An article on a Dutch news site highlighted a reporter's horrific experience at the Blair Victoria Hotel in London, which apparently was such a filthy hole that staying there might give you several diseases. At sixty pounds per night. The manager, a charming Pakistani gentleman of impeccable grace and courtesy, forcefully threw him and his cameraman out.
Now, years ago I lived in a residential hotel in North Beach, operated by a Muslim personage of East Indian extraction. Perhaps it was not the cleanest place in the world, but I have fond memories of that time.
And I will never speak ill of my amiable host, Abdullah.
He was a very tolerant man in a mad universe.
As well as equitable and calm.
A true gentleman.
Yet that article got me thinking. What is the worst hotel in San Francisco?
An internet search yielded a treasure trove.
Among the candidates:
The Europa Hotel
310 Columbus Ave, San Francisco, CA 94133.
The Renoir Hotel
45 McAllister St, San Francisco, CA 94102.
The Sonoma Inn
1485 Bush St, San Francisco, CA 94109.
Travelodge
1707 Market St, San Francisco, CA 94103.
The Best Hotel
162 Taylor St San Francisco, CA 94102.
Three of the five mentioned above appear to be closed now, but their owners/operators are probably still vending hospitality. Which in their case is misguided at best. Among the problems mentioned in great and eloquent detail on several different sites are bedbugs, drug use, sheer unmitigable filth that smelled bad and damned well made the dissatisfied customers heave or leave, dangerous wiring, sheets and carpets repossessed from a third world death camp, and crimes going on in the foyer or shared bathroom. As well as in the rooms next door.
Bedbugs, bedbugs, bedbugs!
There were an unbelievably huge number of other candidates, but I chose these five because they are known to me. The Europa Hotel is two blocks away from where I lived, and is still in business. The owners of one of the other places ate often at the Indian restaurant where I worked, and the neighborhoods of all of these lodgements are extremely familiar.
But I must stress that these are not the only ones.
The entire city has shitty hotels.
By the way, I would advise not staying in North Beach. After dark falls, the intersection of Broadway and Columbus attracts some rather skeevy types (perhaps they were asleep nearby during the day), several nightclubs are scarcely disguised sleaze pits, and the "hotels" in the neighborhood are between questionable and residential. The cleanest guests are probably programmers from South India lamenting their foolish decision to come to this town and work for starvation wages in the high-tech sweatshops of Internet Gulch. Peanuts, buggery, and barracoons.
There are also transient Europeans with lice and backpacks.
As well as a smorgasbord of drug addicts.
It's a full spectrum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label North Beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label North Beach. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 02, 2017
Saturday, July 27, 2013
WHAT DO OTHER PEOPLE DO ON FRIDAY AND SATURDAY NIGHT?
In San Francisco there are more-or-less two main types of folks, with a somewhat large number who do not fall into either category.
The largest segment of the population consists of young adults who go out on weekend evenings to over-indulge in everything which they denied themselves the rest of the week: sex, drugs, painfully loud music, and mediocre food masquerading as "cuisine".
[Please understand that "young adult" is a mindset rather than a narrow definition. It consists of desperadoes aged anywhere between late teens and early forties. Usually single, sometimes messily attached or involved. ]
The second main category are the folks who are or have "committed", with or without offspring. I do not know what you would call them, as the term "adult" is not all-inclusive. Not all of them are 'adult', some of them are amazingly child-like. What unites them is that they realize that they should be responsible. If not to themselves, at least partly to another person who relies on them in some way.
[This second group usually did not want to get so staid, but society and circumstance forced them, sometimes without them realizing that they were manipulated. ]
The remainder are probably more balanced than the two segments just described, and in any case happier. There is less pretense, and far less desperation. If they are attached, their companions are equally sane.
The first category parties in my neighborhood. Not all of them -- there are far too many -- but a large number of them. Early in the evening they may be lining their stomachs in preparation, several hours later some of them are doing the reverse. In between, various temporary connections were made and consummated, multiple beers where drunk, flavoured vodka cocktails flung back, body parts exposed to the elements, and much frenzied activity occurred.
The second category will have gone to a movie, or a bistro staffed by students from the "Academy of Art University". They spent a little more money than they felt comfortable wasting, but one or two after-dinner drinks later they realize it's all good, they don't have to work tomorrow, what the dog did in the kitchen can be rectified in the morning, and next weekend they'll skimp a bit.
I do not fall in either main category.
YOUTHFUL EXUBERANCE
During my late teenage years Friday and Saturday evenings were spent at the youth club on the Eindhovensche Weg, getting quite cheerful on multiple draughts of coffee or tea, smoking English pipe tobacco, and discussing politics with fellow students. The music was never too loud, and none of us could afford more than one or two bottles of Belgian Ale in any case. There was reading material on the premises.
[Long twilights marked by the aromas of autumn leaves, tannins, fermenting fruit, shag tobacco, and strong coffee. Often it rained; that added to the fragrance and the mood.]
No, I wasn't dating anyone in those years; all the nicest girls already had boyfriends, and one should not poach. I did mention that they were nice, did I not? Naturally they had attracted nice companions.
One rather has to be a gentleman in those circumstances.
I did not date until I returned to the U.S.
THE STUDENT YEARS
My early adult years were marked by severe fund-limitation. Consequently I spent a lot of time in book stores, often reading instead of buying. First in Berkeley, then for several years in San Francisco.
[In Berkeley the Caffe Mediterraneum was a favourite place for a while. It usually smelled of French cigarettes, and sometimes of patchouli. Early in the morning one could have hash browns, fried eggs, and hot sauce with one's cappuccino. North Beach in San Francisco was fragrant with coffee roasting at three separate places, and in Chinatown food and drink were affordable. The light is California is very different from Holland. It seems less intense, though often much brighter.]
If you asked me what I intended to do on Friday and Saturday evenings, my answer would probably have been "read, and swill a lot of coffee or tea". This could as easily be done at home, and society had already starting to frown on pipe tobacco, so there was precious little incentive to hang around much at the Caffe Trieste or the Roma.
Besides, those places were rather loud at night.
They still are. Seemingly more so.
A SETTLED PERIOD
For a number of years after work on Friday I would return home, and my companion and I would spend a quiet evening together after good food. After she fell asleep, I headed out to North Beach to enjoy a drink or two people-watching with a friend and colleague, while discussing books, languages, Monty Python, food, and politics.
On Saturday evenings I worked at the Indian restaurant and did not return till late. Perhaps with a quiet drink in the interval between closing out and coming home.
[North Beach and Polk Street. Hipsters, poets, and transgender working men. Cigar stores, and very happy people. Perhaps a bit too happy, even artificially so. The city does not smell of coffee at night, but our sewer system appears to be working.]
PRESENT LOOSE ENDS
Nowadays I take a long nap on Friday evenings, or doze while consciously dreaming. My previous companion is now just a good friend, and her life has separated quite considerably from mine. Around midnight I will still head over to the hill to meet my colleague, and we still discuss what we discuss. But many of the familiar places have disappeared, others have become louder and crazier over the years, and both of us wonder whether we should not change times and venues. Neither of us is fond of noise and public displays of stupidity.
