St. Pat's Only in San Fran celebration

Unlike most places where gays can't even be involved, i. e., New York, here they are the big guns. Get this, CHEER San Francisco, a lesbian, gay, bisexual and tranasgender cheerleading team was warmly welcomed by the audience.

Ed Jew

Ed is a San Francisco supervisor, like on the Town Council. He was elected in something of a fluke, rising from the pack with a new system in San Francisco called, ranked choice. I don't know exactly how it works, like voting for the three top choices and then each choice has some weight. Regardless, Ed became the winner. Part of his platform was the fact that San Francisco should concern itself with the business of running San Fran and not world events, i. e., impeaching the President and getting out of Iraq.

But, Ed doesn't want to take valuable time away from fixing pot holes, horrendous traffic, ripoff of its citizen with millions collected on parking tickets, on and on. Ed Jew says let's cut it out and get away from this idiocy of all these ridiculous pronouncements. And, does it escape anybody that this supervisor's name is Ed Jew. Is there anything more American than such a name and of all things, this all American named guy thinks San Francisco is silly.

THE PEOPLE YOU MEET IN HEAVEN

This is the title of a book or close. I often wonder: do those who die like in the same town, on the same day, etc. meet each other when they show up in Heaven. For instance, inSan Fran, two apparent real characters recently departed this AO (area of operations). Both appear to be quite unique; one a fireman and the other a burlesque performer. Will they meet in heaven? I think so.

The Burlesque Performer, Heather MacAllister's Obit caused me to smile--She created San Francisco's Big Burlesque and Fat Bottom Review to feature larger women. Sounds pretty courageous too. She was 38 and had ovarian cancer and chose to end her life through assisted suicide, surrounded by friends. Wow!

I have to believe that God wants people like Heather in heaven. Think about it and contrast Heather's decision to end her life her way with maybe someone you know: a person say, 90 years old, going to doctors, paying out all sorts of money to stay alive. Heather, age 38, chooses to go courageously into the "night."
Hhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

THE GAV STEPPED UP TO THE PLATE

I've always been a fan of our Mayor. He's young, handsome, articulate and not afraid to mix it up. A politician, of course, but way above most in my view. The only Mayor I like better is Carcetti(sp), on the HBO TV program, The Wire. The drama or maybe histrionics of the last day or so of the Mayor's indiscretion have given the newspapers and talk show hosts fuel for months to come. It is simply the way it is in our crazy culture, more so maybe here on the Left Coast. Unless you have been on another planet, (my niece who lives in Raleigh, N. C. called me about it before I had even started my day), you've read or heard about the GAV.

The Gav had a liaison with the wife of his former AID and good friend--now his former reelection campaign manager. It was brief--the wife actually worked in the Mayor's office too at the time. Had the Mayor figured out how to set this up to look bad, he could not have done a better job: a committee could not have. It happened maybe 18 months ago. The fling, affair, encounter, mess up, whatever, happened--let's call it life. But, the partner in the affair, as part of the 12 step program, in addressing her substance abuse problem, goes literal and tells her husband about the indiscretion. The husband goes into orbit, confronts Gav and resigns his position. The Mayor's good friends/staff (with friends like this, who needs enemies) leaks it. The news, talk show ranters, the press in general goes bananas and everybody has an opinion, including this blogger.

GAV STEPS UP TO THE PLATE. Had he been one of my favorite politicians, "the Bill" as in Clinton, he would have spun it: what is is?--exactly what do you mean: I did not have sex with that woman. (We believe you, Bill, oral sex is just 'play like')". My man, however, the Gav, stepped before the mike and said something like, "everything you've read is true. I am deeply sorry especially for the people that I've hurt and care about." I'm not sure that he said, "please forgive" me but it was implied. Then he disappeared into his office to go on with his life.

Way to go Mayor! People mess up. It is what we call being human. I feel so badly for all concerned. And, without judgement, I doubt seriously that confessing will bring the sort of relief that the 12 step programs promise. My experience is that it will not. The idea that confession is good for the soul is more a myth than reality. What usually happens is that innocent people are hurt. And, once the tale is told, there is no taking it back. Look at this case. The act had already been done, regardless of how it might be looked at: wrong, sad, lapse in judgement, adinfinitum: it was done. Sex is a powerful, unacknowledged aspect of our lives but it happens and in this case all admit passions got out of control. The next move was the aggrieved husband, once told, does the obvious thing: the result, he resigns his job. So, the question: who has benefitted? The Gav is our Mayor, popular, energetic and the poor husband is out of work. A big price.

