Gramps ("H.E." to Family) was able to talk the Fire Marshal, whom he knew, into declaring it a "spontaneous combustion" kind of thing and then take Grandma to stay in The Ocean Park Motel for about a month while the Carpenters fixed all the damage I'd done. The Ocean Park was/is the First "Motel" West Of The Rocky Mountains. Still there @ 46th Avenue and Wawona Street down by The San Francisco Zoo. A "Streamline Moderne" kind of place, architecturally speaking. I've stayed there, since, with a Woman that was a Pain In The Ass from Iowa. A Local Secret. (The Motel, not Iowa Girls.) The Daughter of the Original Owners and her Husband now run the place. It's been there since 1937. Same year the Golden Gate Bridge opened. The year before my Mom was born.
J. Edgar Hoover HATED Motels and considered them The Root Of All 1950's Social Ills. He also liked to wear Tu-Tu's, Pancake Makeup and Spy On EVERYBODY. Nixon too, minus the Tu-Tu's. Nixon preferred Hotels, like The Watergate, in D.C.. I've been there, too.
Back To The Fire: I was about 5 years old. We: Mom, Myself and my Little brother, had to go live with Aunt Mimi in Santa Clara for a month or so and I think my Grandpa grumbled into his S.F. Chronicle while having a beer in the Living Room when he was home for months to come, if I was in the room. Lucky for me, he Loved me and if nothing else, admired my quasi-Scientific curiosity. Gramps was a Scientist. Literally. He'd been an Army Medic in WW1, was a Board Certified Pharmacist, Chemist and a Parfumier. He worked for a pretty good sized Chemical Company and eventually worked for Dow Chemical, selling cleaning and preservative materials to Canneries from San Francisco to Portland and back. A good gig, for The Great Depression onward. One Family Story about "H.E." is that he had a hand in inventing the "lick and seal" mailing envelope. His Partner ripped him off for the Patent. No "proof" of that, just a rumor I remember and admire. Then again, parts of my Childhood are purely fictional. I either dreamed or simply invented the details. Boredom or self-inflicted shame being ostensible root causes there... I would NOT have made Grandpa proud. Now, my Uncles are a totally different story. Berkeley Professors that ran off with a cute student to become Light House Docents, Gun Collectors, Race Car Builders, etc.. I was somewhat The Kamikaze Pilot Kid of my Family.
The House is still there, too. 2622 46th Avenue, San Francisco, Ca.. A nice easy rhyme for a Kid to remember, if he got lost at Macy's, The Zoo or on a Streetcar, which I probably did and had to have Francis The Irish Cop bring me home. Cops in San Francisco were mostly Irish, back then. They were Your Best Friends, if you were a Lost Kid or a Pretty Young Girl with some Creep following you. Now? Who the fuck knows? ALL the Detectives were named "Dirty" Something Callahan, in the 50's-'60's. I've seen photo's of the butts of Cop's Guns with Grateful Dead decals on them. I imagine there are still some of those guys around. Probably the only two places in S.F. that didn't have Irish Cops were North Beach and Chinatown. North Beach had Italian Cops. Chinatown took care of itself. Whole streets could blow up and the Irish or Italian Cops wouldn't even bother driving in to see what it looked like. Not a "racist thing," just a simple fact that Chinatown took care of Chinatown. Still does. Ditto for Japantown, or SOMA as "they" like to call the area nowadays. The part of town my Mom WAS NOT allowed to cross into as a Kid. It didn't stop her from getting pregnant with me when she was 15 years old. My Biological Father was just back from the Korean War and had a shiny, new, BMW Motorcycle. In all likelihood, I was conceived very near that motorcycle in someplace bucolic like La Honda, Russian River, Guerneville, or the like. My Dad went to Hollywood High School. Class of '48 or so. Mom and Dad met in a gas station parking lot. Classic 1950's San Francisco Romance. Dad was a 6'2" Good Looking Guy and Mom was WAY TOO PRETTY to be only 15 years old. She was drinking and dancing it up in the Cool Jazz Clubs of San Francisco by the time she was 17. My two Stepfathers were both Musicians. Go figure. No wonder I'm a Weirdo.
Then we moved to Sandy Eggo. My Life Was OVER. I have NEVER Self-Identified as a Southern Californian. California "ends" at about Monterrey/Big Sur, for me. From there on, it's Northern Mexico. California also extends about halfway up the Oregon Coast for me, as well. I'm Geographically, Cartographically, Challenged. It hasn't made much difference either way in my life. I refuse to recognize "Borders" and such in My World. Mostly. I did say: "Northern Mexico," after all. That's more of a Cultural Thing.
Waking up with Oingo Boingo on Sennheiser Headphones and my usual diet of coffee, cigarettes and Newspapers/Movies With No Sound On. (A hold-over from my Stoner Period, I'm sure.) The movie, "Weird Science" is on T.V.. Michael Anthony Hall's Buddy's (Wyatt) Parents just pulled up in a taxi. The missile is disappearing and the beds are making themselves. Kelley LeBrock just showed up as the New Boys' Phys. Ed. Teacher. The Boys all pass out. Roll credits.
I am a Creature Of Habit. Unless I'm not, certain days... Today is one of the Quiet Days around The Anchovy Ranch. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, my Noisy Neighbor goes to Dialysis. No "Bad Reggae" music coming through the kitchen wall or knocks on the door for mooched cigarettes every hour or two. A: That Shit isn't really "Reggae" and B: GYOFC. I wish. He's like a 59 year old guy with a Baby Head. Classic case of Neurotic Arrested Development and Co-Dependency. Not comfortable in his own skin, etc.. It's somewhat sad to watch.
I think I'll hoof it up to the Humane Society Thrift Store and see "what" costs $2.00 later, after the fog burns off. I always find: "something." EVERYTHING in Life should: "cost two dollars." Lamborghini Cars, Weddings, Divorces, Bail Money, the Whole Shooting Match.
Danny Elfman and Co.:
The Ocean Park in Postcard Form:
Foggy Night OPM:
http://www.travelpod.com/motel/Ocean_Park_Motel-San_Francisco.html
The "Local Secret" part is that this is one of the BEST Travel Values left in San Francisco. The last time I stayed there, we paid $120.00 per night for 10 days. A nice, big, corner room that you got to wake up with the howls of Howler Monkeys from The Zoo in every morning. Part of my Childhood That's Actually Verifiable. I bought all the Dinners, Drinks and Taxi's. Iowa Girl paid for the Motel. I was tasked with being the Big City Boy Tour Guide, during the stay there. "No, you DO NOT walk around Downtown San Francisco with your Visa Card in your shirt pocket. YES, put your purse UNDER YOUR ARM... Do NOT give money to CrAzY PeOpLe..."
Love, good coffee, a fresh razor and a Pack Of Camel Straights,
-Doc
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