[At the intersection of Broadway and Columbus many strange things may happen. The Tosca is currently being renovated, so we might sit upstairs at Vesuvio observing the suburban jugend acting out their fantasies in traffic or the high-legged trollops strolling up and down with purpose. Fog often swirls in from the avenues, further strengthening the perfume of a city perpetually in heat. It is colder at night than during the day, and in summer the days aren't very warm in any case. The tourists did not bring their sweaters, the smelly city is ours again.]
The Indian Restaurant no longer exists. Now on Saturday evenings I venture to a comfortable environment after dinner in Chinatown. Usually there are some friends there, and if there's no ball game on the idiot box many subjects can be discussed over cigars.
Well, their cigars; I'm still a pipe smoker.
And I would prefer a cup of tea.
[Dense fragrances from Brasil, Honduras, and Dominicana, faint hints of oaken casks and copper stills. Among the florals also the whisp of aged Virginia, or dark sooty Syrian. If it is early, the afternoon alcoholics may still be there, with their ciggies and depravity. But they will soon leave, they hear the siren sounds of pizza calling them. Occasionally refined young ladies stick their noses in, then scrunch up and persuade their young men to go elsewhere. It seems that adults are icky.]
Cigar smokers are mostly swillers of Bourbon and Brandy.
Pipe smokers are a very much more temperate lot.
And, unfortunately, somewhat alone.
North Beach is a dump.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The largest segment of the population consists of young adults who go out on weekend evenings to over-indulge in everything which they denied themselves the rest of the week: sex, drugs, painfully loud music, and mediocre food masquerading as "cuisine".
[Please understand that "young adult" is a mindset rather than a narrow definition. It consists of desperadoes aged anywhere between late teens and early forties. Usually single, sometimes messily attached or involved. ]
The second main category are the folks who are or have "committed", with or without offspring. I do not know what you would call them, as the term "adult" is not all-inclusive. Not all of them are 'adult', some of them are amazingly child-like. What unites them is that they realize that they should be responsible. If not to themselves, at least partly to another person who relies on them in some way.
[This second group usually did not want to get so staid, but society and circumstance forced them, sometimes without them realizing that they were manipulated. ]
The remainder are probably more balanced than the two segments just described, and in any case happier. There is less pretense, and far less desperation. If they are attached, their companions are equally sane.
The first category parties in my neighborhood. Not all of them -- there are far too many -- but a large number of them. Early in the evening they may be lining their stomachs in preparation, several hours later some of them are doing the reverse. In between, various temporary connections were made and consummated, multiple beers where drunk, flavoured vodka cocktails flung back, body parts exposed to the elements, and much frenzied activity occurred.
The second category will have gone to a movie, or a bistro staffed by students from the "Academy of Art University". They spent a little more money than they felt comfortable wasting, but one or two after-dinner drinks later they realize it's all good, they don't have to work tomorrow, what the dog did in the kitchen can be rectified in the morning, and next weekend they'll skimp a bit.
I do not fall in either main category.
YOUTHFUL EXUBERANCE
During my late teenage years Friday and Saturday evenings were spent at the youth club on the Eindhovensche Weg, getting quite cheerful on multiple draughts of coffee or tea, smoking English pipe tobacco, and discussing politics with fellow students. The music was never too loud, and none of us could afford more than one or two bottles of Belgian Ale in any case. There was reading material on the premises.
[Long twilights marked by the aromas of autumn leaves, tannins, fermenting fruit, shag tobacco, and strong coffee. Often it rained; that added to the fragrance and the mood.]
No, I wasn't dating anyone in those years; all the nicest girls already had boyfriends, and one should not poach. I did mention that they were nice, did I not? Naturally they had attracted nice companions.
One rather has to be a gentleman in those circumstances.
I did not date until I returned to the U.S.
THE STUDENT YEARS
My early adult years were marked by severe fund-limitation. Consequently I spent a lot of time in book stores, often reading instead of buying. First in Berkeley, then for several years in San Francisco.
[In Berkeley the Caffe Mediterraneum was a favourite place for a while. It usually smelled of French cigarettes, and sometimes of patchouli. Early in the morning one could have hash browns, fried eggs, and hot sauce with one's cappuccino. North Beach in San Francisco was fragrant with coffee roasting at three separate places, and in Chinatown food and drink were affordable. The light is California is very different from Holland. It seems less intense, though often much brighter.]
If you asked me what I intended to do on Friday and Saturday evenings, my answer would probably have been "read, and swill a lot of coffee or tea". This could as easily be done at home, and society had already starting to frown on pipe tobacco, so there was precious little incentive to hang around much at the Caffe Trieste or the Roma.
Besides, those places were rather loud at night.
They still are. Seemingly more so.
A SETTLED PERIOD
For a number of years after work on Friday I would return home, and my companion and I would spend a quiet evening together after good food. After she fell asleep, I headed out to North Beach to enjoy a drink or two people-watching with a friend and colleague, while discussing books, languages, Monty Python, food, and politics.
On Saturday evenings I worked at the Indian restaurant and did not return till late. Perhaps with a quiet drink in the interval between closing out and coming home.
[North Beach and Polk Street. Hipsters, poets, and transgender working men. Cigar stores, and very happy people. Perhaps a bit too happy, even artificially so. The city does not smell of coffee at night, but our sewer system appears to be working.]
PRESENT LOOSE ENDS
Nowadays I take a long nap on Friday evenings, or doze while consciously dreaming. My previous companion is now just a good friend, and her life has separated quite considerably from mine. Around midnight I will still head over to the hill to meet my colleague, and we still discuss what we discuss. But many of the familiar places have disappeared, others have become louder and crazier over the years, and both of us wonder whether we should not change times and venues. Neither of us is fond of noise and public displays of stupidity.
[At the intersection of Broadway and Columbus many strange things may happen. The Tosca is currently being renovated, so we might sit upstairs at Vesuvio observing the suburban jugend acting out their fantasies in traffic or the high-legged trollops strolling up and down with purpose. Fog often swirls in from the avenues, further strengthening the perfume of a city perpetually in heat. It is colder at night than during the day, and in summer the days aren't very warm in any case. The tourists did not bring their sweaters, the smelly city is ours again.]
The Indian Restaurant no longer exists. Now on Saturday evenings I venture to a comfortable environment after dinner in Chinatown. Usually there are some friends there, and if there's no ball game on the idiot box many subjects can be discussed over cigars.
Well, their cigars; I'm still a pipe smoker.
And I would prefer a cup of tea.
[Dense fragrances from Brasil, Honduras, and Dominicana, faint hints of oaken casks and copper stills. Among the florals also the whisp of aged Virginia, or dark sooty Syrian. If it is early, the afternoon alcoholics may still be there, with their ciggies and depravity. But they will soon leave, they hear the siren sounds of pizza calling them. Occasionally refined young ladies stick their noses in, then scrunch up and persuade their young men to go elsewhere. It seems that adults are icky.]
Cigar smokers are mostly swillers of Bourbon and Brandy.
Pipe smokers are a very much more temperate lot.
And, unfortunately, somewhat alone.
North Beach is a dump.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
WHERE IS THE NEAREST PASTRY?
Where does this blogger hide out on a day (such as this is) when there is nothing pressing that demands his attention? The question is better stated: where do badgers and weasels go in San Francisco, when they want to spend time either in contemplation OR watching people do interesting things?