And, we never know, in the great scheme of things, what it will bring? The mayor will survive it. And, we hope the other parties will too. God bless them all and us. Ain't life messy?

PARKING SCOFFLAWS

Scanning cameras find San Francisco parking scofflaws. Don't you love that word? There is something unseemly about this, regardless of the breaking of the law. As a guy who has been towed three times and pays parking tickets regularly, I can attest that this is not fun. Once I even beat the tow truck down and had to wait for an hour or so. Once I showed up as the tow truck guy was hooking it up and pleated--sorry about that. And, just for the record, I am no scofflaw, which means in San Fran parlance that one must have five tickets or more.

Get this: the city hauls in $85 mil each year from issuing parking tickets. According to the city, about 8,000 have accrued five or more tickets and are tagged as scofflaws. Sticking up for the scofflaws is a little like being against God or the Holy Spirit, afterall, the people are violating the law. They caught some guy with 13 unpaid tickets and booted his car. Now, I have seen the wretched boot, not on my car but on others and it tugs at my heart.

Catching the law breakers is not the end of the story. I've been down to the Department of Parking and Traffic to get my car. I can tell you there's not a lot of folks from Pacific Heights hanging out. While I am waiting to pay up, trust me, not a pretty sight. I saw two women crying, a couple of men cursing--the saddest had to be a young Hispanic guy who lacked $8 dollars to pay his fines. As he pleaded, I gave the bucks with a "forget it". You would have thought I presented a winning lottery ticket--had to have his truck to get to a job in Marin--a wife and three kids. I get it.

Before the city goes bragging about scarfing up the scofflaws, let's say that most are the working poor, not the Mercedes and Porsche types although there are a few: they got caught, pay their tickets and next case. Not so easy for most.

The infamous license plate scanner that catches the scofflaws is no discriminatory lout but for most, this is a serious and sad matter. We have a City with way too many cars. It is not a simple issue of minding the law. It is a problem that needs to be attacked with some innovative and creativity mentality and not a "gotcha" scofflaws.

THE MAYOR OF BERNAL HEIGHTS

WHAT MAKES A FAMILY

Today, I was reminded as I was reading the obituaries which is a sure sign of getting old, what relationships mean. The lead story in the obits was an individual who had died in one of the neighborhoods of the City. The obituary was glowing about who he was: the unofficial mayor of Bernal Heights. From comments of fellow merchants, his family, friends and especially his two daughters, you got the impression that here is a pretty remarkable individual and his absence from the earth is truly a loss. As the unofficial mayor of this incredibly eclectic neighborhood of San Fran, he will be missed.

The obit talked about his daughters and then said he had lived with his long time partner for the last several years. The partner had been ill for some time and the "mayor" had been a loving caretaker. Yes, gay. The obit listed his survivors and included his former wife. Since I don't know much of the story, I have to add my own lack of enlightenment but think this: regardless of how relationships turn, to allow them to change in beneficial ways surely seems to have happened here. Way to go. God bless all who will miss him. Thanks to him for the lesson left.

THE STREETERS

Streeter. This is a term I invented and can hardly wait to see if it becomes a part of the lexicon. I doubt it...what it means are those who hang out on the streets and most call them homeless. Homeless in our society means different things to different people and in different parts of the country. In San Fran, we have more "streeters" than truly chronic homeless.

I think the homeless can be divided into about three categories: the dopeheads who love hanging out on the streets, it is a lifestyle, a comraderie and works with their fogged up minds. Most have simply wasted their lives, plain and simple. The 2d group are those who are mentally challenged, for whatever reason. The "street" becomes a comfortable place for them. And, the third group and a much smaller one are the true homeless that can be helped. They need help in terms of having a roof over their heads, often they need assistance with their families--they are livng in cars and subsisting with various types of handouts. We need to be turning out attention to this group. The first two are mostly beyond help. (I didn't mean for this to be a serious piece)

I meet this "streeter" as I'm out running. He is pushing his cart, full of his earthly belongings. He fits in the second category, I think: somewhat mentally challenged but at the top of the rung, as he is humorous, talking to himself, maybe to me as we're waiting for a light to change. As we're standing there, a frail little woman crosses the street in front of us against the traffic. Her right arm is shaking in a pattern that is the result of maybe a stroke or something but very obvious that she is not quite with it. We are both watching her. He says to me, "she's going to get killed one of these days. I help her cross when I can but sometimes she just goes on her own." I was moved by his concern. Here's a "streeter" who somehow is compassionate, does what he can in his world. Those of us who go about our daily lives without a thought of this poor woman other than witnessing her travails can learn something here. I don't believe this sort of compassion should go unrewarded. I did what I could. I gave him a $20--one happy "streeter."

