MARNIE STERN

Ewok Lake, just south of the building where the sound for many of the greatest films ever was mixed and, in some cases, created.





San Francisco is a magnificent land. I’ve been here about six days, which turns out to be enough time to learn a lot about possibility. On a level that I don’t expect anyone to relate too, I feel that this so-called “big city” is a fully functioning wilderness. On a level that I expect everyone to relate to: I feel like an explorer.

Pre-August 1, I was coming down to SF too often to justify living 80 miles northeast. In May and June I started looking for a place to live. I found a great place north-of-the-Panhandle, near things like west-Golden Gate Park, Alamo Square Park (from Full House), Amoeba Records, etc. Here’s a google map of my new crib. Here's the Full House intro:

Sometimes we all wish we were Saget.

Coming to SF, I think that subconsciously I had a very specific goal: to never think, “this reminds me of my life in Sacramento.” That sentiment isn’t meant to burn Sacramento; it’s meant to motivate me. My last month in Sacramento was a thing of beauty, a coherent dream of staying occupied in fun ways. I lit screaming towers of cheap fireworks. I did the second Saturday Art Walk, weaving past skaters in the street, freestyling on the sidewalk, picking up free wine everywhere, and running into so many friends and strangers they became the same thing. I bought a new shirt with glasses on it. I went to a party with a bounce house and snow cones and face painting and popcorn. I ate at Zocalo and Paesano’s and Spataro, all of which I’ve been meaning to try forever. I ate at the Riverside Clubhouse, which rules. I finished the instrumentation for four new BRL songs. I did a lot of dancing. I threw a going-away dinner party and jello-party for myself. Those were delicious. I made a lot of new friends, I feel. In what is became a teary, work-stopping convocation of my time working for the State of California, the agency stopped for 30 minutes in my honor. It was beautiful. Then I quit my job.

And then I moved. I haven’t had a chance to look back, which is good, which is the point. Not wanting to have Sacramento-like experiences is a long-term thing, of course, and my six days of judgment might become irrelevant. I doubt that, though. These six days have been busy.

My first night in town involved heavy lifting and celebratory drinking. I’m not going to post some photo’s about my apartment when I get a camera and finish setting everything up. Jordan Bass, our friendship lasting half our lives, helped me move in. Mr. Bass and I cabbed to the Mission to a strange bar called The Uptown. I continued to drink scotch in a celebratory fashion while playing Simpson’s pinball.

At 11 pm I headed to Lazlow to meet Dave Smallen. Mr. Smallen’s friend Kite is a bartender, so a handshake and a smile earned me a night of free drinks. Mr. Kite dresses like Jack Sparrow and seemed to drink a shot of Fernet for every drink he poured Mr. Smallen. Around midnight Mr. Smallen turns away from a conversation he was having with Mr. Kite and another regular to ask me if I still had a car. Yeah, I said. Can you drive us to the Skywalker Ranch tomorrow so we can get a private tour, he asks. Yeah, I said.

On Thursday I woke up at 8 am. My new shower only stays warm for five minutes, which is the Cosmos’ way of telling me that I’ve spent enough time showering for a few lifetimes. I agree, Cosmos. Chill out.

I walked to the end of Haight Street, that famous bastion of Hippy-dom. It might be even more exciting without thousands of tourists and panhandlers. It’s nearly quiet, a chrysalis of the urban bazaar it becomes. I wrote in a Myspace bulletin: It's like watching history wake up.

I spent my morning at a place called Coffee To The People paying bills and applying to jobs. At 11:30 am Mr. Smallen called. We’re off to the Ranch.

At noon on my first day as a San Franciscan, I was rolling over the Golden Gate Bridge, clear sky above, the Pacific to the left, The Bay to my right, my home in the rearview and the future in front of me. I can’t remember if i said anything. It wasn’t a feeling that could have been justified in a dozen good songs.

Just before 1 pm we pulled up to 5858 Lucas Valley Road in Marin. George Lucas owns a valley. Mr. Kite introduces us to Brandon, a freelance sound engineer on assignment at Skywalker. He’s doing sound for an “indie” film (that MGM bought at Tribeca or something and is releasing on Valentine’s Day in 2,400 theaters). Mr. Brandon works on sound mixes of effects and dialogue and music for films like Borat and Requiem For A Dream. He gave us a tour of the engineering facilities, which were fucking awesome. After 2 pm we walked to the onsite cafe for lunch. To get to the cafe, you walk past Ewok Lake (no joke), the pool, the indoor basketball courts, and a bunch of deer and lizards. I had a bleu-cheese burger. And a plum grown on the Ranch. Best ten cents I’ve ever spent.