There's a logic to posing it in animalistic terms.
Doing so rules out most of the obvious haunts. The Caffe Trieste is right out, as the clientele there after eight in the morning includes artistic types and poseurs. They probably wouldn't bother the badger in the corner, but the weasel would have one hell of a lousy time.
She'd be quietly trying to read at her table, with pen, notebook, and cappuccino at hand, when some oily nouveau beatnik of the rodent-persuasion would sidle up and hiss: "say, little girl (weasel), you sure are purdy...". She'd shake him off. "Go away, I'm trying to read!" This would not help. The rodent is an EXPERT in reading. He does it ALL the time. Why, as recently as yesterday he read a book!
Which he will then describe.
It's quite likely a dreadful tome, deep and meaningful, and written with sewer-rats like him in mind. There are long words in it. He looked them up, and will now proudly demonstrate their use. While, of course, attempting to make eye-contact.
Because really, a nice young feminine weasel is precisely what suits his fancy. He thinks they'd could be GOOD friends. And does she want to do lunch sometime? Can he get her another cup of coffee? Care to go somewhere where we can talk? Do you like steampunk? Acid rock?
Beastie Boyz?
At this point, there is a commotion in the corner. Mr. Badger, who had been trying to read 'Chinese Characters: Their Origin, Etymology, History, Classification, and Signification', by Dr. L. Wieger, has had enough. He gets up, slams his book shut, overturns his latte onto the artistic doodles that the rat left on the table when he headed over to bother the young lady (weasel), and on the way out, "accidentally" trips the rodent.
See? All of the coffee places in North Beach are off-limits.
Badgers and weasels suffer indignities there.
Euro-trash, artists, hippies.
Not worth it.
I know. I used to live there.
STOCKTON STREET, ALLEYS, AND PARKS
Often I will head over to Stockton Street in C'town for something to eat, then wander around a bit with pipe in mouth. I favour alleyways, because they are quiet, emptier, and rather wind-free. Chinatown has a number of very nice alleys, with interesting signs on both sides. Family associations, printers, herbalists, Buddhist religious supplies, and some Christian missions providing misguidement to the locals.
Tourists occasionally wander in and out, but as there is nothing to buy there, they seldom stay long. Instead they stride with purpose toward the fortune cookie factory which is mentioned in the guide-book, to immerse themselves for half an hour in the mysteries of making a flat sweet circular biscuit with a touch of vanilla flavouring which is still malleable when warm, and can be folded over a strip of paper with a truism on one side and six potential lottery numbers on the other. When it has cooled down (and lost some of its moisture while doing so), it will be crispy-crunchy and delicious, and may function as the capstone and dessert of a nutritious meal. Who knows.
Stranger things have happened.
Stockton Street is too busy. Alleyways are perfect.
Walter Lum Place, named after Walter Uriah Lum (1882-1961) is another favourite haunting spot. It runs alongside Portsmouth Square, which is often filled with old men playing chess. This blogger, being a pipe-smoker, and at that time usually in full fuming mode, is banned from that park. All smokers are banned. San Francisco wishes tobacco aficionados ill, and would like to exile them to the howling wilds. We resist. We lean over the railing and rudely puff whisps of Virginia at the sparrows, flycatchers, thrushes, and hummingbirds.
They do not notice.
"Hello, my little chickadee", I might say, playfully mis-identifying the avian-American in question, "do you mind if I smoke?". The bird does not answer, just looks at me funny. Then continues going about the business at hand (wing), which probably involves food.
Birds aren't tofu-snarfing wheatgerm freaks; they don't mind smoke.
They'd probably object fiercely to tofu, though.
Unless it was covered in meat.
[Walter U. Lum Place used to be called Faa Yuen Kok (花園角 "flower garden corner"), but was name-changed years ago to honour a Chinese American activist and scholar. The sign now reads: 林華耀街 ('lam wah-yiu kai').]
Down near the Pyramid there are also nice alleys. Commercial Street between Montgomery and Sansome, with old-fashioned park benches, Leidesdorf which cuts across Commercial halfway down the block, and on the other side of the Pyramid, Hotaling Place. For the benefit of smokers, there is a bench on Hotaling, right off Washington Street, with a witches' hat for your buts. After finishing my pipe I usually dump the neurotically folded-over pipe cleaners in it.
There used to be many more bookstores in the downtown, and they were always fun for hours of browsing. But strangely, their number has decreased, and their offerings now tend toward the pedestrian. Self-help and best-sellers just aren't very interesting. After finishing my smoke I might head down to Sue Bierman Park and Ferry Plaza, to listen to the parrots in the tall trees while waiting for the number one bus.
Especially if it's later in the afternoon.
Get on before it gets crowded.
The law-office mob.
I also like wandering around Nob Hill. Once the bus has reached Jones Street, I may disembark and light up another pipe. If the wind is too fierce there's no point lighting it till further down the slope, though.
Still. Few of the natives seem to mind if I smoke.
They would probably expect it of badgers.
As well as middle-aged dudes.
On a summer day.
Chinatown is good and safe for badgers and weasels.
The Financial District somewhat less so.
Northbeach is a foreign land.
Too many 'Beats'.
Bring on ursines and wolverines, we need predation.
It's time to eat the nuts & niks.
Smoke them out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There's a logic to posing it in animalistic terms.
Doing so rules out most of the obvious haunts. The Caffe Trieste is right out, as the clientele there after eight in the morning includes artistic types and poseurs. They probably wouldn't bother the badger in the corner, but the weasel would have one hell of a lousy time.
She'd be quietly trying to read at her table, with pen, notebook, and cappuccino at hand, when some oily nouveau beatnik of the rodent-persuasion would sidle up and hiss: "say, little girl (weasel), you sure are purdy...". She'd shake him off. "Go away, I'm trying to read!" This would not help. The rodent is an EXPERT in reading. He does it ALL the time. Why, as recently as yesterday he read a book!
Which he will then describe.
It's quite likely a dreadful tome, deep and meaningful, and written with sewer-rats like him in mind. There are long words in it. He looked them up, and will now proudly demonstrate their use. While, of course, attempting to make eye-contact.
Because really, a nice young feminine weasel is precisely what suits his fancy. He thinks they'd could be GOOD friends. And does she want to do lunch sometime? Can he get her another cup of coffee? Care to go somewhere where we can talk? Do you like steampunk? Acid rock?
Beastie Boyz?
At this point, there is a commotion in the corner. Mr. Badger, who had been trying to read 'Chinese Characters: Their Origin, Etymology, History, Classification, and Signification', by Dr. L. Wieger, has had enough. He gets up, slams his book shut, overturns his latte onto the artistic doodles that the rat left on the table when he headed over to bother the young lady (weasel), and on the way out, "accidentally" trips the rodent.
See? All of the coffee places in North Beach are off-limits.
Badgers and weasels suffer indignities there.
Euro-trash, artists, hippies.
Not worth it.
I know. I used to live there.
STOCKTON STREET, ALLEYS, AND PARKS
Often I will head over to Stockton Street in C'town for something to eat, then wander around a bit with pipe in mouth. I favour alleyways, because they are quiet, emptier, and rather wind-free. Chinatown has a number of very nice alleys, with interesting signs on both sides. Family associations, printers, herbalists, Buddhist religious supplies, and some Christian missions providing misguidement to the locals.