THE BIG O

I've been really bummed out for such a long time about the war in Iraq and here we go: an answer. I would put this in the category of "Only in San Fran." but the suggestion came from a couple sitting over in Marin in the hot tub (remember that movie). They are proposing that on December 22, the beginning of solstice, everybody take the time to make love and have the Big "O." I'm for it. I love this statement: "not to worry if you don't have a partner." Thanks for permission. Us Catholics or right wing fundamentalists have more than a healthy dose of guilt and need permission before we visit "mother thumb and her four sisters." I am slapping myself even as I write.

This movement is called, Global Orgasm for Peace. I'm serious, it was on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle which is the mainstream paper for the City. I loved it. Once you've committed, there's even a secret sign to show others that you plan to take part: Flash the universal "OK" sign and wink. Or, as it as been dubbed, "The O" sign.

Now, come on, this isn't just a crazy California idea even if it probably won't fly in Spartanburg, SC. Still, it seems to me that making love is surely better than making war. The two anti-war types, Donna Sheehan and her partner, Paul Reffel, are no strangers to the "movement." Or something akin to it: she and a few dozen best buds stripped naked and spelled out "peace" in a field in response to the War. These people are serious. I admit that I'm smiling. They feel that this has promise: high orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention may have a much greater effect than previous mass meditations and prayers. For us hanger ons, all we have to do is pick a time, a 24 hour period.

LOL but here's a last thing, Sheehan and Reffel are no spring chickens. So, we assume they are involved with the Big O and that alone is encouragement for us old geezers. More power to them.

The Haves and Have Nots

We all know this to be true. The rich get richer and the poor poorer. Bottom 90% of taxpayers made $28,355 or thereabouts last year. The top 1% of the American taxpayer made $940,441; the top 0.1% made $4,506,291.

OK, what does this mean? I don't have a clue other than when we come to new taxes, I like it when some politician says we are going to tax the wealthy. Why not, it is where the money is. Those who make the most money should pay the most taxes. It is a privilege for living in this great country. Arguments like opportunity, already paying a lot of taxes, etc., I don't want to hear it. My opinion. God bless us and God bless America.

Welcome Home

I just got back from a trip to the East Coast and then it was Welcome to San Fran: my car got towed and $345 later, I have it back. Welcome home. Oh well, life...it really was my fault. I left it on the street in a place I thought was safe from the ever present meter maid--I think that the only more prolific group than the meter maids in this town are lawyers. But, based on signs on the street, I just was not thinking, which is not all that unusual, since I am a self diagnosed ADD. Naturally, there's a law that you can't leave a car over 72 hours but who knows that. I was going out of town and had carefully selected a spot over on Pacific to leave my car for the time I was gone. The signs said no parking over three hours unless you have an F sticker. I did. But, foiled I was. The ever present car police gave me a warning that the car had to be moved and of course, I wasn't here to do it: once they give a warning, all I had to do was move it or somebody move it but I screwed up. But...what the hay! Before I found all the facts, I was determined to fight the injustice of it all. And, the fact that Frisco makes 2-5 mil a year on parking fees and I have been a substantial contributor, I get the picture.

Having a car in San Fran is a burden--the American way of having a car and practicality collide. There are way too many cars for the parking space in this City. So, what do you do? The City knows what to do--tow your car.

Sometimes I think living in San Fran is like living in a foreign country. And, I don't mean all the languages you hear spoken. If your folks are on the East Coast and you go go back with some regularity, then it means a flight of at least five hours, time changes, you name it. And, to get back and your car towed is like having insult added to injury. Oh well, how to make the best out of this?

