In 1994 my Mother brought my nephew and niece out for a visit. They were 12 and 10. I did my best to plan an aggressive itinerary that included Ghirardelli Sundaes, Tommy at the Opera House, a Giants Game, Golden Gate Park, the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, and row boats on Lake Merritt. None of those made the top of their favorites list.
They loved the glass elevators at the St. Francis and the Fairmont. They were easy to access at the time, no security, and free. We rode them repeatedly, whenever we were close by.
Of everything we did, however, they were obsessed with my trash chute. They just couldn’t get over this ancient technology. There was intense bickering over whose turn it was whenever the trash can was full. Then they would invent reasons why certain items had to be thrown out immediately and couldn’t wait.
Had I known these things in advance I could have saved a lot of money. I just hope the Mayor’s office is following my blog and are figuring out a way to commercialize these experiences. It’s not like them to miss any untapped tourist revenue.
Today I pdf-ed some documents to my attorney. Otherwise, all quiet on the eviction front.
I was back east and couldn’t attend the World Series parade on Friday. I’m extremely bummed I missed my shot at a pair of Mad Bum jockeys.
These championship celebrations always remind me of the best one: the first Super Bowl win. What helped make that one so great was, after years of mediocrity or worse, it was so unexpected.
I watched halfheartedly the first part of that season since the Niners always fizzled out in the end. As they kept winning I started talking them up to David on our Sunday evening trips to the Midnight Sun. He didn’t care about sports but as momentum built he sensed a moment in history and became a fan.
After the Clark catch we wondered where we would watch the Super Bowl. We wanted to be out in public but the only gay venue with large screen television was the Sun. Gay men were apathetic sports fans at the time, we weren’t sure they’d even show it. We took our chances and went over to the Castro at halftime. It was on and there was a decent crowd.
We drank Cape Cods because the color matched the Niner’s uniforms. After the thrilling victory David and I went out into the street. The crowd of 50 began to grow exponentially. We went into the package liquor store for a pint of Hennessy, then into the Star Pharmacy for all the value packs of toilet paper we could carry. We started tp-ing the intersection. Soon the mob caught on and every available roll in the Castro was hanging on the cross-wires at 18th.
The crowd was now thousands deep. Cars couldn’t get through and Muni, though a little more persistent, gave up too. The driver on the last bus just stopped. He emptied everyone off, locked the doors and abandoned the vehicle.
The vacated bus was a challenge I couldn’t resist. I squeezed through the pneumatic doors and started dancing alone up and down the aisle. The crowd rocked it back and forth. I sat at the controls and got the wipers going. Then the lights flashing and plenty of horn. I realized it was electric and didn’t need a key so I started it and put it in gear. It lunged about 2 feet. I thought “danger zone: drunk, thousands of people, heavy equipment–not good.” I shut it off, opened the doors and the masses streamed on.
David and I went on to other neighborhood celebrations like the bonfires in the Mission and the Broadway crowd in North Beach. It was such an odd feeling, kids who would have beaten me up any other day of the year were high fiving and hugging me that night. The next morning we each woke up with one of those aluminum crowd control barricades in our apartments. We weren’t sure how they got there.
We told our friends about our wild night. David’s version, however, had more legs since he emphasized I “stole” a Muni bus. So effective was he that 20 years later people still asked me, “did you really steal that bus?” As if I’d taken it on the 49 mile scenic drive. I knew better than to trample on a good image, I would just shrug and smile.
Last year I finally asked David what he’d said. He replied sheepishly, “oh, that you drove it to the end of the block.”
I once told my friend Carl about my game day superstitions. Not watching a batter and the guy would get a clutch hit. Scrubbing the bathroom and the Niners would pull out a last-minute victory. He was skeptical, “you really think you have that much power?” Yes, I think I do.
I’ve lived in San Francisco for 42 years. Before I moved here neither the (San Francisco) Giants nor the 49ers had ever won a championship. In the past four decades we’ve won 5 Super Bowls and 3 World Series. If I lose my apartment in the City and am forced to move away, well………
For years San Francisco’s best kept secret was its summer weather comes in September and October. The tourists have since caught on. The Wal-Mart whales still show up in July in tank tops and cut offs. In the 56 degree fog they’re a sight that never ceases to amuse. But October is no longer our own private Idaho.
These warm Fall days always remind me of the Loma Prieta quake. With the World Series in town again those memories are reinforced.
In 1989 I left work at 5:00 hoping to get home in time for the opening game anthem, probably the most inspiring of all the anthem genres. I walked out, turned left on California Street and saw this cloud coming from the Fireman’s Fund building. I thought it was on fire so I crossed the street. In the middle of California I heard this horrid rumble beneath me. It was mortar dust not smoke coming from the brick building, we were having an earthquake.