Tourists occasionally wander in and out, but as there is nothing to buy there, they seldom stay long. Instead they stride with purpose toward the fortune cookie factory which is mentioned in the guide-book, to immerse themselves for half an hour in the mysteries of making a flat sweet circular biscuit with a touch of vanilla flavouring which is still malleable when warm, and can be folded over a strip of paper with a truism on one side and six potential lottery numbers on the other. When it has cooled down (and lost some of its moisture while doing so), it will be crispy-crunchy and delicious, and may function as the capstone and dessert of a nutritious meal. Who knows.
Stranger things have happened.
Stockton Street is too busy. Alleyways are perfect.
Walter Lum Place, named after Walter Uriah Lum (1882-1961) is another favourite haunting spot. It runs alongside Portsmouth Square, which is often filled with old men playing chess. This blogger, being a pipe-smoker, and at that time usually in full fuming mode, is banned from that park. All smokers are banned. San Francisco wishes tobacco aficionados ill, and would like to exile them to the howling wilds. We resist. We lean over the railing and rudely puff whisps of Virginia at the sparrows, flycatchers, thrushes, and hummingbirds.
They do not notice.
"Hello, my little chickadee", I might say, playfully mis-identifying the avian-American in question, "do you mind if I smoke?". The bird does not answer, just looks at me funny. Then continues going about the business at hand (wing), which probably involves food.
Birds aren't tofu-snarfing wheatgerm freaks; they don't mind smoke.
They'd probably object fiercely to tofu, though.
Unless it was covered in meat.
[Walter U. Lum Place used to be called Faa Yuen Kok (花園角 "flower garden corner"), but was name-changed years ago to honour a Chinese American activist and scholar. The sign now reads: 林華耀街 ('lam wah-yiu kai').]
Down near the Pyramid there are also nice alleys. Commercial Street between Montgomery and Sansome, with old-fashioned park benches, Leidesdorf which cuts across Commercial halfway down the block, and on the other side of the Pyramid, Hotaling Place. For the benefit of smokers, there is a bench on Hotaling, right off Washington Street, with a witches' hat for your buts. After finishing my pipe I usually dump the neurotically folded-over pipe cleaners in it.
There used to be many more bookstores in the downtown, and they were always fun for hours of browsing. But strangely, their number has decreased, and their offerings now tend toward the pedestrian. Self-help and best-sellers just aren't very interesting. After finishing my smoke I might head down to Sue Bierman Park and Ferry Plaza, to listen to the parrots in the tall trees while waiting for the number one bus.
Especially if it's later in the afternoon.
Get on before it gets crowded.
The law-office mob.
I also like wandering around Nob Hill. Once the bus has reached Jones Street, I may disembark and light up another pipe. If the wind is too fierce there's no point lighting it till further down the slope, though.
Still. Few of the natives seem to mind if I smoke.
They would probably expect it of badgers.
As well as middle-aged dudes.
On a summer day.
Chinatown is good and safe for badgers and weasels.
The Financial District somewhat less so.
Northbeach is a foreign land.
Too many 'Beats'.
Bring on ursines and wolverines, we need predation.
It's time to eat the nuts & niks.
Smoke them out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 28, 2012
DON'T OFFEND THE RABBIT!
For some reason I myself don't understand, I went to have a caffeinated beverage at the Caffe Trieste in North Beach. And I'm glad I did.
Years ago I would go there nearly every day for a latte in the morning, because it was conveniently close and they really are the only place in San Francisco that can make a latte -- not entirely sure what all those other places do, but calling a mildly flavoured wussy warmed milk drink a latte does not make it so -- however I rarely visit the Trieste nowadays.
No, I still like the place. It's the customers that I object to.
I just don't have much tolerance for "artistic" types.
North Beach still has far too many of those.
It's a Bermuda Triangle of attitudes.
There were three other people sitting near me, two of whom were deep in conversation. The third was happily relating to her bunny rabbit, and studiously ignoring the adults.
Precisely that made me notice them. Cute little girl, big blue rabbit.
You don't often see a bunny rabbit wearing a ballerina dress.
"It's that place that used to do pies on Washington, you know, Sun Wah Kue. They do noodles now"
My ears perked up. The restaurant the woman mentioned happens to be a favourite lunch spot of mine - San Sun Restaurant. What had been there for many years was an old-time Chinatown standard that many people still remember.
Sun Wah Kue (新華僑餐廳) was famous for their orange pie, as well as fried chicken and daily lunchcounter-type specials. Their apple pie was probably the best in the city. You could sit there for hours drinking coffee and reading the newspapers on a wet day. Heaven.
Unfortunately they closed down a long time ago.
San Sun (三陽咖啡餐屋) moved into that location last year. They have an extensive menu, but what they do best is phở.
"Robert LIKES noodles!"
That was the little girl's first contribution to the conversation. The man looked startled, and said "her name is Robert? What kind of stupid name is that for a girl?!?"
It was probably the ballerina dress that confused him. Boys rarely wear those.
The little girl indignantly replied "Robert is a MAN!"
"Why is he wearing those clothes then?"
"They're nice!"
"Hah, he looks silly."
"NO HE DOESN'T!!!"
"Whatever."
The man and the woman continued their discussion, and the little girl again gave her full attention to her bunny. I could hear her murmuring, and even though I wasn't trying to listen in, I distinctly heard her extracting a promise from Robert that uncle George would NEVER get noodles again. Ever!
Especially not on Easter!
At this point I was fascinated. The idea that there is a big blue rabbit (in a ballerina dress) who goes around gifting noodles on Easter is enchanting.
Who wouldn't want festive pasta instead of eggs?
Boiled eggs, feh!
I was beginning to feel sorry for uncle George, who wasn't going to get anything at a time when everyone else would be enjoying their noodles.
Sometimes you just have to stare off into space while dawdling immensely over your hot beverage. Pretend like you aren't even aware of what's going on around you. Like a little girl assuring her bunny rabbit (Robert) that uncle George was, in all ways, a real "dick head".
"Melanie! Don't say such things!"
"It wasn't me, it was Robert!"
"One of these days I'm going to wash his mouth out with soap!"
"No noodles for you!"
The woman was completely nonplussed. Clearly she didn't know that her daughter's stuffed animal went around giving everyone noodles at Eastertime.
How ignorant can you get? I mean really!
After extracting a commitment from Melanie to NOT say THAT word again, even if she was 'quoting Robert', a very bad bunny by the way, she returned her attention to the man identified as 'uncle George'.
Who was still quite unaware that he wouldn't get noodles.
Probably because he's a dick head.
On the other hand, I'm looking forward to Easter.
I like noodles.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Years ago I would go there nearly every day for a latte in the morning, because it was conveniently close and they really are the only place in San Francisco that can make a latte -- not entirely sure what all those other places do, but calling a mildly flavoured wussy warmed milk drink a latte does not make it so -- however I rarely visit the Trieste nowadays.
No, I still like the place. It's the customers that I object to.
I just don't have much tolerance for "artistic" types.
North Beach still has far too many of those.
It's a Bermuda Triangle of attitudes.
