Ramblings

Naval Training Command San Diego-1971

In September of 1971 I became a card-carrying member of Uncle Sam's Yacht Club.

It was an interesting time to be a 19 year old male. The Viet Nam War was still in full swing, The Draft was still going on - as was The Lottery.

I was not in school, had a low Lottery Number, I was late registering with the Selective Service - and then burnt my Draft Card... Not what one would necessarily think of as a prime candidate for Military Service.

I had spoken with my parents about NOT going to Viet Nam. If drafted, I would head to Canada. While my mother more-or-less supported my decision, my father said try an alternate service before you make a decision that will affect you for the rest of your life.

I headed over to Treasure Island.

Questionnaires, interviews, tests... I signed the papers.

I had driven on and off the base several times during the process. It was still very much an active military base at the time and entrance and exit were controlled by MPs. One showed ID, stated their business, etc... Not a problem.

On the day I signed, on leaving I was asked the standard "are you a member of the military?" I had just signed the papers, so I responded "I guess so." He asked for my Military ID. I didn't have one.

It then became a "where is it?" "I haven't gotten one yet." A couple of phone calls... I was on my way asking myself what had I done.

I asked that question a few weeks later when I reported to San Diego for Boot Camp.

There was a very raucous going away party held in my parent's garage the night before I departed. When I got up, I was still drunk from the night before...

My normal attire back in those days was Levi 501s, boots, and an old army jacket with an Out Now button. And I had mutton chops and a handlebar moustache. Barely able to function, that's how I dressed, orders in hand, as my father drove me to the airport. He looked at what I was wearing and just smirked. He didn't say a word.

Air traffic being what it was back in those days, it was only an hour flight from SFO to SAN.

I landed in San Diego and wandered around until I found the Navy registration area where I was to report. I walked up - feeling like shit - and the fun began...

I started to explain why I was here and he grabbed my papers and told me to get over against the wall with maybe 8 or 10 other guys - some looking like model recruits already - and a few looking a bit worse for wear like me. I just stood there thinking what the fuck have I done?!?

That was to come later...

The first few days were regimented like you wouldn't believe. On Day One, we were woken up at 0400 hours - that's 4 ayem for the real world - and immediately out of the barracks without the chance to pee or look in a mirror- let alone brush teeth.

We were marched for 2 hours before being allowed to use the restroom. They led us into a huge bathroom with a wall of toilets maybe a foot and a half apart - no dividers, no privacy. Drop trou and do your business. Disconcerting to say the least.

The first month was spent at Camp Nimitz - the newest part of the base dating back to about 1955 but continually updated and modernized through the 60s.

This was where we were orientated in to Military Life. And what an orientation it was.

First was uniforms and physicals. And shots. They were delivered by air pressure - one on each arm in assembly line fashion. I do not recall how many I got, but there was no place in the world where i was in danger of catching anything!

That's me with the patch over my eye. I remember having a patch for a brief while - I don't remember why...

In the middle of all this I got pulled out to be questioned by Security Specialists because I had answered "Yes" to "Have you ever smoked marijuana?" It was 1971 San Francisco, fercrissakes! I figured if I said no they'd know I was a liar! I told them I had tried it once at a party but didn't like it and never tried it, again. They were also not amused by my Army jacket and Out Now button. I had taken off the button after checking in - I didn't even realize it was on the jacket - but the Military has eyes everywhere... They were some intimidating people.

Then it was a battery of testing and TV classes. I scored really high in all the tests and literally had my choice of schools and professions I wanted to do. Alas, for anything like computers or nuclear-related, I had to extend my active duty enlistment to a minimum of six years. After a week of total hell, six years did not sound appealing. I had already been promised Commissaryman Class "A" School. I stayed with that.

It paid off in little ways... Once we "crossed the river" and went over to the main camp, we had a week of mess duty - working in the galley and mopping floors, washing pots and pans, and generally being a kitchen grunt. Because I was a Commissaryman Striker, as it was known at the time, I got to work with the cooks and bakers, learn the tricks of the trade, and was actually treated as a near-equal.

The main base was where the various schools were located, as well as the second half of training.

Where the first month was spent forcing conformity, the second half was putting it into practice. While it was still very strict, we started to understand the rules of the game. It became easier.

Practice does make perfect, as they say...

This is our Graduation Day. Soon to get our orders and be off as Regular Navy... Mine were to Commissaryman Class "A" School.

This is our Recruit Petty Officer group.

Not that I was exactly military leadership material, but that pot smoking question definitely kept me out of the running...

The kid on the far left in the second row from the top and I were roommates after bootcamp when we were both going to our "A" schools. His dad was a career navy officer - fairly high-ranking, if I remember correctly - and he was a surfer dude from Capitola. He was smart as a whip and was definitely not interested in being an officer. We shared an apartment in Ocean Beach - right on the beach. It was rough - NOT!!

Once out of bootcamp, we were treated like actual human beings - most of the time. After graduating school, I got orders to San Francisco and The USS Ranger (CVA-61). It was in drydock at Hunters Point Naval Shipyard. There was lag time from school to ship, so I floated around San Diego for a few weeks TAD to different Naval bases down there. TAD=Temporary Assigned Duty.

With selective memory and rose-colored glasses, I guess it wasn't all that bad.

Hell - I survived!

And just for grins and giggles, here's a video I found on YouTube from 1970. It's Graduation Day in San Diego!

by Tim

Happy Birthday To Me

Back in the '60s, my mom's best friend from high school, Gloria, and her husband, Ray, bought The Villa Del Mar Motel at South Lake Tahoe. We had been going to Tahoe for quite a few years - always staying at The Kent Motel. The folks would leave us with my older brother in charge - and they'd head off to the casinos - almost always coming back with a bucket of nickels. Yes, back in those days, they really were one-armed bandits - you put real coins in, pulled the handle, and (hopefully) real money came out.