After lunch the tour continued to the "offices," which are in this enormous mansion on the property. In the hallways between the office-rooms, there was real memorabilia from some of Mr. Lucas’ lesser-known films like Indiana Jones and Star Wars. I got locked up looking at the actual Holy Grail from the Last Crusade, as well as the hat, the whip, and a very real lightsaber. There are real Norman Rockwell’s adorning the walls.

We thanked Mr. Brandon profusely. He’s a top-notch character. We gushed our way back over the Golden Gate, that same feeling of petrifying amazement momentarily distracting me from driving safely. I dropped of my compatriots and parked in the Mission. I walk into Mr. Bass’s office. His salutation comes in the form of a Budweiser, tossed from across the room. We leave around 7 pm to see an art show at 111 Minna, which is packed with at least 600 young-ish art appreciators. The show is in honor of the seven-and-a-half year anniversary of the website Fecal Face. I immediately run into, Jay Howell, one of my most favorite people ever. Mr. Howell is about to DJ. He has art in the show. Life is too good.

Jay Howell's really good art.

I ditched Mr. Bass and head to Bottom Of The Hill. I find Mr. Smallen reconnecting with our mutual old friend Heather Locklear. She lives in SF now. Our friend Anton Patzner is back for a week from his Bright Eye’s commitment. He performs with his band Judgment Day, the ingredients for which include violin, cello, drums, and metal. Mr. Smallen, Ms. Lockear and myself go to three more bars before I collapse into my bed. I saw the Holy Grail and Jay Howell and instrumental metal band. Was that a good day or a great life?

The Grail.

Only in SF could a Thursday that awesome be followed with a Friday of equal substance. I walked through the bustling Castro, getting lost every chance I got. Eventually, Mr. Bass takes me to a Mayan restaurant where they don’t have a liquor license yet so they “have” to give us free margaritas. Darn. We ate an entire snapper with our hands and teeth. What if our hands had teeth?

Then we went to two gallery openings in the Mission, picked up our friends Doug Rutsch and Chris Mcneill, then went back to Bottom Of The Hill, this time for the Crime In Choir, Sholi, and Marnie Stern show. That show is packed with familiar friends from college and Sacramento-life. What a night. Crime In Choir are off on this early-Floyd tip that totally works; Sholi are sounding great, though they played too long. Ms. Stern performed with Zach Hill (Hella) and Robbie Moncrief (The Advantage). She released one of my favorite recent albums and blew me away. We walked back to the Mission.

On Saturday Mr. Bass and his girl, Ms. Angela Petrella took me adventuring across town. We walked for five hours, stopping in boutiques, buying shirts and shoes and eating melon candies. Turns out when it comes to puffy jackets with furry hoods, I’m a triple-XL. Huh. Eventually we got dinner at the House Of Nanking, where food is ordered for you and it’s the best-tasting Chinese cuisine you’ve ever put through your culinary-analysis system. Then we drank hot-chocolate-and-brandy’s across the street. Then we regrouped, saw Egyptian Lover at Mezzanine and danced until 3:30 am at Mighty, where Juan Maclean was DJing.

I finally got to work on Sunday, before getting Indian pizza (even better than Nanking) and watching karaoke at Mint with the crew. I did more work on Monday, ate amazing Thai with Mr. Bass and Mr. Smallen, then went to Lipo Lounge in Chinatown to see our friend’s noise-rock band TITS, who sound like all the speakers are broken in the same way. Great DJ’s after the show.

Somehow, I still exist. I’m neither tired nor daunted. I’ve learned that the reaction known to mankind as “surprise” is just a waste of time, a way of getting older while accomplishing less. I’m staying lean by fitting more in. From here on out I’m in a constant state of eruption. I want to leave mineral baths and healthy soil in my wake, as it were.

I need a bed frame.

Video for the tuneful tune, "Every Single Line Means Something." Ms. Stern is about 86% this hot in real life.


Ms. Marnie Stern live.


The shred gods smileth.

BRILLIANT MP3's
(Click to download)

“Patterns On The Diamond Ceiling,” from the album In Advance Of The Broken Arm by Marnie Stern.
“Grapefruit,” from the album In Advance Of The Broken Arm by Marnie Stern.
“Absorb The Lipgloss (Lil Mama vs Marnie Stern),” from the mixtape The Hood Internet. Get this HERE.

MARNIE STERN on WIKIPEDIA.
MARNIE STERN on MYSPACE.
MARNIE STERN on LAST.FM.
MARNIE STERN on YOUTUBE.
MARNIE STERN on HYPEMACHINE.
MARNIE STERN on ELBO.WS.
MARNIE STERN'S LABEL.