The Last Day

I think that it’s fairly normal for people to develop a neighborhood bar, their meeting place, their hang out, their end up. I remember trying out a few places in San Francisco before its proximity to the office made the Crowbar the place of choice for awhile. I was smitten with the Hide Out on Nob Hill for a bit, but on my first few tempestuous years in the city it was The Last Day Saloon on Clement in the Inner Richmond that was home away from home.

I find it odd that this was the watering hole that we picked. We were living right next to SF State and the Inner Richmond, while not exactly a trip to Ohio, was a little far to go to get a drink. What is perhaps even more shocking was the complete lack of drinking establishments near a university. Not to exclude the Chevy’s at the Stonestown Mall of course.

The Last Day was a nice normal, neighborhood bar. There were big windows facing out to Clement that let in a lot of (typically foggy) light, so the place wasn’t nearly as dank as I tend to enjoy in a bar. There was a pool table and a jukebox, that I remember had a pretty good selection but all I can really remember was the Pulp Fiction soundtrack.

It was right across the street from Taiwan, so there was good, cheap food nearby. It was also close to the Coronet, so made for a pretty good place to pre funk before seeing the likes of The Matrix during it’s 8 ½ month run.

There was also an upstairs where bands would play. I remember the ceiling feeling remarkably close. I also remember seeing Dieselhed put on a damn good show there more than once. One of these nights included a blistering and immensely entertaining version of Pink Floyd’s “Time”.

But when I think back on those lost days at the Last Day, there are two occasions that really stick out. I remember sitting in the booth near the front window and looking across at Dave who had just shaved his head after years of wearing hair well past his shoulders. I could tell he was feeling a bit insecure without the protective sheath of curls. I kicked him lightly and told him softly to stop worrying, that he still looked cute with no hair. And he did… Incredible amounts of alcohol continued to flow.

I also remember the first night we met Sasha; Beth and I sitting in that same booth and splitting a to go carton Hot Sauce Noodles from across the street at Taiwan and sharing the secrets that a sparkling new couple shares. Later, Sasha would replay her first impression of us, splitting that Chinese food and occasionally looking at each other and smiling; she always said it was adorable. When I try to see it through her eyes, I bet that she’s correct, I bet we were adorable.

Eventually, Magnolia became our hang out, our end up. It solved the question of good food and great beer, and got about as close to a neighborhood bar as we got in the Haight. When I start to feel a little nostalgic about San Francisco, it’s typically for my people still there, for the Haight, for Magnolia. But the deeper, more fundamental sadness that comes with saying goodbye to place, or more accurately a time, comes from missing the Last Day, and Dave, and Sasha, the cheap Hot Sauce noodles and the Slurpee for dessert, the thrill from hearing the opening of Dick Dale’s “Misirlou” come through the jukebox. I miss the occasional quiet afternoon of driving up through the park, sipping a jack and coke, smoking generic cigarettes and playing a couple games of pool.

The last time I was in the city I noticed that The Last Day was no longer The Last Day. It had changed names, and as San Francisco was no longer home to me, it didn’t effect me greatly. But I do seem to remember feeling one of those sad little smiles find its way to my face.


Rocktober song of the day: “Thursday” by Morphine.