Watching City Hall #349, (3-04-05)

Vignettes

I live in the Tenderloin. I have for a good part of the last 20 or 25 years. For a writer, it’s shooting fish in a barrel. Let me run thru a couple of stories from the last week or so.

It didn’t surprise me that much when the drunken fat lady asked me for some money. It was Sunday morning. It was raining. There was a huge full moon behind the clouds. I was clean shaven and wearing clean clothes. It wasn’t surprising that she thought I was more prosperous than her.

What caught my eye from a half block away was the fact that in March, she was wearing a high quality Santa’s sock cap and full jacket. And, she had a bottle of beer in one hand. As I passed …

She tried to get me to give her a dollar for 2 quarters. I had less than a dollar in change to my name and tried to move past. She grabbed at the press pass on my key chain. “You a COPPP!??!” Another reason to have press passes without SFPD stamped on em.

She offered a sex act for a dollar. Although that’s a very good deal and it’s been awhile, she really wasn’t my type. I pushed on by and headed off to feed a friend’s cat.

There was a loud, splintering crash behind me and pieces of beer bottle skidded past on either side. Some people aren’t that good at dealing with rejection. I wasn’t harmed and continued on through the puddles chuckling and feeding from the perverse energy on the street that morning. I’d learned two things from the encounter.

First, I clearly look more prosperous and libido-driven than is true. And, second, those rumors we hear about Santa having troubles in his marriage are all true.

“Arf, arf and bow wow too!”

Jens was stabbing at the sidewalk with his cane as we turned the corner at O’farrell and headed up Larkin. “Look at that.” he said, pointing to the car pulling up in front of the New Century strip club.

It was a Chrysler 300 and as we approached, an illegally endowed stripper got out of the driver’s seat, came around curb side to the rear back door which she opened. She bent over as we pulled (ahem) abreast of her and we were mooned and swooned by her perfect … which was festooned with bright tattoos that clawed down past the panty-line of the little that was left to the imagination.

“I always wanted to be an exotic dancer.” I said that as we passed. Jens stared with appropriate reverence as she rose and turned holding a little pug bulldog who looked just like my mascot. She held it tightly to her spilling bosom. Jens nodded: “I’m thinking of becoming a dog.” Uh huh, he said that.

“I’m not that cop.”

I bitch about the cops not actually walking beats and they’ve reacted in several ways. First, the have the Chronicle running stories suggesting that they’ve been walking beats all along which is simply bullshit. Secondly, they are making a feeble effort to reverse course on their alienation with the neighborhood.

A couple of weeks ago, I did a piece on the cops clustering ‘like ducks’ when they actually hit the streets. As late as last week, they were still performing the new ‘beat’ times of their patrol virtually holding hands in groups of five.

This week has been different. They don’t appear to be carrying pepper spray or stun devices and many of them are actually sporting old fashioned (and generally non-lethal) billy clubs. Last night, I observed the ultimate.

It was 7:30pm and I headed up McAllister from Jones (worst section of Tenderloin). A Hispanic neighbor had joined me and we were talking about a request I’d gotten from the cops in Dublin to come over an help em put a burglar away. Suddenly, there he was before us. A cop. One cop. … On foot. Talking pleasantly with a few customers seated outside Wild Awakenings coffee shop. I was amazed and indicated it: “I saw your picture in the paper.” I said that. That’s when he noted that he wasn’t the cop from the paper. It worked on so many different levels.

As the Chronicle plagiarized from my articles on the local TL cops (they’re good at that – hundreds of reporters and no original ideas from the lot) … he was doing all the right things. It was after 7pm which meant that the people he was meeting were most likely neighborhood residents. These are the same people he’s going to need to help him finding the killer who just ran into their building at 3am. He wasn’t there to bust anyone. He was alone and not trading smirks and jerks with a partner. It was, mother-fucking old time police work. It was what 90% of the cops in the City should be doing and the other 10% would see their success rate go off the charts due to increased neighborhood support. No car, motorcycle, fancy bike or roller skates (which all scream: “I can’t wait to get out of here!”) … just a cop with a long billy club talking to some citizens. Fuck a bunch of Robo-Cop. You go, Heather.