OK, just be thankful that you can afford it is the first thing I tell myself. As my brother would say, it's like throwing money up a hog's rear. But, no choice. So, I've been through it before and so, I think I know what to do. I live out in Laurel Heights which is a nice little section, a little too yuppie for me but what the hay. I hop a bus. I never know where they're going only that they are moving in the direction of where I want to go. I plan to do some running anyway. It has been about a week since I've exercised and this is hardly getting ready for the marathon I'm bragging I'm going to do. The bus winds around, actually taking me closer to the objective. I get off on Van Ness and start jogging, not running: most a downward slope and when the light catches me I double over and end up going behind City Hall. Lo and behold, there's Willy Brown, former Mayor, state power broker and by most folk's measure, a crook but they always voted for him anyway. Well, crook may be a little harsh: wheeler dealer, appointing his friends and contributors to various political rewards, and always tough on his enemies. He was talking on his cell phone and I didn't stop for an autograph.

I finally made it to the traffic section. The wrong place: this is for paying traffic fines, the car retrieval is another story. Help. I have to run further, not even sure where it is. It is on Bryant street and I've been on the street lots of times. Afterall, this is only the fourth time I've had my car towed.

So, off and running again. Some guy stops me and wants to know where Brannon street is. He points in a direction and says, Bryant Street is that way but not sure about Brannon. I don't know but take his word for Bryant and out of there. Now, the neighborhood has "seeded" a little; a few more homeless, shotty types standing around. I finally make it. Go inside and it all comes back. The line is not so long on a Friday afternoon. However, all the folks in there are poor and struggling it appears to me. I remember my other visits and think to myself, "maybe the rich don't get towed." There's a tall black guy who is pleading his case to one of the three "bank teller types" who are "midgets" in the system. I could have told the guy, he is not going to get anywhere. From what I hear him saying, he's a musician and two of his instruments are in the car. He gets nowhere and so forks over his credit card which promply gets rejected. He snatches it back and storms out cursing. I don't blame him. He's probably a budding rapper.

At the next window is a young, fairly attractive girl who is using her Mother's credit car and has all the documentation that she is authorized. I think she's done this before. Thank the Lord for Moms. Her boyfriend keeps walking up to comfort or chastize her or something. They are both fairly well dressed. I wonder why he doesn't do the chivorous thing and pay it himself while telling her things are going to be alright. Oh well. They finally finished and next goes a young Latino guy with a baby. His wife is sitting down looking forlorn. He speaks to the bank teller person in Spanish. She calls over a translater and they start talking. I get my turn at the next teller and so the process begins. I plead my case slightly knowing it is to no avail. I hear the guy next to me getting excited in Spanish or at least I think so. On TV, they are so animated that sometimes I just watch, not understanding a word and wishing I could speak Spanish beyond ComesStat. I finally give up, fork over my credit card and silently curse. After I paid my fine, he stamps a bunch of papers and says, "I don't think you can get there before it closes." What! Isn't it just next door? I'm an experienced towee: no, my car is in the retrieval lot at 3d and 22nd, where ever that is. He gives me a little map and says they close in 30 minutes and if you could get a cab, no problem but it is three miles away. I calculate: three miles, that is three ten minute miles if I could do it. If I can't make it today, then I have to pick up my car on Saturday. Oh no! I take off running. I know I can do this, ten minute miles, give me a break! Should be a snap! I get lost, figure it out, about kill myself getting there. I try self hypnosis and pretend I am a soldier back in the 82d Airborne where we had to run four miles in 28 minutes. I haven't run in five days and now I'm killing myself. While I'm lost, I stop and asked an angry black kid. Don't have a clue why he is angry but all whites in general probably. No, "he don't know" where the impound lot is. I panic. Call on my cell phone. Thankfully somebody answers the phone and they tell me the address. I'm four blocks away and have five minutes to go. I take off and make it. It is nowhere around the address. I ask another guy who tried to help. He even asked his girlfriend: nobody has ever heard of it and then in a moment of resignation, I see a sign way down at the end of a large lot by the Bay. I charge out. It is the place and I've made it with two minutes to spare. But, they are closed. Help! A guy comes out and says they close at 4:45PM, not five. He must have seen the look on my face as I was about to drop over and he says I'll call my boss and see if he'll let you get your car. The boss says yes. The gods must have smiled on me. I go down to a lower level and can hardly believe it; there are acres of cars, as far as I can see. I give my paperwork to the nice Hispanic lady and she tells me to wait. I am not in the slightest impatient as I am so thankful to get my car. Finally, she calls me over and says to go in the warehouse and drive it out. I do and am so happy to have my car. It is like one of my children has been a hostage.