Japanese teens have gathered in the Harajuku Station area every Sunday afternoon to partake in cosplay, which is short for costume play (kind of like how pokemon is short for pocket monsters). But more recently, just about any day in the Harajuku, you are sure to find numerous gatherings of Lolita (both sweet and gothic), Victorian maids, punk rockers and countless other characters from the fantasy, science fiction and modern worlds. Cosplay is truly a hobbyist phenomenon. Many participants strive to not only look like characters, but to actually become them in thoughts, words and actions—at least on a social level.

There are specialty stores all over Tokyo that specialize in cosplay attire, but the trendsetters make their own. The process of getting together the right fabric, patterns and amount of time necessary to bring an intricate costume to life, is as much part of the culture as wearing one. Some spend months making wings, prepping sheet metal for armor, collecting complicated patterns for sewing , buying beaded jewelry, specially dyed fabrics, leather belts and gloves, pleated skirts, as well as countless props and fake weapons that compliment their outfit.

Tokyo street fashion is far more radical than its counterparts in New York and Paris, but even with its daring and transformative flavor, there are still plenty of bandwagon participants. In order to separate themselves from their peers, trendsetting youngsters are always modifying their look. And as copy-cat kids from all over Tokyo and the rest of Japan start showing up in Harajuku looking just like they do, the originators switch-up quick, and the cycle repeats itself.

The Otaku of Akihabara

The Akiba experience begins as soon as you exit the Akihabara train station. Right across the street there is an eight-story building (Radio Kaikan) showcasing action figures, comics and model kits. Up and down Chuo Dori, you’ll find countless outlets selling manga, anime, erotic computer games and other techy wares. There’s also a slew of recently established cosplay cafes, where young maids and other fantasy characters cater to a mostly otaku (basically a geek) clientele. “Electric Town,” is Neo Tokyo: a place where private fantasy and obsession take over.

Historically a place to buy junk electronics, surveillance equipment and hacker software, Akihabara is now a bustling center of commerce, and home to another one of Tokyo’s most publicized commodities: Akiba-kei, otherwise known as the otaku. There is much debate about the actual origins and functionality of the word “otaku,” as its literal Japanese definition doesn’t put it into current context. It is said to mean “your house/family/side” and is quite formal, like something housewives might say when addressing one other. Whatever—an otaku in Tokyo today is basically a nerd, and the nerds are becoming more and more popular in the digital age. They are way more than into anime, manga, figurines, role play and video games—they completely obsess over that shit. And, and they’re often introverts.

Right when Japan’s bubble economy burst in the late ‘80s, anime and other otaku interests became one of the most popular Japanese exports. Inevitably, the commercial mentality of otaku culture became heavily researched and marketed. Today, otaku is considered to be one of the most important faces of Japanese postmodern society, and an indispensable force behind an estimated 19 billion dollar per year industry. Otaku have even been celebrated in Japanese TV series’, movies and music videos. However, they haven’t always been so well-liked.

In 1989, Tsutomu Miyazaki was arrested for kidnapping, raping and murdering three young girls. In his room, police found an abundance of pornographic anime videos and Lolicon manga. The nature of this crime, and the criminal’s interests, sparked national curiosity about what kind of lifestyle had created such a terrible human being, and as a result otaku were given a very very very bad rap. It wasn’t until otaku culture became indispensable as a marketing commodity, that the stigma began to unravel. There are still negative connotations in calling someone otaku (ota, for short), but it’s usually seen as sort of a term of endearment.

Otaku are predominantly young men, but they come in all ages and genders. Ladies tend to shop for their anime and manga outside of Akihabara, as otaku men and women prefer not to shop at the same stores. This way, gender reality does not interfere with the romantic fantasy world that a lot of anime and manga specialize in. Kei Books, only minutes away from JR Ikebukuro train station, is one hotspot for female otaku. There you’ll find plenty of comics about hunky men in odd uniforms, as well as “The Prince of Tennis—and other quintessentially ‘eastern’ studs.