I ran for cover under the metal canopy of a Wells Fargo ATM. I stood there with a dozen strangers waiting for it to end, focusing on the street light in front of me. It swayed endlessly in a 20 degree arc like an upside down pendulum. Then it stopped. We all stood there for a few seconds and I took off up the hill.
When I got to the top at Stockton and Pine I turned back to survey the scene. For all the chaos that was going on it seemed so still. The traffic lights were out but cars were observing the etiquette of four-way stops. The Financial District was being unusually un-type A, playing nice and cooperating.
I walked one more block and ran into a woman with a platinum helmet of hair. It was Ann Richards, the Texas State Treasurer. At the time she was best known for her keynote address at The Democratic Convention; a year later she would be elected Governor. It was just she and I alone on the corner of Pine and Powell. We looked at each other then moved on without saying a word.
When I got home my kitchen cabinet doors had all swung open and anything that had been on a south wall had fallen. Except for no power, the rest of the apartment was just as I left it.
I improvised a meal with my friends Jane and Walter from down the street. My gas stove seemed to be working so we risked another ham and eggs fire and grilled hot dogs. We didn’t think we could use the water. We drank our stashes of beer which we would have hated to lose to lack of refrigeration. They were supplemented with any other spirits we could find.
The next morning we walked around the ghost town of Union Square. There were no cell phones at the time and phone service was spotty so you had to kind of piece together what was going on with your friends. After 24 hours, unless you had heard someone was in trouble you assumed everyone was okay. There wasn’t much to do but wait and wonder.
Two days later we did hear of a friend whose house was on a slight 45 degree angle and had been condemned. Finally, something useful to do. David and I took his pick up and helped him move.
That night at 3 am I was awakened by my TV blaring and the lights coming on. It was over. Until the next time.
The City is abuzz with another World Series and it is fun to be here when that happens. I’ve been a baseball fan since Mazeroski’s home run broke my 10 year old heart. The national past time of my youth, however, probably doesn’t even beat out NASCAR these days. And Norman Rockwell images of little Johnny scrounging together $2 for bleacher seats have been replaced by ballparks filled with corporate expense accounts.
Today Johnny probably couldn’t afford the $82 seats, $50 parking, $19 crab cakes and $14 beers (if there is no pouilly fuisse to compliment the fish). And don’t forget the tiny container of flaccid garlic fries ($7). Those are regular season prices, who knows what they’re gouging fans for in the postseason.
I still enjoy the game though and will hang on every pitch in the Series. But because I cut the cable last spring I can’t watch it on TV (I was tired of paying $180 a month just for Fashion Police.) I will follow it on Yahoo Sports.
Yahoo’s primitive feed tells the story with minimal text and graphics. I like the moments when I hear the neighbors yell then ten seconds later I read what all the commotion was about. On the night they won the pennant I could tell from the noise on the street they’d done it. But it took almost 20 seconds before I read about Ishikawa’s walk off homer.
It’s made me realize that instant information really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It also reminds me of the ’85 season when they lost 100 games and I first became a Giants fan. Laid up with a bum ankle that summer, it was just the radio, the sparse play by play of Hank Greenwald, and my imagination.
Not having a TV or radio means I’ll miss the incessant analysis of Krick and Krup during the Series. It also means I can tune out the treacly human interest garbage that’s endemic in sports broadcasting.
The worst schmaltz offenders are the college announcers, like their pandering on the Penn State child molestation case. They are obsessed with the poor football players who are being penalized, “through no fault of their own,” because of the sanctions on their school. “No fault” other than that they chose a corrupt program that had been under suspicion for years.
They want us to feel bad for this bunch of late teen frat boys having the time of their life boozing and fornicating on campus. Sadly, they are being denied the opportunity to play a game. No mention on how we’re supposed to feel for the group of pubescent boys sexually molested by a member of the coaching staff. They carry a lifetime of emotional scars because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and ABC Sports looked the other way in support of a winning program and higher ratings.
When one of Bob Knight’s players was praising Jesus after a big win, proclaiming it God’s will, the Coach observed, “then God must have wanted the other team to lose.” If we were to adapt Knight’s thinking there is probably another side to the inspirational death interview that is a mainstay of sports programming.
“So your Dad recently died, how has that affected you?”
“Hasn’t really. He was a nasty drunk. Abusive to my Mom and us kids. Shot my dog on Christmas once.”
“Really? What’d he die of?”
“Cirrhosis. It was a slow, agonizing death. We watched him writhe in pain those final months. The screaming and obnoxious demands. Could barely stand to be around the jerk. We were all kind of relieved when it was over.”
“So no parting words from him, nothing inspiring to take away from it?”
“Wow. Sounds like a pretty selfish guy, thinking only of himself.”
“Looks like your record number of interceptions and poor performance this season can be attributed to your Dad’s cowardly death.”
“Only thing I can think of.”
“Hang in there, maybe someone you’re closer to will kick soon and get you back on track.”