Let me expand just a bit. A couple of weeks ago, Phil Matier wrote a couple of pieces smearing Lt. Joe Dutto who may well be the best cop on the force. ‘Shallow Phil’ as I call him, printed unattributed slander from Dutto’s bosses. Matier didn’t mention that this is the same brass that Dutto got indicted for their cover-up in the Fajitagate scandal. The simple fact is that the brass is dirty and they’re trying to drive out independent investigators.

Matier did the same thing to me on behalf of the brass. When a couple of their goons attacked me on the stairs of City Hall on election nite, he did a piece making them look like white knights and me like a buffoon who got off easily. … He didn’t question me. He didn’t question Matt Gonzalez (my attorney in the matter). He just pushed out the point of view that the brutal brass wanted before the public. I’ll tell you right now, this shit ain’t over. It might be if I didn’t get the feeling of an electric shock through my right hand everytime I knock on a door. It could be if my left elbow and the tendons around it didn’t hurt all the time.

The Chronicle represents the very worst of journalism. They tell half-truths for the benefit of the highest bidder. They use their soapbox to prepare a favorable climate for persecuting nuns and whistle-blowers and curmudgeon journalists. And, the poor.

Daly joins Bloggville

“What did Heather Hiles say to Mark Sanchez that made her lose her bid for the School Board?” … “What did Chris Daly say he’d need to do to Jake McGoldrick’s ass before he kissed it?” “What’s the name of the Fire Chief’s residence in which the new fire chief refuses to live?” “Why are you smoking pot in front of my bar?”

It was the yearly Trivia Contest and those were some of the questions floating around on stage and in the audience. It was a hell of a gathering. Hmmm, let’s run through this without thinking.

Did I write this before? Whatever, it always comes out different in the rewrites anyway. … Marc Salomon & Bill Barnes’ team (the Hunter Thompsons) won because Barnes deserted the D5 Collaborative team. The D5 team finished second by sheer dent of numbers. Hard as it might be to believe, around a dozen of the losing candidates from that district’s November election have remained involved in the public fray. Andrew Sullivan was there (he and his sexy girlfriend kept buying me shots of Maker’s Mark). Liza Feldstein was giggling and laughing and having a better time than I’ve seen her have. I only drank a couple of sips from her glass of wine when she was away from the table (someone said she’d left) Francis Somsel bought me a beer and drove me home. You know, I disagree with him on about all things political but, personally, he’s one hell of a guy. A great addition to any gathering. Susan King held court with Savannah Blackwell and Sue Vaughn. I forget what they bought me. … You seeing a pattern here?

When I entered the place (having walked the couple of miles) I was broke but confident. Richard Marquez immediately leaped up from the rear table where Chris Daly had a meeting going with a dozen or so residents. Richard was beaming.

“h., let me buy you your first drink!” I just love it when people start a conversation that way. “You know that woman you fixed me up with?” He was very happy. He mentioned her name and the names of a couple of her friends. I remembered them, OK. I didn’t remember fixing him up but his joy was genuine and so was the Guinness. I took the credit and the beer and hoped she didn’t put an ice pick behind his ear and spoil everything.

I smothered the ever-popular Krissy Keefer with attention and chewed on Debra Walker’s ear in a metaphorical way. Phil Wilkie knew enough to be there. Mark Sanchez, Eric Mar & Sarah Lipson read many of the questions to the totally ripped contestants. Bruce Wolfe listened to me rant for awhile, patted me on the back and wandered over to talk to Boris Delapene who brought Mirkarimi’s regrets (did you see Ross on Channel #29 last week, standing with a folding and bending umbrella in the driving rain, calling to the dripping lens that we should wash our hands so’s we don’t get the flu? – talk about everywhere man!) … Daly pulled me aside and told me about his blog. I just got around to reading it today and it is gonna be great. The structure is clean and neat. You want his position on an issue? The happenings on any of the regional bodies upon which he sits? It’s all there. I forget the link but you’ll be adding it.

