Pondering Pig's Tour of San Francisco
Planning your big trip to San Francisco? Don't forget your coat! I know you want to see Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum real bad, and, oh those cable cars climbing halfway to the stars, they’ve got to be great. How about a trip to the Haight-Ashbury to see where the Grateful Dead lived? Maybe a topless bar (wink wink nod nod), and a nightcap in the bar of the Holiday Inn.But hold on for a minute. There’s another city hidden beneath the glitter and gloss of "My Enchanted City”. A city with hidden treasures and landmarks that only the talking pigs know about. Let me take you down, cause I'm going to...San Francisco's Richmond District, Home of the Talking Pigs!
Oh, there’s not many of us left now in the City. We’ve dispersed across the world. I’m an exile myself, sleeping in an abandoned mobile home far down the coast with only an owl and a feral cat for company. (Besides the beautiful Patrushka and her indomitable Mom, of course, both of whom insist they like it)
Oh, perhaps it's quiet, perhaps it's a little lonely today. But there was a time when the Richmond resounded to the throng of happy snorts and grunts, when little curly tails disappeared into the bakeries and came out with pies and cakes and sugar cookies to take home for tea. Young pigs such as myself studied in the libraries and parks of the Richmond and learned to ponder deeply into the mystery of things.Wandering through the muffled streets, we learned to love the fog and moist grey gloom. For us it was a warm cozy blanket. The wind barreling off the Pacific, it filled the lungs with glee. Ah, for the life of a talking pig in the Richmond District in those golden times of yore.
Certain among you are beginning to wonder when the show starts and I wish you’d have a little more patience. I’m just getting warmed up. But ever it shall be. Okay, next picture, please…
The Temple of Learning. Ah, the lines of merry young pigs that stood outside the Balboa waiting for the box office to open and the Saturday matinee to begin. Some Saturdays we heard a lecture on Aristotle. Other Saturdays it was six color cartoons, a Superman serial, and Mickey Rooney in “Penrod Fights The Gangsters”. Even today, the remnants of the Golden Age remain. Where else could you have your choice of Nacho Libre or Army of Shadows, a phenomenal, magnificent 1969 French film about the Resistance during WWII, and don’t miss it if you trust a talking pig’s judgment). But it’s not coming soon to a theater near you. Sorry. Maybe on DVD.
The Secret Treasure Statue. I boldly proclaim its location because I know how to get to the treasure and you don’t. No, it’s not symbolic of the treasure of the imagination – it’s money. Gold beyond your wildest dreams! And it’s mine, mine mine! Hahahahahahahahah.
Adolf Sutro. How we honor Adolf. Not only did he build San Francisco’s Sutro Park, most beautiful park in the known universe, he was the first talking pig to successfully pass as a human for most of his life. We don’t like to do it, but it’s so much more convenient. People are always asking embarrassing questions like “How come you’re not wearing trousers?” But they never guessed the truth about Adolf. What a pig! Too bad about the name though. It was a perfectly nice name in 1890.
The Old Manse. Pigs lived here once but now they’re gone.
Our tour of San Francisco's Richmond District is about halfway through. We'll be stopping for lunch today at The Blathering Pig. Please try not to encourage the proprietor or we'll never get served!
Labels: Across America, Homesick, Just For Grins, Photos by Patrushka, San Francisco, Won't Fit In Box
posted by Christopher Newton at 3:42 PM
6 Comments:
I recall waiting in line for those Saturday afternoon matinees at the Balboa Theater, and especially for those "to be continued next week" exciting serials. But after the show every time when I would be walking back home on Balboa Street, I would find myself with a throbbing headache. What a penalty for going to the movie on Saturday afternoon. I know now it was probably migraine headaches. It didn't take me long, however, to put two and two together and quit going to the movies, even though I enjoyed the excitement and being there with many of my friends.
The first time I saw the Pondering Pig monniker was on the non-photography blog hosted by my friend, the lovely Nitsa. Mr. pig was commenting on a Nitsa image of a location on Haight and he said something to the effect that it made him homesick.
I've been to San Francisco many times over the years, but it was always like the Dylan line from the song "Maybe Someday" where he sings, "I always liked San Francisco. I was there for a party once". That's about the extent of my committment to the city by the bay. Sorry. I know there's a lot there and it was/is your life brer Pig. It's just that other places hit me like San Francisco does you.
