Only a special kind of bar can prompt philosophical thought by its very name on the sign. In the case of "Pass Time," that question is: "Typo, or command?"

If it's a typo, one imagines what the intended spelling was, and the implications regarding the vision of the proprietors. "Pastime," as in, America's favorite, means one thing, while "Past Time" means another.

But the other possibility - that the sign contains no mis-spelling, and is indeed insisting that those who enter do so with the ambition of staying a while - is even more intriguing. After all, we still are not being told whether there is any sound reason to enter this place. Do I come in, sit at the bar, oder round after round, and content myself with "passing time" as you ordered me too, simply because I was already a little tipsy and kind of suggestible, so why not? Or is there something else on offer to make my extended stay worth it beyond pleasing your desire to dictate my destiny?

Or, does the philosophical enquiry go even deeper than that, with the sign uttering a metaphysical command to all who are conscious and may happen to read it, regardless of whether they enter the establishment beneath?

Remember the childhood game, Why-Are-You-Hitting-Yourself? The question is asked of the playground victim merely to add a little ironic humiliation to the pain, while using superior strength to wallop them with their own hand. It's pure cruelty, and yet it teaches the victim an important lesson, does it not? It teaches that often we are punished by malevolent forces beyond our control, forces which may taunt us as if we could act to make it not so. But we cannot. Perhaps the words above the entrance to the bar should read:

To all who see this sign, please understand that, as belligerent as it seems, there can be no such command as "pass time," for we all must. We are born, we pass time, and then we die. Oh, and if you try to come here to forget this truth, we won't make it easy for you.

Well, the time I passed at Pass Time did not entirely lack a sense of malevolence. Hernando, the older Colombian gentleman next to me at the bar, told me he'd gone to high school in Medellín with Pablo Escobar. I chose to believe this while looking at the many photos of the Three Stooges pinned up over the booze. I tried not to notice the toothless woman at the end of the bar laughing and screaming in Spanish.

I never shook the nagging mysteries of the name of this quintessential neighborhood dive, and in fact came to feel quite comfortable with them. The Cazadores burned in just the right way, and the sun set.

And as the bartender refilled my glass without a prompt, I thought I heard him ask, "Why are you hitting yourself?"

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In 1870, an enterprising English immigrant to San Francisco built a castle home on top of a secret cavern spring and used its cold, pure water to brew beer.

Albion Porter & Ale Brewery lasted until 1919 when Prohibition forced it to close. It was resurrected in 1928 as Albion Water Company, selling bottled water, which it did until 1947.

It was almost destroyed to make room for a freeway in 1961, but survived. It stands today on its original spot in Hunter's Point. The caverns still exist as well, and the spring generates 10,000 gallons of fresh water every day, which empties into the Bay. (The castle once served as the office for Laughing Squid's web hosting tech support crew.)

It went up for sale in September 2009 as a private residence for $2.9 million. Does anyone know its current status?

Here are some brand new photos of the caverns, posted to the Oakland Museum of California's Facebook page.

Info links: 1, 2, 3, 4

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Spotted at Bar on Church.

(Thanks, Gwen!)

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From the misspellings to the vintage sexism, this flier has it all.

Inside, on the night before Christmas Eve Eve, the 500 Club is feeling toasty and festive.

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I don't expect much of a Monday night.

But a friend was having a get together at Gestalt before returning to do the Lord's work in Africa, so I dragged my butt out. It was a crazy night. The high point was when we followed some bumping music to the above Airstream camper parked in front of DoubleDutch.

When security from DD tried to tell the silver-trailer-dweller to turn his music down, the response was not positive. "You don't come into my house and tell me how to live!" was part of the tirade.

The bouncer backed down.

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Some say Beauty Bar is super-douchey and should be shunned. I live equidistant between it and Bender's, and I have to say that the nights I've chosen Beauty have never been disappointing - rowdy, cheesy, caveman fun. I look forward to seeing how the remodeling turns out.