Kabuki-cho and Easy Money for Tokyo’s Youth

Kabuki-cho is Tokyo’s biggest red light district. It is located southeast of Shinjuku Station in west-central Tokyo. There are an estimated 5,700 sex-related businesses in the 40,000 square meter area, and it’s work for more than 10,000 young women. In Kabuki-cho there are “clubs” and “cabaclas” where patrons can enjoy conversation (sometimes more) with a hostess or host, and there are the many massage parlors which distinguish themselves by the image of the girls that work there (school girl, college student, housewife, etc.), and usually all sorts of “massage” services are offered. But then there are “soap lands” and “image clubs” that offer full-service sex, often in erotically staged fetish-friendly environments.

Prostitution is illegal in Japan, but is only defined as coitus, leaving oral, anal and other sexual acts unaccounted for within the law. Furthermore, the legal age of consent for sex in Tokyo is only 13 years old, not 16 or 17, as is the law as in most other Japanese prefectures.

Mariko, 21, is a full time college student who was featured in an article published on SeekJapan.com. "I've been working part-time at an image club for about four months," she was reported as saying. "It's good money. For only one night a week I can earn more money than if I was working forty hours at Mister Donut, or some stupid job like that. At first I was nervous. I had to dress up in a school uniform, and men would come in and pretend like they were my teacher. It was kind of scary, but I got used to it after the first few times. The job's not so bad, plus it gives me a lot of time to meet my boyfriend. Please understand, I'm not a sukebe onna (a kinky girl). I'm futsu (an average girl).”

Thor Williamson, 26, who was born and raised in Hiroshima, but has lived in Tokyo since 1999, was featured in an article published on hirangatimes.com. His father is a former protestant missionary from Canada. Williamson wears Versace suits to work as a top-ranking host at Club Ai in Kabuki-cho, one of the best known host clubs in all of Japan. He says that the performance-based pay is great, and he’s averaging between 4 and 8 million yen a month. "Everything in this business is liquid," Williamson says. "You can be 20 years old and have 10 people working under you. You can't do that in regular Japanese business. This job takes everything out of perspective, so I try to keep perspective on life. A lot of what happens here is just fantasy.”

Thousands of young people in Tokyo have dabbled in Enjo kosai, which is what authorities describe as compensated dating—marketing themselves to adults through internet sites and phone clubs, mostly to earn money for hobby expenses, as well as designer handbags and brand-name clothing. It usually doesn’t start as a chosen way of life, it’s just a quick way to make a lot of cash.

Kogal girls, often characterized by promiscuity and their distinctive tastes in fashion, music and language, have been frequently associated with enjo kosai as a means to pay for their exuberant lifestyle and attire. The look these girls go for is sort of like a twisted, sun-tanned valley girl— usually wearing platform boots, extremely short skirts and copious amounts of makeup, hair coloring, artificial suntan oil and designer accessories. Many kogals congregate in Ikebukuro because of its cheap karaoke, fast food, department stores, and proximity to Waseda University.

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Sal-on-site

Snip-snip...snip. A clump of clean wet hair rolls down the side of Gail’s shiny black apron and onto the white linoleum floor. Between sage green walls, her blades are hard at work.

The Salon at SRI is a one-woman operation. Gail Coffaro, 49, is an on-site hairstylist at SRI International (formerly known as Stanford Research Institute), in Menlo Park, California. Personality and perseverance keep her scissors a-snippin just inches away from some of the most scientifically productive brains in the world.

She pays no rent for her use of the salon, and passes the savings down to SRI’s workforce, her only clients. This unique situation is part of a growing trend that’s bringing service-related businesses on-site at many major workplaces. At a time when good benefits are becoming harder to provide, these services are very appealing to many Bay Area employers, and it costs them very little.

Industrial campuses are not usually situated very close to many commercial establishments. And local traffic, particularly in the Bay Area, can make leaving work to run errands very frustrating, especially for employers. On-site commercial services allow for more consistent productivity at the workplace, and help to create an interactive culture on-campus.

At SRI, there is a dentist that shows up and works out of his van every other week. A dry cleaning pick-up and delivery service comes twice a week, and their on-site masseuse is there Monday through Friday. Gail opens the salon on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Yahoo’s main complex in Sunnyvale, and Google’s in Mountain View, both employ similar services—but they both get the haircut bus. The Salon at SRI is a little different. It’s exclusively in-house, and it’s a real salon with all the usual trimmings.