But I digress...

That changed when Gloria and Ray bought the Motel - we now stayed with them - at a slight discount... We were up there for a few days in July, 1969 and their son, Mike - a year younger than me - and I convinced both sets of parents that I should stay up there for a month and help work at the motel - cleaning rooms, working a PBX switchboard, actually taking reservations - and having fun doing it! Ray and Gloria had 4 kids - Mike was the oldest - but everyone worked. They had no outside staff. It was totally family-operated.

The bottom level, back in those days, was pretty much just storage. Mike and I took the bottom right room - looking at the picture - and turned it into our own little (actually, quite large) teen-cave. We had TV, mini-fridge, beds, clean sheets and towels... It was rough.

There was a drive-in theatre a mile or so from the motel and we'd walk over there and sit in the lot and smoke pot and watch movies. I think I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey  a dozen times that summer. And we'd swim in the lake, clean rooms, answer phones, pick up cigarette butts and trash in the parking lot...

And in the middle of all this fun was my 17th Birthday, so I sent my parents a telegram to congratulate them on having me. Yes, I am so old that not only do I remember telegrams, I remember when they were delivered to your house!

Always something silly...

I think I was up there one more time the following winter. That hill next to the house led to a boat dock. That winter, we took sleds and shot down the hill, onto the dock and into the freezing water. Our parents tried to act unamused, but really did see the humor in it.

Fast-forward to 1976... Ray and Gloria had sold the place, and had moved to Grants Pass, Oregon. I was living on the North Shore working first at The Old Post Office in Carnelian Bay and then at the Hyatt Lake Tahoe - in Food and Beverage. I had my fill of room cleaning.

At some [point, the Villa Del Mar became an office building and about 5 or so years ago, it became The Idle Hour Wine Bar. What a difference.

Next time I make it to Tahoe I will definitely be stopping by! The only thing that hasn't changed is that remarkable view.....

by Tim

Christmas Carols with the Mayor of San Francisco

December 18, 1962 - a date which will live in infamy - for me, anyway... It was the day I presented San Francisco Mayor George Christopher with a book of Christmas Carols in the City Hall Rotunda!

Imagine, if you will, 400 children on those steps. Me, at the bottom - a nervous 10 year old who has just forgotten his speech. I was stammering... my mind was a complete blank... My short life was flashing before my eyes... I was doomed...

I started out "Mayor Christopher" ::clears throat:: ... "Mayor Christopher" ::clears throat again::

Gladys, our playground director, was doing a stage whisper shouting "On Behalf" "On Behalf" Finally, it came to me:

"Oh, yeah!!!"

Mayor Christopher,

On behalf of the Children's Chorus of the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department, I would like to present to you this Book of Carols for you and Mrs. Christopher.

That was it - the five-second speech that caused a near-death experience!

Mayor Christopher laughed and gave me a big hug. I had persevered and done my job. The festivities were officially started.

I don't really know how I was chosen to do this. I kinda guess it happened to be South Sunset's turn to supply the kid and I was such a little dweeb that I was a natural.

I spent a lot of time at South Sunset Playground back in the day - it was my safe haven. I was picked on and bullied at school - St Gabriel's - 1200 students in grades 1-8. The largest Catholic school west of the Mississippi River. We were taught by nuns - in long black habits, white guimpe and wimple, black veil... very medieval... The fact that I was a straight-A student and more often than not a Teacher's Pet did not win me any bonus points from some of my classmates.

At the playground, I was in the ukulele group taught by Mrs Daniels - Hawai'i had only been a state for a year or so. Mrs Daniel's was also the organist at the church and I was one of the children's choir members. I soloed Ave Maria - Shubert's, in Latin, of course - at Midnight Mass somewhere in '62-'64. Yeah... not popular amongst my peer group but encouraged and accepted by a few adults who weren't relatives.

Here's a photo of the Ukulele Group since I don't have one of the City Hall Christmas Carols... It was probably around the same time...

I contacted the SF Public Library about how I might locate a photo of the event, but, alas, it seems that no photo exists. They did send me a couple of newspaper clippings that they had, but a search of Rec & Park files as well as Mayor Christopher did not show any actual photos or other documentation of the event.

And that's okay... The memory of being that nervous little kid 60-whatever years ago brings a smile to my face. And, in the grand scheme of things, that's all that matters.

by Tim

Protests

Protests can take many forms. Sometimes they're physical - you show up somewhere to march or show solidarity. Other times it's a boycott of a company or the cancelling of a subscription. Sometimes it's letter-writing or signing petitions. Other times it's jamming the Capitol phone lines trying to call your Senators and Representatives. Sometimes it's standing up when everyone else is sitting. Sometimes it's talking a knee when everyone else is standing. Sometimes it's confronting someone. Sometimes it's protecting someone. Sometimes it's just not backing down. Entering my 74th year, I've probably done all of them at one time or another.

The first time I was teargassed was 1968. I was 16.

I was at San Francisco State College mulling around the student strike. It was a five-month  long strike - the longest in academic history. While the strikers had quite a few complaints - everything from the Viet Nam War, ROTC on campus,  and providing students' academic standing to the Selective Service - the main issues were systemic admission practices that excluded students of color and classes that were irrelevant to minorities.

San Francisco - in all their infinite wisdom - set the SFPD Tactical Unit in on many occasions - baton-wielding, tear-gas shooting "authority" to quell what were peaceful protests until they showed up. Eventually, it was the National Guard. Not surprisingly, they only made matters worse. That was the second time I was teargassed.

It was my first series of demonstrations - certainly not my last.

There was political calm for me in the '70s. After getting back from Viet Nam, I ended up settling at Lake Tahoe. It was peaceful back in the day...

Then I moved to Boston.