Peskin Board takes shape

Board President, Aaron Peskin sent me a brief email last week commenting upon my commenting upon his nifty move to get the supes to do a short ‘book report’ kind of description as to what business was before the various regional boards and authorities and commissions and covens and the like before which they represent our interest (ideally). He’s got em doing it weekly in conjunction with their comments in the ‘Roll Call for Introductions’ portion of Tuesdays full Board meetings. He said “Wait til next week.”

He was right. While some of them still haven’t figured out the opportunity that Peskin has accorded them, some surely do. Probably Ammiano, best of all. The venerable D9 supe (former Board prez and near mayor) was dressed to kill. Dark blazer with a challenging tie slashed with clean and sharp swirls against a flue shirt with a white collar and a god damned stick pin! Looking sharp, he opened with reports upon the bodies upon which he does such good work, so to speak. He knows these regional agencies well. He’s been here twice as long as anyone. He segued easily into the happenings, good and bad in his own district, then slammed home his own plans and recommendations and proposals to right the scene.

Mirkarimi did much the same. … Kids, this is good shit. Inside of an hour, you get a progress report not only on what’s happening in each district, but of the progress of issues and proposals before groups that are absolutely, positively never televised. The Board contingent over the past couple of weeks, spurred by the new Peskin format has brought, for instance, a real sense of what it must be like to represent San Francisco before the Golden Gate Bridge District (it ain’t good). Kudos, Aaron. Roll Call has been elevated and we owe you. Smart to keep the Gonzalez reforms too. Tuesday meetings are definitely best. Having odd and even districts report on staggered weeks unless they have some special need is good too. Not that anyone has much paid attention to it. … Bottom line is that these things have gone from being afterthoughts to being serious presentations. And, they are expanded to places the rest of us never get to go. Mark my words, Roll Call will soon be the most watched part of Board meetings by pretty much everyone with a brain.

Who doesn’t get it? Fiona Ma. She’s gotta have the shortest macro-grasp of any C.P.A. in town. She’s lazy, has a narrow focus and has a ‘sense of entitlement’ attitude that would make any welfare queen jealous. This woman is the only member of the Board who honestly thinks she’s too good to be there. That makes her ‘tits on a boar hog’. The only thing she’s done since her election is to mount a sloppy attack on any kind of signage around the City. Watch her hearings on the subject. She doesn’t know shit but will not quit. She wants people arrested for passing out flyers on a missing cat. Or, having a garage sale. … Virtually everything she’s presented has been pure idiocy. I understand that John Burton has her back.

Michela Pier? Grandpa’s flipping in his grave. She’s done everything possible to ban progressive women from City Hall. A few days ago, she tried to block approval of an artist (only applicant) for Gavin’s new ‘Art Task Force’ in favor of someone who not only wasn’t an artist (shudda seen her towing Ted Laky around the room to get him to redefine ‘artist’) … not only wasn’t an artist, but didn’t even live in San Francisco. … Couple of months back, she torpedoed library activist, Sue Cauthen’s application for a related body. I got an email a couple of days ago when I wrote about Comcast. Said to watch Pier because she’d gotten him fired for complaining about the failure of the Department of Telecommunications in their dealings with Comcast & SBC. “She tossed around the names of SBC executives and two weeks later, I was fired from my job of 5 years at SBC.” Neither she nor Ma really know shit. They simply get daily lists of who and what to vote for. Losers, both. Trust neither. Tell neither of them anything and believe nothing they tell you. Other than that, hey, they won’t embarrass you at a public event and they have nice smiles. Just watch your back.

My mail is mostly about letting up on Randy Shaw and learning to spell. There were questions about what happened to Eileen Left (she’s with Carlos Petroni in South America) and did Joefire ever get buried (I don’t know). Someone asked if I saw Starchild quote Marbury vs Madison during a Board hearing this week and did I realize how brilliant that free-wheeling bi-sexual rent-a-date is? (The answers are ‘yes’ and ‘no’.)

‘What, me worry?’ (Alfred Newman)