There were three other people sitting near me, two of whom were deep in conversation. The third was happily relating to her bunny rabbit, and studiously ignoring the adults.
Precisely that made me notice them. Cute little girl, big blue rabbit.
You don't often see a bunny rabbit wearing a ballerina dress.
"It's that place that used to do pies on Washington, you know, Sun Wah Kue. They do noodles now"
My ears perked up. The restaurant the woman mentioned happens to be a favourite lunch spot of mine - San Sun Restaurant. What had been there for many years was an old-time Chinatown standard that many people still remember.
Sun Wah Kue (新華僑餐廳) was famous for their orange pie, as well as fried chicken and daily lunchcounter-type specials. Their apple pie was probably the best in the city. You could sit there for hours drinking coffee and reading the newspapers on a wet day. Heaven.
Unfortunately they closed down a long time ago.
San Sun (三陽咖啡餐屋) moved into that location last year. They have an extensive menu, but what they do best is phở.
"Robert LIKES noodles!"
That was the little girl's first contribution to the conversation. The man looked startled, and said "her name is Robert? What kind of stupid name is that for a girl?!?"
It was probably the ballerina dress that confused him. Boys rarely wear those.
The little girl indignantly replied "Robert is a MAN!"
"Why is he wearing those clothes then?"
"They're nice!"
"Hah, he looks silly."
"NO HE DOESN'T!!!"
"Whatever."
The man and the woman continued their discussion, and the little girl again gave her full attention to her bunny. I could hear her murmuring, and even though I wasn't trying to listen in, I distinctly heard her extracting a promise from Robert that uncle George would NEVER get noodles again. Ever!
Especially not on Easter!
At this point I was fascinated. The idea that there is a big blue rabbit (in a ballerina dress) who goes around gifting noodles on Easter is enchanting.
Who wouldn't want festive pasta instead of eggs?
Boiled eggs, feh!
I was beginning to feel sorry for uncle George, who wasn't going to get anything at a time when everyone else would be enjoying their noodles.
Sometimes you just have to stare off into space while dawdling immensely over your hot beverage. Pretend like you aren't even aware of what's going on around you. Like a little girl assuring her bunny rabbit (Robert) that uncle George was, in all ways, a real "dick head".
"Melanie! Don't say such things!"
"It wasn't me, it was Robert!"
"One of these days I'm going to wash his mouth out with soap!"
"No noodles for you!"
The woman was completely nonplussed. Clearly she didn't know that her daughter's stuffed animal went around giving everyone noodles at Eastertime.
How ignorant can you get? I mean really!
After extracting a commitment from Melanie to NOT say THAT word again, even if she was 'quoting Robert', a very bad bunny by the way, she returned her attention to the man identified as 'uncle George'.
Who was still quite unaware that he wouldn't get noodles.
Probably because he's a dick head.
On the other hand, I'm looking forward to Easter.
I like noodles.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
POEM ABOUT JACK
Jack is the last living Stalinist.
He infests North Beach, especially the Caffe Trieste and Specs.
Not quite self-hating, but very damned close.
Dysfunctional.
A professional beatnick.
Lousy poet.
Worse translator - I've seen what he's done to stuff by Jules Deelder.
Who, in mittn drinnen, I knew way before Jack had even heard of him.
A yutz, a noodge, and a nebbish mit oren.
Feel free to exclaim 'feh'.
Damn that's ugly facial hair!
I will not buy your rag.
Stop declaiming in French.
Espresso iz echt nisht proletarish.
***** ***** *****
NOTE: It should be fairly obvious to those in the know who the person might be who is lauded in this sonnet.
Ve hamayvin yayvin.
If you think this is horrible 'free-verse' (you get what you pay for), you should hear some of the crap that the residents of North Beach write. Beatnik was bad, antique beatnik is worse.
Most of them have not done an honest day's work in their lives, their hands are soft, and their backbones limp.
This is just an opinion. But it is an educated opinion.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He infests North Beach, especially the Caffe Trieste and Specs.
Not quite self-hating, but very damned close.
Dysfunctional.
A professional beatnick.
Lousy poet.
Worse translator - I've seen what he's done to stuff by Jules Deelder.
Who, in mittn drinnen, I knew way before Jack had even heard of him.
A yutz, a noodge, and a nebbish mit oren.
Feel free to exclaim 'feh'.
Damn that's ugly facial hair!
I will not buy your rag.
Stop declaiming in French.
Espresso iz echt nisht proletarish.
***** ***** *****
NOTE: It should be fairly obvious to those in the know who the person might be who is lauded in this sonnet.
Ve hamayvin yayvin.
If you think this is horrible 'free-verse' (you get what you pay for), you should hear some of the crap that the residents of North Beach write. Beatnik was bad, antique beatnik is worse.
Most of them have not done an honest day's work in their lives, their hands are soft, and their backbones limp.
This is just an opinion. But it is an educated opinion.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 08, 2010
THE ITALIAN PART OF CHINATOWN
There was a time when Chinatown ended at Broadway and North Beach began. Chinese-Americans who crossed that divide risked being beaten up by maladjusted Mediterraneans, and the Beatniks looked on approvingly.
By the Seventies, that was no longer so. For one thing, ideas in American society were changing (it was now the Hippie era), and for another the American-born Chinese saw no reason to let the old situation stand. If their country was sending them to Vietnam and expecting them to die for the flag, they were not going to be obedient little yellow men upon their return.
There were a few confrontations, and the situation resolved itself – an 'amicable' ceasefire between the two ethnicities ensued.
The only ones who were not entirely pleased were the Beatniks and Hippies, who regarded North Beach as their stomping ground.
NOT LIKE IT USED TO BE!
They were roundly ignored. The Chinese bought real-estate and slowly settled in the neighborhood. The Italians gradually moved to the suburbs – they no longer needed an enclave, it having been discovered at some point that they too, mirabile dictu, were white - as was their food! Hosanna!
By the eighties, North Beach was about thirty percent Chinese. The rest of the population consisted of some sour and elderly Italians, plus yuppies and immigrants from the oddest places.
Along with Beatniks and Hippies, who fondly spoke of the old days.
They were boring and repetitive.
By now the terms ‘Beatnik’ and ‘Hippie’ had expanded to include every type of Artistic or Bohemian loser in the book, as well as tarot-readers, blank-verse "poets", free-spirits, social dissidents, Jack Hirsch, punks, and spoiled brats far past their childhood.
Suffice to say that what they primarily had in common was a very white attitude, no matter their ethnic background (most of them actually were white), a sense of superior entitlement ("we are intellectuals!"), and drugs (pot, speed, and LSD).
As well as the highest incidence of psychological dysfunction and venereal disease in the city. In San Francisco, these things often go together.
The superiorly entitled (i.e.: 'Beatniks', and 'Hippies') lived in residential hotels. So did many Chinese immigrants, but not in the same hotels. There was a distinct sense of racial segregation - the Chinese immigrants did not wish to have addicts, pervs, and excons as neighbors; the drug-users, deviants, and criminally inclined were convinced the Chinese were filthy and didn't deserve to be in the same building.
And as long as everybody kept to their own hell-hole, everyone was happy.
Then in the mid-eighties everything started to fall apart.
THE CHINESE ARE COMING! THE CHINESE ARE COMING!