My first demonstration there was against the KKK. It was a few years after the Boston Busing situation that had angered Bostonians - particularly in the South Boston area. Racial tensions had been high but had been cooling off. The KKK decided to show up and stir the pot. They demanded - and received - police protection during their assembly at City Hall Plaza. The protesters greatly outnumbered the KKK and they cut their little display short. While it was their Constitutional Right to assemble, a few of us thought it was our Constitutional Right to throw rocks at them. We made our point, no one was injured, and we faded into the crowd.

We marched in and attended Gay Pride Parades - back in the early days they were really fuck-you-in-your-face events - before corporate sponsorships watered down the messages.

We went to see Armistead Maupin and the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus at Davies Symphony Hall in SF and had to walk a gauntlet of Fred Phelps supporters with their signs and cameras videotaping everyone walking in - trying to intimidate people. Victor and I stood directly in front of the cameras and gave each other a lip-lock-tonsil-tickle that totally curled my toes. We then smiled, flipped them off, and walked arm-in-arm into the hall - to the cheers of the spectators around us.

We were always letter-writers and have had scores of letters published around the country.

We supported the Occupy Wall Street Movement and spent time at the Philly encampment back in 2009...

And then to Washington, DC for the National Equality March in October, 2009.

That was a fun one!

The people were amazing - the signs intelligent and clever...

After the speeches and all, we headed back through The Mall to Constitution Avenue where we found another Fred Phelps-style protestor...

We figured it was time for a bit of Street theatre, so we headed into the middle of Constitution Avenue right in front of the jerk, stopped traffic, and proceeded with another lip-lock-tonsil-tickle to the roar of the crowd! At this point we were in our late 50s showing the whippersnappers a bit of in-your-face-activism. Sometimes just showing up is enough. Other times ya need to do a bit more.

We were back again in 2017.

And while we fight for Equality we have to continue to fight the systemic racism in our country. The current fascist fuckwads in power are doing everything they can to destroy the minuscule steps anyone who is not a cis gendered white christian male has achieved in the 250 years of our country. Very simply, all lives cannot matter until Black Lives Matter.

We were unable to attend any protests in person but continue to support Black Lives Matter financially.

We're both approaching three quarters of a century in age. I'm really getting tired of all of this shit.

But... as long as that fuckwad is in the Oval Office, we don't have a lot of choice.

One foot in front of the other - keep moving forward.

by Tim

46th Avenue

I grew up on a reasonably typical Sunset District street in San Francisco. (We were the brown house - it was usually painted white with either black or blue trim and a bright red front door.)

The big difference on our street was, we were two blocks from the ocean, two blocks from the Zoo and Fleishhacker Pool, and we had a streetcar and a bus line in front of the house. There were about 37 single family homes on the street. There had been 38, but a big ol' house directly across the street from us - probably built in the 1890s - was torn down and a 5-unit apartment house was built in its place. The old house was spooky - the perfect place for a little kids imagination to run wild.

We moved in in 1958 after my dad got caught living outside of the city limits. Back in those days, firemen had to live within the City and County of San Francisco. (They paid $16,250 for the house.)

At any given moment, there were about 40 kids in the one block stretch between Ulloa and Taraval. I was smack dab in the middle of the batch - the youngest of the older kids and oldest of the younger kids. It was an awkward place to be - I always wanted to be with the cool kids but the last thing I was was cool.

When we were youngsters, there were literally no cars parked on the street during the day. It was a wide avenue where we played any number of games. We could hear the streetcars turning at Taraval or see the busses more than a block away, so it was easy to get out of the way for a moment before resuming play. Summer by the ocean in San Francisco means fog. We stayed out as long as we could - but it was with a jacket.

Everything we needed was in the neighborhood. At the SW corner of 46th & Taraval was a rather large bar/lounge called The Sand Dunes. Across the street was Edgewater Delicatessen - Frank & Grace owned it - and Paul's Barbershop. On the NW corner was Seabreeze Pharmacy - a drug store with soda fountain. And Sea Bee Cleaners, Great Highway Market - with full butcher shop - we called it Dick & Harry's after the owners. Paul was the butcher. A shoe repair and liquor store next door. The Oar House - another local tavern - and a TV repair across the street.

Two blocks up Taraval was Amity Market - owned by Bert and Mitzi Quist. Lakeside Hardware was across the street on the SW corner. Everything we needed was within a short walking distance.

As kids, we had free rein of the West of Twin Peaks.  We could ride our bikes to Pine Lake and catch crawdads or to Lake Merced to fish for trout. We got there one day when they were stocking the lake and caught so many fish we had a fish fry across the street in front of Sonny & Jr's house.

We'd bike to Golden Gate Park, to Playland and The Fun House, or up to Sutro's. Head down to the beach - through the Taraval Tunnel that went under the Upper Great Highway. We're still friends with a couple of girls who lived down the block - how many friends have you had for 67 years?!? It's pretty amazing...

In the days before CCTV everywhere, mobile tracking on cell phones, and parents who were not neurotic about letting their kids out of their sight, we had a blast.

I realize we can't turn back the clock to those thrilling days of yesteryear... For one, things and places are just too crowded and moving too fast. Back when we were playing in the streets, cars were big and made of steel with huge chrome bumpers. There weren't as many of them and they weren't driving down the streets at 60mph while talking on a cell phone. Even though there were a hellava lot more kids outside - people actually paid attention most of the time.

And, it was the generation... My grandparents were born in the 1890s. The oldest relative that I knew and remember was born in 1875. Our parents were mostly born in the 1920s and lived through the Depression. They were all pretty no-nonsense when it came to discipline and they laid out expectations. Granted, we got around them quite often, but you need to know and understand the rules to be able to break them and not get caught - because there were always consequences when you were.

