Sipping at St. Cyprian’s

As someone whose first – and one of very few – church experiences was a rural Mississippian Baptist revival, tongues-speaking and floor-writhings and all, I’m not one who habitually steps foot into a house of God. Tonight, though, I breathed deep and placed one foot in front of the other to head into St. Cyprian’s, a tiny, stained-glassy structure facing the USF campus.

St. Cyprian’s is a San Francisco kind of Jesus joint. And yeah, there’s a (small) crucifix at the altar, as well as pews and scripture. There’s also, on occasion, it turns out, beer in the basement, cookies in the corners, and a musical legend at the altar. Not only did I see Ramblin’ Jack Elliot tonight, maybe one of the oldest ex-buskers alive (the yodeling octegenarian, previously a rodeo cowboy who roadtripped with Woody Guthrie across the U.S. and is known for his neverending stories on various unrelated subjects), I got slowly drunk while doing so, nursing multiple beers so kindly provided for a minimal fee by a nice church lady. I was one of very few young people in attendance. This meant getting to hang out with guilty middle-aged smokers outside during intermission.

Cyprian’s, as they call it, is becoming a real-deal music venue, playing host to Grammy winners and small local acts alike. A big ol’ bluegrass festival is on the horizon, more strictly than hardly, from what I can tell. Keep an eye out. Instant friends abound, as does good, cheap beer.

St. Cyprian’s
2097 Turk St.
[NoPa]
www.stcyprianssf.org

Photo from St. Cyprians

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Lucy Schiller - Destitute Dispatcher

Lucy's been able to live lots of places but holds her cornfed/pie-fueled Midwestern roots most dear, maintaining too loudly and too often that the Outer Richmond is the Midwest of SF: driven through to get elsewhere and knocked around for no reason (but what other neighborhood has bison?!). You can find Lucy letting things languish in her fridge, purposefully (limoncello!) or not (yogurt...), mouthbreathing, scouring Golden Gate Park for apartment-worthy items, sleepily serving up double nonfat half-caf-half-non-caf lattes at a certain cafe, skulking in various other ones, and yelling under cover of night and costume at SF Bike Party.

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