Most appointments are scheduled well in advance. SRI employees call Gail directly on her cell phone, and some book several visits. Drop-ins are rare because her schedule is usually full, and her clientele doesn’t have time to wait around.

“It’s very important that I stay on schedule,” she says. "My customers are on their lunch-break, or taking time away from their business day to come see me.”

“I have to be totally on.”

Gail sees about the same number of women as men, but makes a lot more money doing color than cuts. On the high end, women get base color, highlights and cut for $140. Men get a cut for as low as $25; somewhere in between, Gail makes her living.

“It’s easy money,” she says. “But only because I love what I do.”

With 30 years of experience, Gail stays up on the latest trends by going to hair shows, looking at magazines and just paying attention to people. In 2004, she apprenticed with an Italian hairstylist who specializes in color chemistry and treatment.

Employee turnover makes keeping customers one of Gail’s biggest challenges. SRI's campus is completely private, so only current employees are allowed in the salon. Still, there are usually around 1500 heads on campus while Gail is there.

“People change jobs and there’s a lot of visiting researchers, but many of them still call me after they leave SRI,” she says. “I just do their hair in my salon at home; most of my people are very loyal to me.”

One time, a former SRI employee brought her senile mother in-law to see Gail at her home-salon in Redwood City. “The old woman kept asking: ‘Is she a nurse? Are you putting me back in the hospital?’” Gail explains. “We told her that I was just going to fix-up her hair, but she kept saying: ‘There’s nothing wrong my hair!’”

“Eventually we had to give up.”

Gail buys all of her own supplies. She also spends $35 a month on a million-dollar liability insurance policy. And fortunately, she has never had to use it.

Marketing is also tricky. One day Gail handed-out business cards in the cafeteria and got a huge reaction, but the “higher-ups” told her not to self-advertise at lunch. Since then, she’s been restricted to flyers on the bulletin board.

“Word-of-mouth is my best advertising,” she says.

Recently, Gail has been talking with Genentech and Lockheed Martin, who have expressed interest in her services. She has no intention of leaving the Salon at SRI, but is considering territorial expansion.

“I need another set of hands,” Gail says, showing off her color stained appendages. “I just don’t have time to train them as well as these.”

Head Tatts For Sure

Dan Renal, 27, sells expensive salon shoes at Stanford Shopping Center. At work, he wears hand-tailored suits and exotic leather oxfords. A pressed shirt and tie accentuate his dapper look, but the 11 tattoos underneath them do not.

Graveyard scenes, demons, pentagrams and upside-down crosses span across Renal’s arms, shoulders, back and chest. He says there’s more to come.

“Tattoos are the way that I express my inner demon,” says Renal, who likes to get drunk and listen to death metal when he’s not on the job. “I just like them because they’re sick.”

After getting his first tattoo 10 years ago, Renal became addicted to them. Now they are part of who he is.

“If it were up to me, I’d be completely covered, but I can’t because I have to work,” Renal says. “I’d have head tatts for sure.”

Nimby Neighbors Fight Institutional Creep in the Panhandle: Day School gets Shafted

On a sunny day in the North Panhandle neighborhood of San Francisco, Larry DeSpain is in the upstairs flat of his home at 911 Central St. His antique dining room table is covered with stacks of flyers, postcards, and other literature that promote a cause that he and his newly formed neighborhood group care very deeply about: stopping the San Francisco Day School from expanding its campus as they have proposed to.

San Francisco Day School at 350 Masonic Ave has plans to demolish a small Victorian building at 2130 Golden Gate Ave., which they had purchased in 2001, in order to construct a new science building with a 20-car parking garage in the basement. The addition would be a 2-story glass and steel building with a learning garden on the roof. The project would allow them to increase their enrollment cap from 400 to 430 students.

Several of the school’s neighbors are frustrated with the proposition and have combined their efforts to ensure that the expansion of the Day School does not compromise the residential quality, and quality of life, in the neighborhood. They call their alliance Neighbors United to Stop Day School Expansion, NUTSDE or simply Neighbors United for short.

“If we are going to take on the school, we are going to have to be a lot better organized, and use a lot of time and energy, and invest some money into the whole thing,” says Larry DeSpain of Neighbors United, standing over the pile of propaganda on his dining room table. “From buttons to T-shirts, we’re building a stronger case.”