The Zoo was free - we could go there with no money and entertain ourselves - usually causing a lot of mischief, but... we weren't doing anything to get us arrested. Today, it costs money and you can't enter on your own under 14. And it's the same with just about any other place - minors must be accompanied by an adult. Kids aren’t allowed unmonitored time to just be kids. So much for going outside and being gone for a few hours - CPS would be getting calls left and right.

We only had to worry about nuclear bombs being dropped. Today, parents have to worry about their kid getting murdered at school or snatched off the street by a masked, unnamed government agent in an unmarked car.

No... we can't turn back the clock - but we sure were lucky to be kids back then.

by Tim

Marriage Equality

June 26, 2015. We were boarding a plane in Italy for the US when we found out we were finally - legally - married. Feeling totally dumbfounded, I really really wanted to call my mother. She would have been so happy.

I remember the day 50-whatever years ago when I told her I was gay. She cried. Not because I was gay, but because she knew what a rough life I was destined to have – and she feared I would be alone. I lived all over the USofA chasing rainbows of one sort or another but true love always eluded me. I hid the rough spots over the years, but she always hoped I would settle down.

And then I – and she – met Victor. It was love at first sight.

She adored him and knew from Day One that I had finally met my life-mate. She was a proud mama and so happy that her little boy had finally found the happiness she had always hoped and prayed for.

She died way too soon, but she left us knowing we were happy.

I just wanted to call her and say We Did It!  Legal everywhere! She would have beamed with pride.

What a difference from that little boy 60 years ago – several lifetimes ago – who at 13 actually thought about killing himself. I knew I was different, I thought something was wrong with me. I knew liked boys but I also knew it was something I had to keep secreted in the deepest depths of my being. The love that dare not speak its name…

It was a very frightening time. I think it’s one of the reasons I’m very publicly out today. I want other 13 year old kids to see a [reasonably] well-adjusted adult gay male out there and just kinda pass on the “it’s okay” message.

When I told my father I was gay, his reply was “I know. I was wondering how long it would be before you finally mentioned it.”

And then I CAME OUT. In a blaze of Rainbow Glory. I was so out my brother finally told me he liked me better when I was in the closet. I got the message and toned things down a bit. It was such a relief, though, not to have to hide. Of course, it opened up a whole new can of worms… I got to experience fear – not of being found out – but of getting my ass kicked for being in the wrong place or coming out of the wrong bar. And then there was the hotel GM who told me I wasn’t going any further up the Corporate Ladder because I didn’t have – emphasis his – a wife.

So many years of open and blatant discrimination. So many years of being called a sodomite and a sinner, that I was going to hell. Laws enacted to deny me my basic human rights.

Hell – I couldn’t even get out of the draft by saying I was gay. In those pre-Don’t Ask Don’t Tell days, I would have been inducted, and then dishonorably discharged. With a probably prison sentence. Really.

When we moved to Pennsylvania from California in 2001, I – naturally – had to quit my job. California denied me unemployment because we weren’t married. I filed an appeal and a judge wrote a scathing opinion denouncing California, stating that we had done everything we legally could to validate our relationship and they couldn’t deny my unemployment based on a legality they refused to give me. It was great.

When California finally enacted Marriage Equality we decided to get married at home in San Francisco in 2008. The wedding was planned for November 23rd. Prop 8 passed on November 8th. So much for our non-wedding. We did have  great train ride back to Pennsylvania, though.

We were finally married in October 2010 by a dear friend in New Hampshire. And then parts of DoMA were repealed. In May 2014 – while we were in Sicily – Pennsylvania recognized our New Hampshire marriage.

And on June 26, 2015, the Supreme Court announced we were married. Period. (Or so we thought.)

I don’t think that little boy 60 years ago ever dreamed it would come - or that people would now be trying to take it away.

In 1995, Victor and I marched as honor guards in the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade for Hawai’i defendants Ninia Baehr and Genora Dancel – two of the women who sued Hawai’i for the right to marry and really started the firestorm. I didn’t think we had a snowballs chance in hell of ever seeing marriage equality in our lifetimes, but it didn't mean we were going to roll over and play door mat. It was a raucous crowd - Pride Parades were much more in-your-face-fuck-you-we're-here-we're-queer-deal-with-it spectacles. And marching the length of Market Street put some strain on our poor little feet - but it was so worth it.

Hours later, we got home and opened champagne!

This bottle came back with us from Paris and had been sitting in the ‘fridge waiting the right moment to come out, so to speak. It was the perfect day to drink champagne and celebrate.

And we'll be drinking another when these political fuckwads are gone.

The fight(s) are far from over...

by Tim

Lines with Madame

Somewhere around 1978-1979, my roommate, Michael, dated Wayland Flowers. I cannot narrow it down more than that because it was the '70s. So many fun and outrageous things happened when I lived at Tahoe that it's impossible to put them all into any sort of chronological order. We didn't have phones that time-stamped our lives. Hell - we didn't have phones except for the single landline in our 4-person/4-bedroom/2 bathroom home - with the lake view before they built the condo's in out back yard... (Another story for another day!)

Michael had gone down to Reno for a party or something and met Wayland after a show. They hit it off rather quickly and Michael ended up in Reno quite a bit. I went down with him one night to catch his show - it was hysterically funny - and it was party-hearty after.

Wayland was hysterical off stage as well as on. He could jump in-and-out of character at the drop of a feather boa. While Madame did stay in her dressing room, her persona was liable to come up anywhere Wayland went.

He was really a very sweet guy from the brief time I saw him - and he had really good drugs. Always a plus!

They didn't date long - Wayland was a celebrity who was constantly on the road and Michael definitely wasn't looking to settle down, either.

He was cute, though...

by Tim

Meeting Jimmy Carter

Jimmy Carter is my most favorite President from the time I was able to vote - my first Presidential vote was for George McGovern absentee ballot from the USS Ranger CVA-61. (That boat will probably be a recurring theme in these stories!)

