Watching City Hall #358 (3-30-05)

“Don’t eat anything on an empty stomach.”

(the inscrutable Jens Nielsen)

“It’s a Zen thing.”

(Ammiano explains ‘Jensism’ to Peskin)

Other than an occasional grunt, that’s the first verbal response I’ve gotten from District 9’s senior statesman in 3 years. Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that I’ve probably written nastier things about him during that period than about anyone else other than ‘the Gav’ himself. Welcome back Tom. Past elections rhetoric aside, I’m willing to concede that I exaggerated when I said you were old and ugly and not funny. We’re all getting old and you’ve always been suave, dapper, quick and witty. Redundant enough?

Fact is, the press and audience at all these gatherings people-watch and gossip ceaselessly and the general consensus lately is that you’re looking better than ever. Always, the Board’s boldest dresser (of the males), Ammiano is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. He’s comfortable in his own skin and it makes his jokes work again.

I was visiting the press box, marveling at Suzanne Herel’s own garb; (an explosion of springtime colors that proved that, say what you will about the Chronicle, at least they don’t impose a dress code on their political reporters) …I was making bad jokes to Herel and watching her blush when the Board went into one of those ‘on-the-fly’ hockey kind of changes they do.

The move brought Board President Aaron Peskin and former President Ammiano close enough to the press box for comment & I motioned them over to try and get a laugh. Peskin furrowed his brow in confusion and Ammiano made the ‘Zen’ comment. It made me feel good. I know that few of you will understand this, but I really do like all of the supes. Personal as my writing style might get with them, everything I write about them is just an attempt by guy who could never be elected, to influence public policy discourse and candidacies with the long suit Fate has dealt me. Oh, I have my favorites. I don’t tell bald faced lies about the press being non-partisan. That’s a hypocritical façade perpetrated by pricks like Phil Bronstein who’s the most partisan mother fucker in town.

I don’t actually go to City Hall all that much. Like most political hack writers, I’m mostly drawn to issues that revolve around or promise lots of sex or drugs or violence or greed. The pot club issue had it all.

Bottom line & skip on

Ross Mirkarimi (don of D5) appeared with Phil (‘Shallow-Phil’) Matier this morning on KRON tv. As usual, while Mirkarimi tried to respond to the Chron top flunkey, Matier did all sorts of rubber-faced expressions of disapproval of all pot while interviewing the Moratorium sponsor. … … time passes … liquor is consumed … a nap happens … there’s an email from Rachel when I wake up. …

“Are you going to Matt’s party?”

The son of a bitch invited an imaginary character from my column before he invited me! My mind raced. … How the hell did he get in touch with her anyway? He never cared for Eileen Left and here he was going behind my back to establish a relationship with Rachel Falmoth. What’s going on here?

I dug back through my email. Gerry Gerry was going to be on vacation for a while. Patricia writes to say that my phone is tapped and I should watch my ass. Chuck Gonzalez sends me an address to listen to he & Liz’s music (linesinanalogsound.com) … I jot it down and go on. Michael O’Connor says he can’t get me into Patrick Murphy’s party for free and that I should just try to walk in. 3 police captains have sent me the synopsis of their precinct logs. They’re priceless. The scribe for Kevin Dillon’s Northern Station is easily the best. The stuff reads like a combination of Mark Twain and Herb Caen. Definitely a San Francisco treat. … There are 5 messages from Rachel, she of the glam gams and dimpled cheeks, teasing me. … Julian Davis offers a Corona at Soluna’s. … ah, there it is.

I was invited, after all. A quick message from Gonzo saying he’d written my daughter to say he couldn’t make my son-in-law, Kudzai’s Shona sculpture exhibit (Peace Corps Headquarters, 333Market, Suite 600 for next month) … he couldn’t make it cause he was having a party at his own office during the same time frame. Would I come and drink strong booze for free? … That was a tough one. I mean, what would it look like if a reporter drank an ex-politician’s booze? It was a real struggle for me.

Charles Kalish rolled by in the his primer-black, 1⁄2 ton flatbed pickup with Renee Saucedo stickers here and there on the stake& plywood sides. I’d ridden in the back of the plucky little truck so many times over the past several years. “It’s called ‘H’ and that was its name before I even met you. It was my son, Josh’s. It gets 7 miles to the gallon and eats at least one clutch plate a year at $500 a pop but it works for a living which is more than I can say for you!” Charles related as we made a 10 mile swing from my SRO in the old Angelica Hotel down the street from City Hall … I stood on the front fire escape with a tumbler of Ancient Age on the rocks and watched cops from the Tenderloin station around the corner swing around the corner of Jones & McAllister past the 50 drunks and crackheads lying on the sidewalk in front of the century old treasure, Hibernia Bank. A hundred cops burning various types of fossil fuel, not a one on foot. None stopped. They ceded the neighborhood to pimps and pushers long ago when they built their new stationhouse with no windows. … Charles pulled up and I hurried downstairs. There were 3 City Hall/realtor looking types pacing across from the shuttered bank taking notes and pictures. I clambered into the creaky vehicle and in 10 minutes we were at the ‘Harm Reduction’ pot club SOMA.