I remember Tucson in the early '60's, when there were no people and we lived in the foothills of the Catalina Mountains where $60.00 a month could get you a 3 bedroom house on a cliff overlooking absolutely nothing. It was a time when you could go out back and sleep under the stars and hear no traffic. Today, the same house we lived in is worth $350,000.00 and there's only 1/4 acre out back andd there are 1000 neighbors within the quarter mile we used to call our desert world. My dad was in school at the U of A and I was about 13 and had discovered the radio big time. I remember a local band called the "Stone Poneys" playing in the courthouse park for the 4th of July festivities before they and Linda got together. It bwas the first time I heard a legendary cowboy swing band called "The Dusty Chaps", featuring my now good pal, Peter Gierlach(aka:Petey Mesquitey) on the devil's instrument, the squeeze box. Ah, the memories of youth.
That doesn't mean I don't love the cities too. I just haven't gotten that far yet. Rather than deluge the Pig's readership with my tome, I will (energies renewed) go aboutinundating my own blog. Check there tomorrow for the continuing saga of Leopold, Gypsy prince.
Of course, being of gypsy stock, I call no place home. As always, as tonight, I wander the milky way lit highways of the desert southwest searching for the illusive wireless connection to the world. I am no stranger to sleeping under the canopy of heaven, so I am happy.
Sorry. I got carried away. But now you got me started. I was not completely truthful in my previous post. Maybe my committment to San Francisco is a little deeper, albeit tinged with the youthful pain of lost love.
The part of San Francisco I liked the most, and still do (though it's been many moons)is in the Mission district. I had a girlfriend in college named Amalia McCarty (ok, her dad was Irish)and her people lived on the west end of the mission district, if I recall correctly, somewhere around 18th and Guerrero (?) I think. Anyways, all the Tios and Tias and primos lived about a block apart. There were dozens of them and they lived in those houses that had the garage on the ground floor right off the street and were like 3 or 4 floors up. Her Abuela Rosa lived on the top floor of a house on Guerrero and never came down, except for church. Her mom, Isela, and dad, Marty, ran a Tamaleria on the corner.
I was the token gypsy gringo for a few years, from about '74 thru '77. and when we'd drive out from Milwaukee to visit, they'd throw these parties where they'd close the street. I was always welcome, but I think the closing the street thing was a pretty regular thing. We'd come and it was just another excuse for fiesta. That's ok.
The biggest thing at those parties was the Pulque that Amalia's Tio Chuy (Jesus) used to make. It's a kin of Tequila, made from Agave too. He'd make this stuff in the garage and brought it to the parties in old Clorox bottles (sterile, I guess). This stuff tasted like dirt, but rivalled anything Owsley ever brewed up for sure.
Anyways, that's the happy part of the relationship. Ours was a tempestuous love and, though we'd tolerate no one but each other, we were destined to part. We'd fight and love and fight some more. Never physical, just lots of broken dishes.
Our last visit, Thanksgiving '77, was also the end for us. I left alone, though she did return to Milwaukee to finish the semester at school. On my leaving, all her cousins saw me off and her Tio Chuy told me I was a vato, since I could do the pulque and not puke (well, not in front of anyone) and I was always welcome. I knew he meant it and I made that half-hearted promise to come back, even if it was without Amalia.
Amalia left school after Christmas that year and moved to Quebec where she got a job as a photographer. We wrote a couple of times and then lost track around '82.
I have been back to Frisco since then, but never went back to the neighborhood. I should have. I was, after all, a vato.
When we were too young to run around on our own, my brother and I spent an early evening on the streets of San Fransico while mum and dad "rested" in the motel. We were on holiday and exploring was to be done.
When it got dark that august night so long ago, the people on the streets changed. The families were gone... We found ourselves in Chinatown and a few other areas mum would have beat us for going into alone. (everything is scary at 14)
I even remember "The Book Nook" I don't know if it exhists today. Did they really sell THOSE types of books?...this was the 70,s. Next to Vancouver Canada, I like Frisco best!
I've never visited SF but would most certainly love to go there someday and take lots & lots of photos.
I especially liked reading about Adolf Sutro; my great-grandfather, Oscar duBuis, designed the landscaping for many of the parks in Illinois (most notably Peoria and Chicago) around that time as well. It would be interesting to find out if perhaps he and Adolf knew of each other...
In any case, thanks for sharing such a fantastic post, Oh Great Pondering One =) I must travel to SF sometime soon I hope......
Thanks, guys. It seems like no matter how silly or crazy I get, you hang in there with me. I really appreciate you all - and your comments encourage me greatly.
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