I started working in hotels in 1976 and I had seen my share of famous people. At the Hyatt Lake Tahoe, they held "Hyatt Celebrity Tennis" every year and I met Lorne Green, Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds, Michael Landon... and a score of others whose names are among the brain cells I have destroyed over time... There was always a so-and-so staying at the Lakeside suites...  I'm not generally a star-struck individual - meeting celebrities really wasn't a big deal.

From Tahoe to Boston and The Hyatt Regency Cambridge. Because of its proximity to Harvard and MIT - as well as Mass General - lots of politicians stopped by. I saw Reagan - did not meet him, fortunately - and a Saudi Prince reserved an entire floor for a month because his mother was undergoing treatment at Mass General Hospital. Probably about 35 rooms. I met Rodney Dangerfield who was doing a show for Harvard, one night - he was really funny and really foul-mouthed. I loved it!

One afternoon I was by myself taking the service elevator up to the Spinnaker - the revolving rooftop restaurant/lounge - when the doors opened and Jimmy Carter and two Secret Service guys stepped in.

He smiled, shook my hand, and asked me how I was doing. I stood there gaping, tongue-tied, and sputtering. It was one of those Geemrpresidentitissogreattomeetyou - heart pumping a mile a minute, overwhelmed, to say the least. Not that I could have actually articulated that at that moment... Red faced, palms sweating... I'm sure he was impressed.

He really was a great man.

by Tim

My 21st Birthday

Twenty-One. The magic age. The rite of going out and getting sloshed - legally - for the first time. I spent my 21st birthday floating a couple of miles off the California coast.

We had been back from Viet Nam for about a month, homeported at NAS Alameda - right across the bay from home. I was back to almost being a civilian with a Navy job. I was even working at Pirro's and collecting a paycheck from Barry, as well. It was rough.

There was no air wing on board at this point - they were all back at Lemore, Miramar, North Island, or wherever... It was just us sailor-types on the boat.

The powers-that-be planned a 3-day "RefTra" - that's refresher training in Navy lingo - for the end of July. Knowing my 21st birthday just happened to fall at the end of July, I put in for a 3-day leave. Leaves like this were pretty much just rubber-stamped. There was no compelling reason to deny - especially since we were part of the "New Navy" headed by 'Uncle Elmo' Zumwalt - Chief of Naval Operations. Uncle Elmo had revamped all of the personnel policies to make the Navy a more human place.

Yeah... it was that Leading Chief, again... Chief Tanzio wasn't about to let one of his least-favorite pieces of Government Property actually spend time off the ship enjoying his special day. No... our dear Leading Chief let me know just how indispensable I was feeding the limited crew we had on board.

Yeah, right.

I did very little during that three days floating off the coast - there literally wasn't enough to keep us busy - and that was after doing a "Navy Clean" of the bakeshops. (They really did use white gloves and that asshole really did look for stuff to criticize.)

So... I got back on land the day after and celebrated then. One of my first stops was "The Blue Crystal" - a bar up the block from Pirros's where I had been working since I was 16 - and drinking at since I was 17-18. It was all about how you ordered a drink. Order a "Seven and Seven" and you'd get carded. Order a Vodka grape short or a Jack with a Bud back and you would get a great drink.

They were really not amused that I had fooled them for such a long time.

And it wasn't the last time the asshole Chief screwed me over...

by Tim

Camping Atop Half Dome

Once Upon A Time...

I camped atop Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. It was September of 1977. Three of us.

It's the only time I have ever been to the top of Half Dome - and It was also the last. I have no plans of climbing back up there ever again - even with two new hips.

It was 1977. I was 25. Invincible. I smoked too much, drank too much, and took too many illicit drugs. Perfect time to camp at 8850 feet above sea level. To be fair, it was only 1800 feet higher than where I lived at Tahoe, but still...

We had to bring everything - water, food, cigarettes, alcohol - hard liquor because beer weighed too much - tent, sleeping bags... I was 25. Invincible.

Only a couple other folks were camping while we were up there - it wasn't the madness that it is, today. In fact, overnight camping is prohibited, nowadays - too much shit - literally - left behind. I honestly don't recall the bodily function issues, but we did pee off the edge. I can't believe I stood at the edge of half dome and peed! I'm breaking out in a cold sweat just thinking of it! Invincible, indeed.

The top isn't really big and it's not exactly flat - it's kinda wavy-ish - but you won't roll off the edge in your sleep.

It is difficult to describe the beauty. You literally are siting on top of the world. It is simply spectacular. At night - the sky. We don't see stars, anymore - light pollution from the cities is drowning them out. But on top of half dome, that's all there were - forever and ever and ever. It was even clearer than Tahoe or the Desolation Wilderness. And quiet. We had the perfect crystal clear night.

I do not recall the climb up being overly difficult - remember, I was 25 - but it was long. Really long. And hiking down was much more difficult that hiking up.

It's one of the most beautiful places on earth.

by Tim

From Russia, With Love

Sometime back in the early '90s I got a melamine tray from my Uncle Gene who was living in Hawai’i - I was visiting him for a week of fun-in-the-sun.

It was a reproduction of a mural by Eugene Savage who had been commissioned to create nine of them for the Matson Steamship Line pre-WWII. Matson pretty much had the monopoly on ship traffic from California to Hawai'i back in the day. I know my great aunts took the trip several times.

Although the murals were completed, the war broke out and they were never installed on the ships - the ships were used as troop transports. After the war, styles were changing, so reproductions of them were eventually used as used as keepsake menu covers for the SS Lurline – the flagship of the Matson Line.

The tray may cost him ten bucks - if that. It wasn’t valuable, just decorative.