“You sure we can get into this party?” (Kalish doubts me sometimes.) I held up the bus pass holder strung around my neck for him to glance at. I’d replaced the bus pass card with my pot club card. “Hey, we’re going to 2 parties full of do-gooders and lawyers. I’ll be the only one with any pot. Yeah, we can get in.”

Still $40 for 1/8^th of ‘NY Diesel’

My best buddy, Jens Nielsen is doorkeeper for the club and I hung out for a few minutes and discussed he and his honey, Leona’s 2 year anniversary coming up and my growing relationship with Rachel. He nodded: “So, you found true love with an imaginary person? (gazes upward in thought) Well, at least she should be a cheap date.”

Back on the road

I packed away the weed for later aches and pains and we rumbled around the new Octavia Street project and meandered toward Haight and Ashbury to pick up my granddaughter, Tandewe from daycare. Tandy is the world’s mellowest 2 year old. She was soon asleep on my lap as we crawled into a supe’s parking spot in front of City Hall. Charles went up to Mirkarimi’s to get a notebook he’d left and I sat on the rusting hood of Charles & Susan’s famous relic with my gorgeous little progeny whom I’ve noticed isn’t just a chick magnet, but also makes the meanest looking gangstas to break out into a smile.

I pointed out the gold on the Williedome and she smiled approvingly. She pointed out a passing dog to me. “Dogggiee!” The lab mix turned and nodded politely to her as the dog’s owner smiled and shook her head with pleasure. Don’t listen to dingbat Margaret Brodkin; kids and dogs go together.

Shona exhibit magnificent

It was my son-in-law Kudzai’s show. He’s been mentored by a Shona sculptor who has instructed him in the art during his last several visits back to his homeland of Zimbabwe. With the tough economic conditions, they need outlets for their work. Any of you have shops, get down to 333 Market #600 during business hours and check out the work. Do a good deed and make some money at the same time. The exhibit includes some great pics of the artists themselves and art-in-stages from a raw piece of stone, to the most brilliantly polished finished pieces. Kudzai demonstrated the craft for the crowd with a few skilled strokes of a mallet against different chisels to begin the “release of the form that you see inside of the stone”. I’m proud of that kid. He speaks 4 or 5 languages. He’s soft spoken, yet firm and thoughtful. My daughter smiles. My granddaughter is an all-star. … We owe it all to the Peace Corps. Kalish waved from a far corner and we headed for the opening of the City’s newest law firm.

That’s not the real name of their firm, but it’s close enough. (I liked ‘Nemo’ better, but sources who know say it’s ‘Nima’ and the 5^th member of S.F.’s newest ‘crew’ is Bryan Vareschagin – let’s see you rhyme something with ‘Vareshagin’ … while sober). Point is, this was no ordinary group of hoosiers (as they used to say back in the hood). Peter Camejo who just finished losing a bid for the Vice Presidency (of the U.S. no less) got into a steaming debate with Medea Benjamin of Global Exchange. John Streeter who is the President of the Bar association (I think TeranceAlan is the V.P.) rubbed elbows with Bob Van Nest of Keker & Van Nest. Judge Kramer who made the ‘same sex marriage’ ruling was there. These are the kind of people who only read about me in a police report. What a fucking crowd! Tony Hall dressed me down for saying he didn’t care about the poor: “What did I ever do to make you think that?” He turned to move away. “You never gave me a job!!” I called that after him. He said he’d look into it and I crossed my fingers and prayed he wouldn’t follow through on the threat. I’d seen the frightened, hollow eyes of the people on Market street going to work when I passed them on my way to get my morning pint.

It’s really all about Matt

Everyone roaming the fertile hunting grounds of that little suite of offices knew a couple of things. First, they knew that Matt Gonzalez had 11 years of successful trial law practice before he even began his political career. This guy is the hottest legal commodity in town. His legislative record as first, a member, then as President of the S.F. Board of Supervisors shows that his grasp of the macro-legal scene is unmatched. People who argue cases before the Planning and Police Commissions have to realize that Matt and Tony Hall created them in their present structure. He could well be reorganizing other venues/troughs where this school of savvy sharks feed. Gonzalez is going to have this firm for the next 50 years and he’s going to take this initial gang of 5 to the U.S. Supreme Court in record time.

Second? Was an acknowledgement of the first. Combatants paying compliments to the ‘new’ gladiator and his team. It was all very impressive but, of course, mostly I just watched the chicks.

“Well, you made it after all.”

Rachel was there. Thick black hair with the gray streaks flying as she danced to ‘unheard melodies’. Bare legged in a sun dress open across a severe cleavage that made me think of the chick washing the car in ‘Cool Hand Luke’ … I stammered. … “My God. Do you have a license for that dress?”

“I got it at GoodWill.” She whirled around revealing the secret of the delightfully form-fitting faux-bustier front flouncing fun for free fanciful full frankly foxy fresh … it was a great dress that filled with the wind when she whirled and wove … there was a row of safety pins up the back which pulled the thin cloth tightly to reveal … OK, OK, she was looking good and, unlike Eileen, seemed able to interact with real people. She even brought a pretty little blonde friend named ‘Debbie’. I wandered if either them were actually real and Melman stepped on my toes.

