Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Chunk and Elroy go downtown

Walk on, talk on,
baby tell no lies.
Don't you be caught
with a tear in your eye.

Come on, baby, let's go downtown,
Let's go, let's go,
let's go downtown.
Whitten & Young's "Come on Baby, Let's Go Downtown"

CLICK ON THE IMAGES to make them larger:

Sister Fannie is doing lots better today--although she isn't feeling lots better: she says she's at seven on the ten scale, painwise, which ain't good. I felt bad.

Elroy and I visited her just before noon, but she had just achieved a kind of sleepiness, so we left her to try to catch some ZZZZs. Meanwhile, we went into the city.

I took these snaps mostly from the driver's side of my Chrysler, so they're a little wacky, but I like wacky.

These pics might not be very good, but they are fresh. I just took 'em a few hours ago!

We blundered our way over to Coit Tower, where I half expected to see Clint Eastwood hotfooting it up the hill with his 44 Magnum. It was a nice day, so we got our tickets, crowded into the tiny elevator, and went straight up twenty-one floors.

I tried to speak German to a German family, but they just stared at me. Later, Elroy noted that they were indeed a German family, but they were a deaf German family. Oh.

Elroy knows some sign language, owing to his stint as a cop in Brisbane. He signed something to me, but I did not dare ask what he was saying. "Asshole," probably.

Weatherwise, this is one seriously fucked-up city. But I've got to admit that it is also one seriously beautiful city. I loved driving through downtown and through the nearby neighborhoods.

Take it from me: a Chrysler 300 is perfect for racing through the streets of San Francisco. You don't need no stinkin' Mustang.

Do bring a jacket, though. Burr.

I didn't spot anybody with goddam flowers in their hair.

Here's that famous Pyramid building. It looks pretty good, I guess. I wonder if anybody's ever sat on the point?

OK, there isn't much that's cooler than an old Studebaker. I do believe that this is a 1955 Studebaker Commander Coupe. It's a dilapidated specimen, but I'll take what I can get.

After the Studebaker, we headed back to the hospital. We visited Fannie for a good three hours. She says, "Hey."

Robin Williams says "Hey," too.

Dispatch #8: A Place Like This

ON MONDAY, a trip into nearby Truckee found me jaywalking to kill some time at the outlet mall while my colleague got her hair cut. The mall featured the usual collection of clothing stores whose mark-downs of up to 70% still couldn't lure me to part with my money. The styles were too tailored or too sporty or both. Geofrrey Beene, Van Heusen, Bass, Izod and then an absolutely frightening collection of lingerie manufacturers all jammed together into one storefront. Gleaming white headless female torsos clad in matching flouresecent bra and panty sets.

As I found the crosswalk to return to the beauty parlor, I noticed (how could I not?) a ten foot white cross at the corner of of the lawn that bordered the Izod shop. Closer inspection revealed a large rock at its base adorned with a plaque. According to the local historical society who sponsored the plaque, many years before the outlet mall was erected, the Graves cabin stood at the very same place. The Graves family was part of the ill-fated Donner-Reed party whose tribulations have transfixed generations of California school children and others.

California author, James D. Houston wrote a fine account of the Donner-Reed party in his novel "Snow Mountain Passage." I recommend it. Houston's refusal to dwell on the cannabalism aspect delighted me but disappointed a writer in the NY Times, whose review was titled, "Meals on Wheels."

Houston's most recent novel, "Bird of Another Heaven" traces the links between Hawaii and California through the lives of a California woman, Nani Keala, half-Hawaiian, half-Indian, who becomes a mistress of the last king of Hawaii and her great-grandson, Sheridan Brody, a Bay Area radio talk show host whose quest for his identity changes how he sees the past, the present and the future.

Of interest to our college community is Brody's observation near the end of the book:

"A while back I'd met a fellow from the English department at UC Berkeley. 'I have been around campuses for years,' he told me, 'but I've never seen a place like this. I mean, you're used to people stabbing each other in the back. That just comes with the territory, I guess. But here, they walk right up to you and make eye contact and stab you in the chest.' "

Because the night


I'M STILL REELING from the news of Tom Snyder's death. Snyder lived in Tiburon, which is near Sausilito, and so there seems to be a hightened interest in the gabby fellow in these parts (I'm in Pacifica right now, just south of San Francisco).

This morning, Tim Goodman of the San Francisco Chronicle offers a lovely column about Snyder. Check it out.

Goodman mentions a DVD that was released a year or so ago: The Tomorrow Show with Tom Snyder: Punk & New Wave. I had remembered some of those shows, with Johnny Rotten, the Plasmatics, Iggy Pop, the Ramones, Elvis Costello, Patti Smith (that one was amazing!), et al. As soon as the DVD was released, I snatched it up. It's wonderful!

Is this a sign that I've become an oldster, a geezer, an old-timer? Somehow, it's wonderful reliving those odd moments, twenty-five or thirty years ago, watching those late-night collisions of world-views (Snyder's vs. Smith's; the audience's vs. Smith's; the audience's vs. Snyder's) on more-or-less live TV. Little did I know at the time that I was watching something that would seem so wonderful so many years later.
Come on now try and understand
The way I feel when I'm in your hands
Take my hand come undercover
They can't hurt you now,
Can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now

Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us

Roy's obituary in LA Times and Register: "we were lucky to have you while we did"

  This ran in the Sunday December 24, 2023 edition of the Los Angeles Times and the Orange County Register : July 14, 1955 - November 20, 2...