For years, the tray sat downstairs in the basement collecting dust until one day I brought it to work with some cookies. It then sat at work until one day when I used it at the demo counter. I kinda kept thinking I would bring it home, and I kinda never did.

A regular customer came in and asked where we had gotten the tray. Andrey is from Russia, tall, dark hair, quiet, and a very genuine person. We’ve chatted in the past, he’s married to a really nice woman - Irinia - and he's just a really nice guy. He knew of Eugene Savage and liked his work.

He said if I ever wanted to part with it, he would love to buy it. I smiled, said it wasn’t for sale, he said okay, and off he went to the cashier.

So… a minute later, I’m looking at the tray thinking it’s doing me no good, I don’t have any place at home for it, and if I leave it at work it’s eventually going to fall apart.

He was still at the register so I brought it over and gave it to him.

He was quite taken aback. He wanted to pay for it and I just said no - it's yours. Enjoy it. I tend to cash in Karma points quicker than I can receive them - banking a few is never a bad idea. He thanked me profusely and left with a huge smile on his face.

The Sunday Before Christmas, he and his wife came in with a shopping bag. In it, he said, were the things every Russian family has at Christmas!

First up, was a bottle of a carbonated beverage called Kvass Ochakovskiy. It is made from rye bread and is naturally fermented. It's a really refreshing sweet and sour beverage with a minimal - 1.5% - alcohol content.

Then there was a huge jar of pickled tomatoes and pickles – from Bulgaria! He said the best pickles in Russia come from Bulgaria. We laughed. Next was a hunk of halva. Sesame and honey… And a can of smoked sprats from the Baltic Sea. Sprats are small fish and contains long-chained polyunsaturated fatty acids. The little blighters are actually good for you! And they were amazing!

Finally, there was a Poppy Seed Rillet – a poppy seed pastry roll. Andrey said he hoped I didn’t have to take any drug rests soon!

I think it's really important to note that people are not their governments. Andrey was certainly not a Putin, and I am certainly not a Trump. Immigrants coming into the US are not evil - they're just people trying to build a better life. Just as our ancestors did.

A bit of druzhba because of a plastic tray...

by Tim

Buried in the Sand

by Tim

The Day They Signed The Peace Agreement

History Books will tell you the Paris Peace Accords took effect on January 28th at 8:00am - but it was January 29th in the Gulf of Tonkin - where Viet Nam is located and where I was located at the time.

In typical military fashion, we were still doing the same things we were doing before. The difference was we no longer received combat pay.

Also, in typical military fashion, the day was declared "Holiday Routine" which meant holiday for the crew, routine for the cooks. I was one of those cooks.

They held a huge barbecue on the flight deck - there were something like 5000 people on the ship, including the air wings and we set up bbq grills and grilled steaks for hours - literally hours. In the sun. Floating out in the middle of the Tonkin Gulf. With nary a palm tree in sight.

I ended up with 2nd degree burns over every bit of exposed skin on my body and was in sickbay for three days - I couldn't even walk. To say I was in pain may be a slight understatement. I was then given a no work chit for about a week.

One of the more fun things about all this is my leading chief - who really - really - disliked me - tried to have me court-martialed for "destruction of government property" - myself. Seriously. The only way I got out of his charge was the simple fact that I had been given a direct order to be on the flight deck grilling steaks in the middle of the Gulf of Tonkin - without shade.

It was bad enough that we worked 12 hours on, 12 hours off, seven days a week without some jerk riding your ass for no reason other than he could. If we were out at sea for 63 days, we worked 12 hours on, 12 hours off, for 63 straight days. He, of course, was in the office about 30 hours a week.

The dude constantly and continually tried to fuck me over any chance he could. (The only time he actually semi-succeeded was the day I was separated. I needed him to sign my separation papers and he wouldn't sign them until I got a "regulation military haircut". I smiled at him, got the haircut, and after he signed them I smiled again, and told him I was going to grow it down to my asshole, did a sharp military about face, and walked out.

by Tim

That Time I Didn't Get Arrested

I lived at the North Shore of Lake Tahoe from May 1976 to November 1980 - with a brief stint back in San Francisco circa 1978.

Circa 1979, I was back at the Hyatt Lake Tahoe, living in the house with Michael, Susan, and Clare. We all worked for casinos - Clare at the Nevada Club and me, Michael, and Susan at The Hyatt.

It was not unusual to get off work at 11pm, head out to the casino - first a stop at Nick's Hideaway - the small bar across from Alpine Jack's - and then to the Sugar Pine Lounge - the casino bar with live entertainment.

--as an aside - The Sugar Pine Lounge is where I first heard Elmo and Patsy sing "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" before it was ever recorded and released!

It was not unusual to have more than a few drinks, and then hit the Nugget for Chili Cheese Omelets and Budweiser's about 3am before heading home.

Ah... The life of a 20-something Casino Employee in the '70s...

One night, after a rather uneventful evening of imbibing, I was driving the three miles from the Nugget to the house - I had made it through the winding curves of Hwy 28 - and was on the straightaway into Brockway.

Oh... and I was driving my 1963 VW Beetle about 5mph in first gear.

I got pulled over in front of the Brockway Theatre. What a shock, eh?!?

The cop asked me for all the pertinent info and asked why I was driving so slow. My response was "'Cuz I'm DRUNK!"

He asked where I lived and told him right up 267 about 2 miles away. He stepped back to his car with my license and insurance and in a moment came back and handed it all back to me.

He said "I don't want to see you driving any faster than you're driving right now." and let me go.

by Tim

Frodo Lives!

I read an article today about how JRR Tolkien and his books The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings helped shape the anti-war movement.

Fantasy books and fairytales have always held a fascination to me. As youngsters, we had a set of the My Bookhouse series from the 1920s that had belonged to my Mom. Full of fairy tales and imaginative stories. I could easily get lost in them.