“Well h. rap brown!”

It was Warren Hinckle being led through the crowd by his substantially sturdy Bassett. That would be Melman. When Melman plants a paw on your Nike clad foot, you notice. I gave a start and looked down, then quickly smiled. Melman looked up, smiled back and winked. I gave him half of a pastrami sandwich once at a bar deep in the avenues and he remembered. Warren’s paramour, Linda Corso trailed her two guys toting a couple of serious martinis. I made a grab for Frank Gallagher’s arm and we followed the Hinckle family into Nemo’s office where we settled in and chewed the fat.

I pushed Hinckle for a copy of his next piece. He danced a bit and allowed as how he’d have a web site coming online in the not too distant future. Clint and Janet Riley passed by towing Jerry Brown. Melman looked Frau Riley up and down then turned to see if I was watching. (Old dogs think alike.) In a far corner a lawyer with a little badge on his lapel was speaking earnestly to Rachel who was barefoot by now and flexing her calves in an unconscious warm-up for the next stage in her dance of life. “When’s your birthday?” she’d asked me earlier. “Maybe I’ll give you a mercy fuck for your birthday.” … I like the way that girl’s mind works.

Alex Clemens of sfusualsuspects.com looked a bit tired sitting apart from the crowd. I went to greet my cuz. “Jake and Elwood are still stoned!” he noted. Those are his cats and I was happy to hear the buzz of our week together had lingered. Aaron Peskin edged through the crowd and we compared notes on the first quarter’s performance by the ‘Peskin’ Board. “I love the regional reports!” I shouted over the crowd (board members report back on activities of various interjurisdictional agencies upon which SF supes sit). “Maxwell and Ma really took me to school.” D3’s dom jabbed his finger and made a larger point: “It encourages them to go to the meetings too! Other boards had terrible attendance records. When XXXX was on the Bay Area Quality Air Management Board, she was absent when the other members voted to increase the load of toxins in San Francisco’s air by triple what had been allowed before.” I don’t take notes at these things and don’t know if it was off-the-record, so I won’t mention the former supe’s name. God knows that Mabel’s had enough bad publicity lately anyway.

Alexis Rosenthal appeared with Steven Jones of the Guardian and mentioned she might be running for assembly or state senate or something. I promised complete support. Rachel pulled on my sleeve: “You already swore you’d support Barry Hermanson, and Janet Reilly for the same seat. The only one you haven’t endorsed is Fiona Ma. How are you going to explain that?”

I sat down on the floor next to Melman and took the double Makers Mark on the rocks offered by Corso. The answer was easy. “I’ll say that I’m a red neck and that we’re confused by ranked choice voting and I thought I could vote for everyone, everytime for everything.” Jeff Adachi, Eric Mar and Mark Sanchez shook their heads and walked away. A good columnist can do frightening things with the truth.

“How do you make any money, h. rap?” asked Hinckle (who also has a book in the works, probably to be titled simply: ‘Hinckle’). I dove into an explanation about the early months of ‘Care Not Cash’ being tough on those of us who spend our lives on the edge, but how I’d managed to move some of the $59 a month through several accounts in the Cayman Islands and now was quite comfortable. “Maybe you can write something for me.” … Yeah, Hinckle said that. Hmmmm, lately we’re on opposites of most issues but that just makes him like half of my family and friends. That would be something, to have a piece in one of Hinckle’s publications.

Former D.A. Terrance Hallinan swung in and engaged Deputy Public Defender, Phoenix Streets in conversation. Phoenix made a strong late run for the D5 supe’s seat last November. I headed for my coat and hat and stopped to give Katherine Hansen a hug. She was there with her guy, Josh. She wanted to meet my “dancer”. Katherine studied ballet lots. Cautiously, I introduced her to Rachel. They shook hands and began to talk. Frank Gallagher who’d been watching from aways over, came over, patted me on the back and handed me 2 tickets to the Giants and A’s exhibition series opener. I stared, speechless. Later I asked Rachel who, of course, has never seen a Giants game. She said ‘yes’.

Nemo leaned close and handed me a momento of the opening. A TWM, Precision Quartz watch with a genuine leather band and a picture of Clarence Darrow on the face. I flashed it at the Reillys and Brown when they left and told them the story about Darrow and his dingleberry ploy. Not many people know that one. Rachel and I were on the sidewalk in front with Debbie. They were smoking cancer sticks and I was puffing on a bowl of New York Diesel. The politicos smiled and headed up Pine street while Rachel pounded a tree and roared. I gazed in wonder at the magnificent façade of the Pacific Stock Exchange across the street then up at the moon and stars.

I got up this morning and started my laundry without thinking much of the previous evening. As the morning progressed and I sorted the second load with the denims and my gnarled running shoes, I was wondering how much of last night had actually happened. That was when I noticed the bulge in the inside pocket of my jacket. I reached in and pulled out the contents. It was 2 tickets to tonight’s Giants game and a new silver watch with a black leather band and a picture of Clarence Darrow on the dial. Hmmm.