Two things happened. The strip (Broadway between Columbus and Montgomery) started changing. Restaurants closed, tit-shows and nightclubs no longer attracted the well-to-do from the suburbs, and the easy availability of porn videos meant that many of San Francisco's finest citizens finally realized that they didn't need to ogle strippers in sleazy dives.
At the same time, fears of the Communist takeover were prompting Hong Kong investors to pour money into the San Francisco real-estate market, and regular Hong Kong citizens moved over to the US in larger numbers than before.
Pretty soon the remaining Italians, and the Beatniks and Hippies, were complaining that all the places in North Beach were being bought by the Chinese.
'The Chinese are taking over. How dare they. It's unheard of!'
Tempers flared, and there was animus. The Chinese were seen as foreigners.
Never mind that the old Italians were the ones selling and retiring, or jacking up the rent on commercial locations and forcing out long-time tenants. Never mind that the Beatniks and Hippies did not contribute one iota to the neighborhood, and included more sex-criminals than a trailer park.
The Chinese, it was widely perceived and loudly opined, were a problem.
The Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, however was the death-knell of the old Italian neighborhood. The freeway that served both the Chinese and Italians was shut down, never to be used again. People who had driven in to both ethnic districts to buy old-country foods stopped coming.
The Italians, mostly, left. They were replaced by newer immigrants - not only a few from Italy, but also many from North Africa. Yes, some of the old cafes are still owned by Italians - the staff are largely Maghrebi. And the owners are often not the same Italians who started the place, but some Roman or Venetian newcomer who took over once the Sicilian and Calabrese founders retired.
The Chinese became the majority in North Beach, primarily because they did not have anywhere else to go.
Other than multitudes of European tourists, the main customers for the cafes and restaurants are local Chinese-Americans, and people from outside the neighborhood drinking in the colourful atmosphere.
Oh, and the Beatniks and Hippies. Who are now into cheap heroine and caffeinated beverages - the combo is better than a speedball.
Especially when you chase it with a Red Bull.
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES!
As they do in the Tenderloin, the Chinese north of Broadway retire to their dwellings at night, leaving the neighborhood to the other denizens. Who wants to hang around with drug users, degenerates, and people with attitude?
The atmosphere changes, the ambiance is different. It becomes another world entirely than it was during the day. The strip clubs and tit shows open their doors for business, the Beatniks and Hippies come out and howl in the streets.
Yes, the white folks are back, they actually never left.
It's like nothing ever changed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
By the Seventies, that was no longer so. For one thing, ideas in American society were changing (it was now the Hippie era), and for another the American-born Chinese saw no reason to let the old situation stand. If their country was sending them to Vietnam and expecting them to die for the flag, they were not going to be obedient little yellow men upon their return.
There were a few confrontations, and the situation resolved itself – an 'amicable' ceasefire between the two ethnicities ensued.
The only ones who were not entirely pleased were the Beatniks and Hippies, who regarded North Beach as their stomping ground.
NOT LIKE IT USED TO BE!
They were roundly ignored. The Chinese bought real-estate and slowly settled in the neighborhood. The Italians gradually moved to the suburbs – they no longer needed an enclave, it having been discovered at some point that they too, mirabile dictu, were white - as was their food! Hosanna!
By the eighties, North Beach was about thirty percent Chinese. The rest of the population consisted of some sour and elderly Italians, plus yuppies and immigrants from the oddest places.
Along with Beatniks and Hippies, who fondly spoke of the old days.
They were boring and repetitive.
By now the terms ‘Beatnik’ and ‘Hippie’ had expanded to include every type of Artistic or Bohemian loser in the book, as well as tarot-readers, blank-verse "poets", free-spirits, social dissidents, Jack Hirsch, punks, and spoiled brats far past their childhood.
Suffice to say that what they primarily had in common was a very white attitude, no matter their ethnic background (most of them actually were white), a sense of superior entitlement ("we are intellectuals!"), and drugs (pot, speed, and LSD).
As well as the highest incidence of psychological dysfunction and venereal disease in the city. In San Francisco, these things often go together.
The superiorly entitled (i.e.: 'Beatniks', and 'Hippies') lived in residential hotels. So did many Chinese immigrants, but not in the same hotels. There was a distinct sense of racial segregation - the Chinese immigrants did not wish to have addicts, pervs, and excons as neighbors; the drug-users, deviants, and criminally inclined were convinced the Chinese were filthy and didn't deserve to be in the same building.
And as long as everybody kept to their own hell-hole, everyone was happy.
Then in the mid-eighties everything started to fall apart.
THE CHINESE ARE COMING! THE CHINESE ARE COMING!
Two things happened. The strip (Broadway between Columbus and Montgomery) started changing. Restaurants closed, tit-shows and nightclubs no longer attracted the well-to-do from the suburbs, and the easy availability of porn videos meant that many of San Francisco's finest citizens finally realized that they didn't need to ogle strippers in sleazy dives.
At the same time, fears of the Communist takeover were prompting Hong Kong investors to pour money into the San Francisco real-estate market, and regular Hong Kong citizens moved over to the US in larger numbers than before.
Pretty soon the remaining Italians, and the Beatniks and Hippies, were complaining that all the places in North Beach were being bought by the Chinese.
'The Chinese are taking over. How dare they. It's unheard of!'
Tempers flared, and there was animus. The Chinese were seen as foreigners.
Never mind that the old Italians were the ones selling and retiring, or jacking up the rent on commercial locations and forcing out long-time tenants. Never mind that the Beatniks and Hippies did not contribute one iota to the neighborhood, and included more sex-criminals than a trailer park.
The Chinese, it was widely perceived and loudly opined, were a problem.
The Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, however was the death-knell of the old Italian neighborhood. The freeway that served both the Chinese and Italians was shut down, never to be used again. People who had driven in to both ethnic districts to buy old-country foods stopped coming.
The Italians, mostly, left. They were replaced by newer immigrants - not only a few from Italy, but also many from North Africa. Yes, some of the old cafes are still owned by Italians - the staff are largely Maghrebi. And the owners are often not the same Italians who started the place, but some Roman or Venetian newcomer who took over once the Sicilian and Calabrese founders retired.
The Chinese became the majority in North Beach, primarily because they did not have anywhere else to go.
Other than multitudes of European tourists, the main customers for the cafes and restaurants are local Chinese-Americans, and people from outside the neighborhood drinking in the colourful atmosphere.
Oh, and the Beatniks and Hippies. Who are now into cheap heroine and caffeinated beverages - the combo is better than a speedball.
Especially when you chase it with a Red Bull.
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES!
As they do in the Tenderloin, the Chinese north of Broadway retire to their dwellings at night, leaving the neighborhood to the other denizens. Who wants to hang around with drug users, degenerates, and people with attitude?
The atmosphere changes, the ambiance is different. It becomes another world entirely than it was during the day. The strip clubs and tit shows open their doors for business, the Beatniks and Hippies come out and howl in the streets.
Yes, the white folks are back, they actually never left.
It's like nothing ever changed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 27, 2009
I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM NOW
Savage Kitten, despite her many admirable qualities, does NOT grasp bathrooms. Every morning I give her fair warning that I will need to "wash" soon, so that she can go and do whatever it is that women do in there (dance widdershins around a tampon or commune with the spirits of their ancestors - I do not wish to know) before I need to use it. Once I'm in the bathroom, I will be occupying it for forty minutes.