The first fantasy book series I read was The Oz books - all 14 of them - before I was 8 years old. I had a library card and the L Taraval streetcar stopped at the corner and dropped me off directly in front of the Parkside Branch of the library. This is circa 1959/1960 - the library was built in 1951, so it was still new and bright and totally inviting to this little bookworm. The books were all highly illustrated, which made the reading all the more fun.

The Children's Section was huge and the librarians caring and helpful. It's also where I started The Hardy Boys - and Nancy Drew - and on to Agatha Christie.

I first read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings Trilogy in Jr High School. - before being of Draft Age and before the first time I was teargassed at a protest. I even had a "Frodo Lives" button just like the one in the picture. I guess I was a geek before it was cool - because, really... the last thing I was in school was "cool".

Freud would definitely have a field day figuring out why I would immerse myself in fantasy and other worlds - probably had nothing to do with the fact that I had to hide the fact that I liked boys. (Yes, I knew even way back then...)

I think I've always been anti-war - even if I did go off to war in Viet Nam. As lottery numbers were being drawn, I said I wanted to go to Canada because I was NOT going to go into a jungle and kill people. My father said to try an alternate service before making a decision that would affect me for the rest of my life. Uncle Sam's Yacht Club gladly accepted me.

I'm not sure how The Lord of the Rings helped shape that, though. I knew then as I know now, that good has to overcome evil, but I've never seen myself as the hero of the story. More of a Samwise than a Frodo. Today, I'd be more of a Resistance Intelligence Gatherer, reporting back. Old men are invisible - walk into an Old Navy store if you need proof. And in todays political climate, being a part of the Resistance is more important than ever.

Being from San Francisco, I never considered myself a "hippie" - even if I did frequent the Haight and smoke lots of pot. But there were other parts of that counterculture that I really liked besides the anti war aspect - from questioning authority and breaking down gender and color barriers to attending The Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Novato several times - always in costume, of course! They were a 20th century interpretation of 15th and 16th century England - with lots of pot and tankards of mead - and smuggled in flasks of whisky!

20/20 hindsight being what it is, our egalitarian gatherings really were mostly white. The people of color who we were saying were all equal to us were too busy trying to eke out a simple existence to head out to Marin for an Elizabethan fancy dress party. The realities of life we didn't see.

Today, the realities of life are much clearer. All you have to do is look.

Being anti war and willing to fight evil are not mutually exclusive. The evil ones are trying to cause the wars - and it's our duty to stop them.

by Tim

How to Get Fired

In 1966 I got a job as a busboy at Blum's in downtown San Francisco. The restaurant was below the west coast flagship Macy's Department Store. Macy's was a big deal - and so was Blum's. It was in the heart of the Union Square shopping - with City of Paris, I Magnin, Gumps, The White House, and scores more shops for the well-heeled San Francisco shopper. Back in the day, one always dressed to go downtown.

Blum's catered to the blue-haired ladies with their granddaughters in white gloves and mary-janes eating monstrous banana splits as well as the well-dressed casual shopper getting a slice of their famous Coffee Crunch cake.

Ernest Weil was the original baker who created the famous Crunch Cake while working at Blum's back in the mid 1940's. He left Blum's in 1948 to open his own bakery, Fantasia Confections, in Laurel Village in SF. He continued to make the Coffee Crunch Cake long after Blum's closed their doors. It was one of Fantasia's best sellers. People would travel many miles to get that cake!

I got the recipe from a woman named Helen Kane who I was doing volunteer work with for Project Open Hand in 1995 and then bought his cookbook Love to Bake Recipes from Fantasia Confections in 2006 where he had the step-by-step-by-step instructions. I've made it a few times - it really is good!

At this point I had gotten a work permit, although, technically, I was supposed to be 16 to work at Blum's. It wasn't the first time I have hedged the truth.

I was good at the job, the waitresses liked me and I actually made some pretty good tips - plus I got to eat a limited menu free lunch and all the other stuff I could sneak.

Our manager was a woman named Mrs Brown. She was a nasty woman who preferred to communicate at the top of her voice weaving contempt, disdain, and sarcasm into her words. Actually, some of my more favorite traits in myself, but not on the receiving end as a kid.

One early Saturday morning I was on the opening crew and was getting ice for the bus stations. There was a standing rule that we always took ice from the bottom of the bin - never from the top. It's obvious sanitation sense because ice machines need proper rotation - the oldest gets used first and doesn't sit on the bottom getting nasty.

That Saturday morning the bin was completely full and as I tried to open the bottom, ice was spilling out into the kitchen. I started taking it from the top until I could relieve some of the weight to get back to the bottom.

In walks Mrs Brown and before I had a chance to explain, she started in on me - berating me, calling my stupid, can't follow simple orders, worthless... she went on and on while staff just stood there in shock. I casually reached over and opened the bottom door and ice went shooting across the kitchen, burying her up to her ankles. I just looked at her and said "that's why I was taking it out of the top." The staff broke into hysterics and she sped off in a huff.

I finished my shift and was called into her office. I was fired for insubordination.

And it was worth it.

by Tim

Baker-in-Training

Back in 1961 - the year my Baby Sister was born and the last one of the six of us - my father got me a job. It was to get me out of the house and get me to interact with people.

At nine years of age, I was a shy, introverted kid who read books, was a Straight A Teacher's Pet student, and secretly longed to be a cool kid like my older brother. Years later, I found out he really wasn't as cool as I had  thought, but.. this was 1961.

There was a donut shop/coffee shop a few blocks from the ancestral home that my dad would frequent - The Donut Center - owned by a guy named Niels Hoeck. The baker was an old German guy named Hans, and the donut maker was a guy named Steve. Bea and Ann were the waitresses/short order cooks/cashiers.