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As the appeal of overlit, overcool "dives" wanes for yours truly, unassuming neighborhood haunts like Mission Terrace's Spitfire Rose (allegedly named after the British WWII fighter plane) continue to fascinate.

The Yelp page has that enticing combo of mixed experiences and low review count that raises more questions than it answers. That's all it took for the SU Corps of Urban Drunkards (SUCUD) to go on its inaugural raid. More after the jump.


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It's only been the "Spitfire Rose" for a few years, but this bar has existed almost as long as the neighborhood has. GIs coming back from the Pacific theater after the Second World War, not content with their midwest hometowns, settled here and created a working-class neighborhood that still exists, despite the changing demographics (that means "Mexican" for those not paying attention) .

And while the name has changed ("Rob's," "Twilight"), one imagines not much else has. Sure, there's a newfangled internet jukebox, but those ain't flatscreen TVs broadcasting the NLCS, which i'm sure have been broadcast in the cozy tavern since back when Sandy Koufax was on the mound.

These days, owner Francisco Villalobos pours the drinks, seven days a week. He'll put Goldfish crackers in your bowl, whistle along to Santana, even warm you up a Cup O' Noodles in the microwave if you feel like the libation is getting the best of you.

The SUCUD team demanded heartier vittles, though, so Francisco tipped us off to another jewel of the neighborhood, Roxies Fine Foods, whereupon one could grab sangwiches which our host assured us were, despite our ignorance, famous.

Roxies is actually a pretty good emblem of the paradox of Mission Terrace. It's a bodega that would seem more appropriate to the more urban areas of the city, and yet a chain would be even LESS of a fit for this 'hood. And while there's a Popeye's not too far away on Mission Street, you kind of appreciate the impact of the city's intolerance for chains even more in areas like this, where there's not an army of white, privileged anti-colonialists to battle against such developments.

But compared to the picture of Roxies' owner above the counter, this is all trivia:

What would happen if Borat and Mr. Kotter cloned a baby together?

We returned to the Rose and to a disbelieving Francisco, who we guessed had assumed we weren't coming back to close our tab. But we settled in for more tequila-and-beer while eating our grub and making offhand earthquake contingency plans in tribute to the Loma Prieta anniversary. Francisco joined us for a shot and seemed to be getting into The Doors on the jukebox.

Later, waiting for the J-Church at the stop conveniently located across the street, we watched Francisco standing forlornly in the doorway looking out, and wondered about his working-class ethic and the viability of his working-class bar. Would it last?

We hoped so. It's good to know the Spitfire Rose is there.

Got drinking stories from your visits to Spitfire Rose? To the comments!

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It's hard to sympathize with iPhone thefts. Accounts like this don't help:

My first thought as you saddled up to the bar next us while we ate our dinner was, “Hmm odd couple”. A white woman with dark blond hair, relatively tall, in her mid to late 30s, and a short black man, in his mid to late 50s. The woman was wearing a black jacket, and the man was wearing what can only be described as an over-sized khaki “zoot suit”. But whatever, it’s San Francisco right?

But when it becomes clear that the victim is so utterly grief-stricken that they rally all their design-school skills to absolutely fucking guarantee that this never happens to another human being, with wonders like the drawing above...well, I come right back around to feeling their pain. (Almost - the thieves bought GROCERIES for christ sake.)

Oh, and by the way:

If anyone stumbles this pair casing other restaurants around town, please call the San Francisco police (553-1141) and leave a message for officer C. Leung #12281, with regard to case #091094361. Thanks.

But what's the number for the Fashion Police?

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I can only hope and pray that I'm reading this right. The fascist tactics of neo-Footloose killjoy cop James Dudley are finally being challenged the way they should be:

Performing on the steps of City Hall will be the Jazz Mafia, an acoustical jazz group. Performing inside City Hall will be the night life industry and their customers who too are citizens of this great urban metropolis.

The War on the War on Fun is about to enter its next phase. If any of you are planning to be at the hearing, please be sure send pics.

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Somewhere near Capp and 18th Streets.

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