A gentleman always gives a lady a last chance to pee - it is the gallant thing to do.
But once I'm in, I'm in.
She does not understand why it takes me forty minutes.
Well, shaving takes time. Bathing takes time. Nose and ear hair, ingrown hairs.......
Plus other things. Such as reading - I always take books in there with me. And cigars. And a hot cup of coffee.
She speculates that once I'm ensconced, I fade into a sweet sweet dream-state, and compose giddy little verses about the throne while moaning ecstatically. Or do a little happy dance in the nude.
To her the bathroom is a mere blip on the way to being ready for the world in the morning, and my dawdling baffles her. I know she is envious.
It's private time. Quality time. Smoke time. Reading time.
CONVERSATION
Often, while I'm "smoking", she will come outside the door to tell me something important, or talk about whatever just entered her mind. I'm a little deaf (and she is very soft-spoken), and I've got the bathroom heater going because I do not like to freeze my butt. Plus the door muffles sound too.
So the conversation, as I perceive it, goes something like this:
Savage Kitten: "Mumble mumble mumble MONKEY mumble mumble urrk."
Me: '...Uh huh.'
Savage Kitten: "Mumble mumble burble SHE SAID mumble mumble mumble HAMSTERS."
Me: '...Mmmmmm.'
Savage Kitten: "Grunt whisper burble hiccough DINNER squeak AIRTIGHT whistle snort?"
Me: '...Sounds nice.'
Fortunately she is convinced that I have pre-mature senility, so she will call me during the day to remind me that while I was in the loo I agreed to go to a seafood restaurant at exactly seven-thirty after meeting her in front of the North Beach Library while holding a trout.
EDUCATIONAL
I have learned a lot while in the bathroom.
To whit:
1. I can shave with either hand.
2. Cigars float.
3. Turning on the heater keeps the mirror from fogging up.
4. Ripping out ingrown hairs scars the legs.
5. Wear your reading glasses, or you will hit yourself in the face with the coffee cup and the hot coffee will spill into your lap.
6. Hot coffee is always too hot. Even when it's cold.
This morning I learned something new. Something I really wished I had understood before. It's a revelation! Useful and profound.
Azoy: If you're going to spray the black grot between the tiles with clorox cleaning solution, wait until you are finished with everything else - don't just reach down, grab the bottle, and spray away. While seated.
I also learned that I can shave while weeping, and shower with my eyes closed.
Two hours after I got to the office, I still smelled bleach.
The bathroom is a wonderful place. Some people just do not understand that.
A gentleman always gives a lady a last chance to pee - it is the gallant thing to do.
But once I'm in, I'm in.
She does not understand why it takes me forty minutes.
Well, shaving takes time. Bathing takes time. Nose and ear hair, ingrown hairs.......
Plus other things. Such as reading - I always take books in there with me. And cigars. And a hot cup of coffee.
She speculates that once I'm ensconced, I fade into a sweet sweet dream-state, and compose giddy little verses about the throne while moaning ecstatically. Or do a little happy dance in the nude.
To her the bathroom is a mere blip on the way to being ready for the world in the morning, and my dawdling baffles her. I know she is envious.
It's private time. Quality time. Smoke time. Reading time.
CONVERSATION
Often, while I'm "smoking", she will come outside the door to tell me something important, or talk about whatever just entered her mind. I'm a little deaf (and she is very soft-spoken), and I've got the bathroom heater going because I do not like to freeze my butt. Plus the door muffles sound too.
So the conversation, as I perceive it, goes something like this:
Savage Kitten: "Mumble mumble mumble MONKEY mumble mumble urrk."
Me: '...Uh huh.'
Savage Kitten: "Mumble mumble burble SHE SAID mumble mumble mumble HAMSTERS."
Me: '...Mmmmmm.'
Savage Kitten: "Grunt whisper burble hiccough DINNER squeak AIRTIGHT whistle snort?"
Me: '...Sounds nice.'
Fortunately she is convinced that I have pre-mature senility, so she will call me during the day to remind me that while I was in the loo I agreed to go to a seafood restaurant at exactly seven-thirty after meeting her in front of the North Beach Library while holding a trout.
EDUCATIONAL
I have learned a lot while in the bathroom.
To whit:
1. I can shave with either hand.
2. Cigars float.
3. Turning on the heater keeps the mirror from fogging up.
4. Ripping out ingrown hairs scars the legs.
5. Wear your reading glasses, or you will hit yourself in the face with the coffee cup and the hot coffee will spill into your lap.
6. Hot coffee is always too hot. Even when it's cold.
This morning I learned something new. Something I really wished I had understood before. It's a revelation! Useful and profound.
Azoy: If you're going to spray the black grot between the tiles with clorox cleaning solution, wait until you are finished with everything else - don't just reach down, grab the bottle, and spray away. While seated.
I also learned that I can shave while weeping, and shower with my eyes closed.
Two hours after I got to the office, I still smelled bleach.
The bathroom is a wonderful place. Some people just do not understand that.
Friday, January 30, 2009
I'M FULL OF SUGAR, NAKED, AND HAPPY!
Until the early nineties, I believed that all ex-marines were gay as a three dollar bill and mad as a hatter.
Now I know better.
GAY MARINES
The first ex-marine I met was 'The Venerable Rood', who lived four doors down on the same floor of a residential hotel as myself. Several years in the Marine Corps had left him with a taste for well-built men, stiff drinks, and tight leather pants. A plurality of all of these defined his life-style. Evenings, in his world, meant spanking. Which one could hear from any corner of the building. The tearful spankee would then be comforted with gin.
A year after that, when I was living in The Bachelors Quarters (a residential hotel for single men), I met G.R., and 'Bert and Ernie'.
Bert and Ernie had first known each other in the Marine Corps. When they got out they moved to San Francisco at the same time, though separately. They always denied that they had a thing going, but they always ended up living in the same building, and could always be found in each other's rooms. No, they didn't do anything in public that might be suspect. They did not go for blatant displays of affection. They didn't betray their praedilections with tenderness or hugs. They were both far too manly for such softness.
Instead, Ernie would visit Bert's room, and while Bert was distracted Ernie would hide a giant foot-and-a-half long pink rubber novelty dildo in Bert's bed. Then, mission accomplished, he would take leave and head back to his own room. Ten minutes later Bert would come roaring down the hallway waving the object, and bang on Ernie's door with it. "Let me in, let me in, you bastard, I don't want to see this ever again!"
A voice would come from behind the locked door, softly averring "Ernie no es acqui, you come back later, gringo". To no avail. The pounding with the pink rubber dildo continued unabated till Ernie relented, and the thing returned to Ernie's chest of drawers.
When Bert left the building, Ernie would sometimes go onto the roof of the building next door, walk over to Ernie's window, let himself in, and hide the dildo again, for Ernie to discover at eleven o'clock when he got off work.
They would occasionally beat each other up, or do laundry together in their boxers. They were banned from several local laundromats.
They now live in Portland.
STRAIGHT MARINES
It wasn't until I met Spanner and Rotorhead that I realized that one could be an ex-marine, yet fully heterosexual.