Looking back, I realize that Hans was probably in his late 30s or early 40s, but he was kinda gruff and just seemed really old to me - older than my 37 year old father. Niels hired me to work Saturday mornings from 7am-9am  washing pots and sheet pans for Hans and to scrap gunk off the parchment paper pan liners so they could be reused. And reused. And reused... If I happened to tear one of the more brittle ones, Niels would be mad while Hans would be secretly pleased.

When I wasn't busy washing pans, I'd watch what Hans was doing. I was pretty fascinated by how he could make these things look so good and taste so good. He seemingly effortlessly made Bear Claws and Figure 8s, every kind of fruit and cheese danish, and coffee rings and coffee cakes that were serious works of art.. Plus decorated cakes and pies... All the stuff you'd expect from a neighborhood bakery.

Being the inquisitive and eager-to-please little tyke that I was, Hans soon started teaching me some of the basics - like properly rolling out danish dough. He would usually have three or four batches going at once - one to actively roll-fold-turn-roll while the others were resting in the 'fridge. Hans was exacting. There was only one way to do it - the correct way. It was about feeling the dough and having it speak to you.

I had been doing my 2-hour Saturdays for about a year when I started doing a few more tasks. Filling jelly and custard donuts and bars - ONE push of the pump, not any more, not any less, frosting donuts, or grinding old stale donuts to be used as filling for bear claws and other delights. We saved particular donuts and let them dry completely, and then ground them and mixed them with sugar and spices to create the filling. Totally delicious.

Another fun thing was I used to get a free breakfast! After a while, I even got to cook it myself on the griddle. I got the hang of it pretty quick. And, I started drinking coffee. My first cups were 90% cream and sugar, but Bea and Ann told me if i was going to work in a restaurant, I needed to drink my coffee black. They told me that business and breaks were unpredictable and I'd be leaving partially consumed coffee cups behind at a moments notice. Wasting things wasn't an option, and there was no way you could ever get the proper ratios back adding more coffee. Adding hot black coffee to a half cup of lukewarm black coffee created a cup at the perfect drinking temperature. I still drink black coffee to this day.

I worked there until 1966. I learned to take orders, work a counter, be a fry cook, and a cashier. Firth thing I learned in handling money was that all bills were stacked and lined up with the nose pointing right. Every bill. Every time. It forced me to actually look at the bill and know what it was before counting back change. The second thing was that money from a customer never went into the till until change was given - to keep the customer from saying they gave me a 20 when they really only gave me a 10. And, today, my money is still always organized with heads facing up and noses facing right. And I balance my checkbook to the penny every month.

They were all tough on me - but not mean. They explained why they wanted things done a certain way and immediately corrected me when I forgot or got lazy.

It all paid off.....

by Tim

TimmyDick

In the year 1952CE, photographs were known, but not regularly taken. Unlike today - where there are so many photos taken of so many things, that they almost become meaningless - even very special events were rarely recorded for posterity. It means that the few photos that survived are cherished just a bit more.

I don't seem to have any pictures of myself before the age of about three. This one was taken around April, 1957 in front of our house on 19th Avenue in San Francisco.

But that's not the point of this particular post - it's the origin of the name "TimmyDick".

My parents met in San Francisco - they were both working for the Southern Pacific Railroad at 1 Market Street - but neither were actually from San Francisco. Mom was born in Bakersfield and Pop was born in Omaha.

Mom's Aunt Mayme lived in San Francisco and ran a rooming house on Sutter and Fillmore. Her Uncle Tommy - Aunt Dolores' husband and Mayme's youngest sister - was a Train Master for the SP and her Uncle Jim - Auntie Sis' brother was an Engineer for the SP. I don't know how involved either of them were in my mom getting a job there, but at the very least, she knew the company couldn't be all bad if her uncles worked for them.

My father's father was working for the Treasurer's Department in Omaha and was recruited by Bank of America during WWII to work in SF - women didn't work in banks back in those dark ages. He and my grandmother and my Aunt Kathleen moved to SF in 1943 and remained after the war. Their three sons - who were all in the military when they moved - joined them is SF after their discharges.

Tom and Jack - my father's older brothers - were married to their Omaha sweethearts and settled down raising families. My father was a good looking guy and a bit of a ladies man - until he met my mom. A bit of a whirlwind courtship and they were wed. My brother, Mike, was born 9 months and 3 weeks after their wedding. Back in those days, the old biddies would be counting the dates on their fingers...

It was a bit rough on my mom, because all of her in-laws had known each other for years back in the midwest. They had history my mom would never have. Whether they actually froze her out or her own insecurities made her feel left out is a moot point, today. What is known is that my folks moved to LA circa 1951 - ostensibly to put distance between her and her mother-in-law.

I was born in Los Angeles.

When I was born, my father sent a telegram to his parents announcing the birth of "Timmy Dick". My father's name was Richard, but always went as Dick. Back in those dark ages, Western Union was King and telegrams were the norm for things like announcements.

A month or so after my birth, my grandparents took the train to LA to see me, My grandfather asking "How is little James doing?" Evidently, Western Union confused Timmy with Jimmy in the telegram. Or, it could have been my father's atrocious handwriting - he was a lefty who went to a Catholic school and was forced to use his right hand because left-handed people were the Spawn of Satan.

ANYWAY.....

My mother quite indignantly said "His name is Timothy" and my Irish grandfather - his father was born in Ireland - beamed from ear to ear.

Sadly, Grandpa Dineen died when I was a mere 18 months old. I have a very vague, foggy memory of sitting on his lap on a bench with lots of noise and people around. I remember a hat and the smell of cigarettes. I mentioned it to my dad years later and he didn't have an actual recollection of it, but said it was probably a baseball game at Seals Stadium. His dad was sick - he had colon cancer - and liked to go out and sit in the sun and have a few beers.

My kinda guy!

by Tim