DeSpain, who has lived at his residence for more than 30 years, says that he and several of his neighbors tried to prevent the school from even opening in 1985.

“If you live in this neighborhood, and you’re at home during the day, you pray for rain. You look forward to summer vacation and other school holidays when the children are not here because they scream” says DeSpain, who recently retired. “You go outside and it’s just constant screaming. The noise reverberates throughout the entire neighborhood.”

Nearly 300 residents in the North Panhandle neighborhood have signed petitions, and sent letters to the group, expressing support of Neighbors United’s position.

Carolyn Sasser, Business Manager at San Francisco Day School, says that the private K-8 is interested in the concerns of its neighbors.

“We went to meetings and worked with them to address their suggestions, and then all of a sudden they took a stance against our proposal,” says Sasser. “It’s been an uphill battle.”

Tom Stack, who lives 3-doors-down from the Day School, says that the expansion project will only make matters worse. Stack says that noise, traffic hazards, night-time light pollution, as well as obstruction of sunlight and views are just some of the problems that the Day School creates for its neighbors.

“They never addressed the existing problems,” says Stack, a member of Neighbors United.

With only 8 spaces of off-street parking on the Day School property, many parents resort to double-parking when picking up, or dropping off their children.

Michael Helquist, of the North of Panhandle Neighborhood Association, says that he has a big problem with the Day School’s parking situation, and that his driveway has been blocked on several occasions because of it.

“The Day School is located on a on a particular corner that has 2 major thoroughfares,” says Helquist referring to Masonic Avenue and Golden Gate Avenue. “Most of the kids that go there are not from the immediate neighborhood.”

Helquist says he is not opposed to expansion, or children, but would like to see San Francisco Day School design something that works for them, and for the neighborhood.

“I don’t like the idea of a massive block of a building in the neighborhood,” says Helquist. “Institutionalism changes how people see and relate to where they live.”

Marta Fry, a landscape architect who owns a home on Turk Street, right behind the Day School, says that their expansion proposition is unacceptable.

“I would like to see the school seriously reconsider its configuration and be more creative with the space they have,” says Fry. “They should stay within their own footprint.”

San Francisco Day School first proposed its expansion project to the San Francisco Planning Department February 15, 2005, says the school’s database manager Meredyth Skemp. At that time, they expected to have to wait through a lengthy environmental review process, but the Planning Department insisted that categorical exemption was the appropriate vehicle for them.

Categorical exemption (or Cat Ex) would require a non-extensive historical review of the building that the school plans to demolish in order to receive a conditional-use permit. Once permitted by the Planning Department, the school would be allowed to demolish the existing building at 2130 Golden Gate Ave., and use the space to expand their campus as planned.

Since then, San Francisco architect Joe Butler, of Little House Committee, has taken interest in the Day School’s 117-year-old Victorian. He met with Neighbors United earlier this year and they have since joined efforts to stop the Day School expansion project right in its tracks.

Butler has stopped numerous pre-1906 homes in San Francisco from being demolished by producing reports that illustrate their historical significance and appealing to the city’s Board of Supervisors, according to articles written by the San Francisco Examiner.

“The school needs to work within the law, and with its neighbors, to expand in a way that acknowledges both the history of the site and the needs of the community that they are a part of,” says Butler.

Neighbors United, through Butler, have contracted a secondary historical report on the building at 2130 Golden Gate Ave., and its immediate neighborhood. Butler submitted the report to the Board of Supervisors in an appeal last March.

In April, San Francisco Planning Department rescinded the Day School’s application for categorical exemption, stating that it is necessary to determine the historical significance of the property they plan to demolish, as well as its neighborhood.

“Now they are going to have to hire a consultant and do an EIR (environmental investigative review) that concentrates on historical relevance,” says Mary Woods of the San Francisco Planning Department. “This is going to set them back at least a year.”

While Larry DeSpain says Neighbors United is going to celebrate the Planning Department’s decision, Carolyn Sasser says that the Day School faculty is busy wrapping up the academic year and appointing a new Head of School.

Sasser says that the San Francisco Day School is very disappointed by the decision. She is not sure when, or how, they will resume their expansion efforts.

“Do we take a step back?” says Sasser. “Right now we just don’t know.”