Spanner played golf with himself when he got off work at three in the morning, practicing his putting on the carpet in the long hallway of the Skyway Hotel. Click, whirrrrrrrr, tink. Click, whirrrrrrrrr, plonk. Dribble dribble dribble. The activity would be punctuated by a beer can being opened, or a swear word exclaimed. And the phrase "you can't escape, you don't get out alive".
This behaviour used to drive Swamiji in the room at the end of the hall to distraction. The first couple of nights, Swamiji came storming out of his room yelling. After Spanner pushed him over several times, Swamiji thought the better of that course of action and eventually moved to another room far from the putting green. The sight of one intoxicated gentleman in baggy boxers altercating with another intoxicated gentleman in a baggy dhoti is now permanently burned in my mind.
Spanner eventually married a woman with five kids and moved to Fremont.
I do not know if he still plays golf.
Rotorhead dated depressive punk girls, collected old radios, and frequently lost his balance due to having been shot out of the sky over Beirut. His inner ear was permanently damaged. Other than that, he was refreshingly normal; he deliberately ignored all the voices in his head.
As he put it, he didn't listen to anybody who didn't speak English, even if they were yelling 'incoming, incoming'.
AND BACK TO GAIETY
G.R., whom I mentioned before telling you about Bert and Ernie, was perhaps the most well-balanced of all the ex-marines. The only behavioural pattern which could possibly be conceived of as even slightly problematic was his early morning custom of marching to the shower entirely naked, hiding his manly bits with a towel held before. Like Lord Drummond (another tenant), he would practice opera under the running water, his deep basso profundo sending Italian lyrics into the airwell; it was a morning ritual much appreciated by other tenants. Folks just like good singing, okay?
Unlike 'The Watersprite', he did not use the wash-basins in the third floor hallway, even if the showers were occupied - he would patiently wait. Humming. Naked. In the hall. Towel in one hand, soap in the other.
He looked imposing at those times, in his tall and be-paunched fuzzy nakedness. He radiated a state of being at peace with the world. His standards were firm and solid. Nudity, cleanliness, and opera went together, and that meant peace of mind. This was obvious.
One day there was a very loud domestic disturbance in the alley next to the hotel.
The showers were occupied, G.R. was waiting his turn, and he was getting more and more agitated by the screeches and wails from outside.
Finally he threw his cigarette down, stomped over to the window overlooking the alley, and screamed "I'm full of sugar, naked, and happy, dagnabbit!"
Shocked silence replaced the screeching and wailing.
Earlier today I was standing outside having a smoke, when the spitting image of G.R. walked by. For a second, I could see him again in my mind, full of sugar, naked and happy.
And I smiled - it was a flashback to the marines.
Now I know better.
GAY MARINES
The first ex-marine I met was 'The Venerable Rood', who lived four doors down on the same floor of a residential hotel as myself. Several years in the Marine Corps had left him with a taste for well-built men, stiff drinks, and tight leather pants. A plurality of all of these defined his life-style. Evenings, in his world, meant spanking. Which one could hear from any corner of the building. The tearful spankee would then be comforted with gin.
A year after that, when I was living in The Bachelors Quarters (a residential hotel for single men), I met G.R., and 'Bert and Ernie'.
Bert and Ernie had first known each other in the Marine Corps. When they got out they moved to San Francisco at the same time, though separately. They always denied that they had a thing going, but they always ended up living in the same building, and could always be found in each other's rooms. No, they didn't do anything in public that might be suspect. They did not go for blatant displays of affection. They didn't betray their praedilections with tenderness or hugs. They were both far too manly for such softness.
Instead, Ernie would visit Bert's room, and while Bert was distracted Ernie would hide a giant foot-and-a-half long pink rubber novelty dildo in Bert's bed. Then, mission accomplished, he would take leave and head back to his own room. Ten minutes later Bert would come roaring down the hallway waving the object, and bang on Ernie's door with it. "Let me in, let me in, you bastard, I don't want to see this ever again!"
A voice would come from behind the locked door, softly averring "Ernie no es acqui, you come back later, gringo". To no avail. The pounding with the pink rubber dildo continued unabated till Ernie relented, and the thing returned to Ernie's chest of drawers.
When Bert left the building, Ernie would sometimes go onto the roof of the building next door, walk over to Ernie's window, let himself in, and hide the dildo again, for Ernie to discover at eleven o'clock when he got off work.
They would occasionally beat each other up, or do laundry together in their boxers. They were banned from several local laundromats.
They now live in Portland.
STRAIGHT MARINES
It wasn't until I met Spanner and Rotorhead that I realized that one could be an ex-marine, yet fully heterosexual.
Spanner played golf with himself when he got off work at three in the morning, practicing his putting on the carpet in the long hallway of the Skyway Hotel. Click, whirrrrrrrr, tink. Click, whirrrrrrrrr, plonk. Dribble dribble dribble. The activity would be punctuated by a beer can being opened, or a swear word exclaimed. And the phrase "you can't escape, you don't get out alive".
This behaviour used to drive Swamiji in the room at the end of the hall to distraction. The first couple of nights, Swamiji came storming out of his room yelling. After Spanner pushed him over several times, Swamiji thought the better of that course of action and eventually moved to another room far from the putting green. The sight of one intoxicated gentleman in baggy boxers altercating with another intoxicated gentleman in a baggy dhoti is now permanently burned in my mind.
Spanner eventually married a woman with five kids and moved to Fremont.
I do not know if he still plays golf.
Rotorhead dated depressive punk girls, collected old radios, and frequently lost his balance due to having been shot out of the sky over Beirut. His inner ear was permanently damaged. Other than that, he was refreshingly normal; he deliberately ignored all the voices in his head.
As he put it, he didn't listen to anybody who didn't speak English, even if they were yelling 'incoming, incoming'.
AND BACK TO GAIETY
G.R., whom I mentioned before telling you about Bert and Ernie, was perhaps the most well-balanced of all the ex-marines. The only behavioural pattern which could possibly be conceived of as even slightly problematic was his early morning custom of marching to the shower entirely naked, hiding his manly bits with a towel held before. Like Lord Drummond (another tenant), he would practice opera under the running water, his deep basso profundo sending Italian lyrics into the airwell; it was a morning ritual much appreciated by other tenants. Folks just like good singing, okay?
Unlike 'The Watersprite', he did not use the wash-basins in the third floor hallway, even if the showers were occupied - he would patiently wait. Humming. Naked. In the hall. Towel in one hand, soap in the other.
He looked imposing at those times, in his tall and be-paunched fuzzy nakedness. He radiated a state of being at peace with the world. His standards were firm and solid. Nudity, cleanliness, and opera went together, and that meant peace of mind. This was obvious.
One day there was a very loud domestic disturbance in the alley next to the hotel.
The showers were occupied, G.R. was waiting his turn, and he was getting more and more agitated by the screeches and wails from outside.
Finally he threw his cigarette down, stomped over to the window overlooking the alley, and screamed "I'm full of sugar, naked, and happy, dagnabbit!"
Shocked silence replaced the screeching and wailing.
Earlier today I was standing outside having a smoke, when the spitting image of G.R. walked by. For a second, I could see him again in my mind, full of sugar, naked and happy.
And I smiled - it was a flashback to the marines.
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