Watching City Hall #337, (12-28-04) Bulldog New Year’s Revolutions Did you know that ‘JoeFire’ is still lying unburied up at the funeral home nice enough to host Eric-Allen’s last party? Oh yeah! The VA doesn’t want to bury him. Why, is anybody’s guess. I sat and swilled bourbon with a couple of friends the other evening and we speculated. Matt Smith’s Green monster (12-29-04) Well, resolution one is still to see that Eric-Allen gets into God’s earth but I’ll back off on pushing it as a day has passed since I began this piece and I’ve just gone online and found that Matt Smith of the SF Weekly has written a long column on the JoeFire boy which should do the trick (getting JoeFire buried, that is). While not as discerning (you gotta agree) as mine, Matt’s audience is much larger. There are a couple of things I’d like to say about Smith’s column before letting the matter drop. Kicking the dead ain’t cool Now, I don’t know if it’s true (which has never stopped me before from printing anything) … don’t know if it’s true but I understand that Smith’s deep bitterness stems from the fact that he lives in a Tenderloin SRO with a hall bath that he shares with the likes of Warren Hinckle and Frank Chu. That may be true or not, but I understand that it gets worse. People say that the room only has one window and that the lower pane is missing and Smith has replaced it with a piece of cardboard cut from an old refrigerator crate he stole from a vermin infested wino in the alley. The thing is held up (I’m told) with duct tape from the same roll that Smith uses to hold his broken, plastic-rimmed glasses together. They say that the hotel management has refused to fix the window because Smith has broken it 3 times in drunken rampages during which he stands naked, screaming at the degenerates below that the Weekly doesn’t appreciate him and that he deserves more money. Add to that, the screaming infant and angry wife and a person can almost begin to appreciate and almost sympathize with the poor guy’s plight. … I went to ask the Weekly’s lead columnist about the rumors. There was a fresh pile of human excrement next to the columnist’s door – I wondered if he’d done it – the sound of the newlyweds’ fighting and the baby crying completed the hellish scene – the overhead light in the hall was knocked out and the fixture was hanging perilously by one wire as the other strand sparked occasional arcs of mini-lightning – I addressed a ‘reclining’ crackhead who appeared to live in the hall. Bulldog: (indicating the scribe’s door) “You know the guy in here?” Addict: (startled – gesticulates) “Fucker’s crazy, man!! He stole my fucking cardboard!” Bulldog: (intrigued at the anecdotal possibilities) “Have you ever seen Warren Hinckle without his patch?” Addict: (nodding) “Hinckle’s righteous, dude. He shares his stash. Not like this prick.” (indicates Smith’s door) Bulldog: (mulling next question) “What about Frank Chu? you know him too?” Addict: (takes a shot from a pint of vodka – I note that it’s Stoly and marvel) “Sure, man. Frank gets the word out. (looks up at the sparking light and takes another pull – offers me one & I accept – it’s cool and relaxing and the real thing) Frank’s like that light up there, man. He’s got a couple of wires loose. But, this fucker, (indicates Smith’s door) … he’s completely undone. There ain’t no call for the way he treats people and I’m staying here til he gives me my cardboard back. It’s raining out there!” Bulldog: (reaching out for another hit of Stoly – looking at the label) “Where’d you get this shit?” Addict: (nodding in appreciation) “From Walter Wong, man. He comes by here all the time. Walter knows how to take care of people, man. … You ever hear about the time when he built the kitchen?” Bulldog: (Jesus Christ!) “Yeah, man. I heard about the kitchen. (who else came around this hell hole?) Who does Walter come to see?” Addict: (shrugs at the obvious) “Willie, man! Willie Brown and Florence Fang have a little love nest down the hall.” Bulldog: (this is too bizarre – I nod my thanks and turn to knock on Smith’s door – it opens almost immediately – Smith is barefoot and shirtless and stinks worse than the pile of shit in the hall – his pants are held up by more of the same duct tape – he holds the door open with one hand and has a finger hooked hillbilly style through the glass ring of a half gallon jug of Carlo Rossi – he rocks back and forth and squints at me) “Are you Matt Smith?” Smith: (snarling) “Who the fuck wants to know!?!” Bulldog: (deadpan) “I’m with the Nobel committee.” (behind me, the addict roars with laughter – Smith slams the door) And, I thought I had a bad living situation. It was easy to understand why Smith was so bitter. Unappreciated, and ugly on top of it. I chuckled as I headed down the filthy stairs. Walter Wong was on his way up carrying a large stack of brightly wrapped Christmas presents and a fifth of Stoly. He was singing ‘Danny Boy’ softly. I nodded and we passed without any other greeting. I chuckled and pulled the hood of my tattered sweatshirt over my head as I entered the steady drizzle and padded down the shining street. Note to Matt Smith Matt, I’ve written before and it’s true that you have Pulitzer level talent. On the other hand, you’re a bitter prick. You’re the kind of guy who’ll have an empty house for your funeral. I, personally think that’s why you beat on Eric-Allen Bass. Pure and simple jealousy. He seemed like an easy target, didn’t he? Well, just remember that the dead aren’t always defenseless. So? So, … leave my friends alone, asshole … especially, if they’re dead. Sinatra’s on radio I’m not kidding you on this one. I finally found a little boombox in the corner of the bedroom and now have music. I hit the radio mode and stepped into a Frank Sinatra album. Sinatra was Eric’s favorite. As I close this piece, Frank is singing … “The best is yet to come.” Yeah, that’s what he’s singing. I hope he’s right. Rest well, guy. We’ll figure out something. Got a shovel?