The First 12 Memories That Make Me Smile

by G. Sax

One: Listening to my Sony Walkman cassette player while I delivered newspapers, particularly one sunny day on the front stairs of 1054 Norton Street while flipping to Side 2 of the Talking Heads’ Little Creatures.

Two: Crossing University Avenue at Victoria in St. Paul at the age of 6 when I missed my school bus home from Maxfield Elementary but missed it with some other kids who were older than me. Mind you, Maxfield was K–3. Whoever these mystery kids were, they were just babies themselves. But I still remember how exhilarating it was to cross that busy street without an adult present.

Three: Ditching Murray Jr. High on a snowy winter day with Cameron Blackmore. I rarely ditched school, but that day sticks out as a singularly great event of junior high. It was probably one of the only times I did anything alone with Cam. We went to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul Campus Student Union and ate vending machine food. We walked all the way to Bandana Square, which was still a viable mall at the time. Then we went back to his house near Como Lake. I eventually made it the extra couple of miles home, all on foot. Cam’s dead now and has been since high school. But I have that day as the one memory of me and him when it was just me and him.

Four: Feeling the wind in the air as I digested burritos in Novato, California, on a semi-busy street while realizing that I was in love. I wasn’t supposed to be in love, but I couldn’t help it. The food was so good, and the company was so exactly what I wanted my company to be for the rest of my life. I can only hope that every day is exactly like that day, and, guess what? It usually is. My happiness continues to be a curse to my better writing instincts, but it is the antidote to my being. And I can’t write at all if I can’t be.

Five: Singing “It’s just another one of those boring days…Dragon Snake, Dragon Snake.” This lyric will make sense to only one person in my life. He is Jon Lewis, and I spent the most formative moments of my youth with this cat. And then 30 years later, I took his wife to the Minnesota State Fair and we judged horse-and-carriage shows rather well for a couple of admission fee cheats.

Six: Reviling Mr. Muller, my uncle-bad-touch 6th-grade teacher who took me and Anthony Dent and Cory Cox and Roger Lynch to the Science Museum of Minnesota’s omni theatre to see “Genesis” on a school night. We ate dinner at his house, and the entire proceedings felt semi-formal. The other three boys were black and I was still white, and I got the distinct feeling that this weird man took pity on us as “underclass” although I already knew that I possessed superior intellect, that Anthony and Roger had superior talent, and Cory had superior cuteness. We would all be fine in life. At least until death. I don’t know what Cory and Anthony are up to these days, but Roger is gone as of 2003. I just found this out a few months back, and it really fucking bummed me out. Roger was my yang for a few years in elementary school, and I will always miss him, even if we hadn’t spoken in 20+ years and will never speak again.

Seven: Watching “The Benny Hill Show” with my great-grandfather. Watching “The Love Boat” with my great-grandfather. Watching “Fantasy Island” with my great-grandfather. Listening to an Angels-Twins exhibition game on the radio with my great-grandfather. Playing frisbee on the side of the house on Charles Avenue with my great-grandfather. Putting random bits of metal in the vise in the workshop of the basement of my great-grandfather. Playing Rummy 500 in the kitchen of my great-grandfather. Being mesmerized by the compass bobbling around on the dash of the vehicle of my great-grandfather. Quietly watching the thermostat from the hide-a-bed in the living room that would inevitably be changed in the middle of the night to a different temperature by my great-grandfather.

Eight: Enjoying rainy, dreary days in Milwaukee. Bike rides and car drives with Hunter S. Sax to parks on the East Side, playgrounds on Lake Michigan, cheap food places on North Street and Oakland Avenue, zoos in Racine, and wherever else our adventures would take me and my 3-year-old son.

Nine: Working “The Night Shift” at the snow fort on Mackubin Street, which I romanticized as far more than the snow-plowed pile across from a second-tier frozen lake and third-tier apartment complex. Oh, the way the light hit the shining snow at 9:30 p.m. on those rare, quiet nights as I sat sentry prior to the inevitable vandalism.

Ten: Getting ready before my TRUE night shift at Clean Power, a janitorial service company in Madison, Wisconsin. I generally worked three jobs at a time throughout my college experience (in bare feet, uphill both ways!), and for a time I would pump myself up for the night job with one of two polar opposites: Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence” or Public Enemy’s “Brothers Gonna Work It Out.” Either way, I’d pump that shit loud and sing it louder, and then I’d vacuum and trash like a fucking demon.

Eleven: Smoking cigarettes on the windowsill of my apartment-with-a-view in Montreal, Quebec. I don’t smoke as a rule, but as an American living in Canada, I smoked my share of Du Mauriers while watching the twinkling lights of my new downtown. Then I’d go read The Trilogy ’til I fell asleep.

Twelve: Driving on I-95 in Baltimore while listening to a lyric in Q-Tip’s “Vivrant Thing” that mentions I-95. Feeling like I had it all. Feeling like I was starting a brand new day. Hearing Sting’s “Brand New Day” while driving the same stretch of I-95 and thinking Sting and I could be pals in optimism. Thinking I could write an award-winning screenplay at the Royal Farms on Key Hwy long before some chick did it in a Target in Crystal, MN.

I got memories, yo. They’re all up in here (pointing at left temple). And if I did my job, you love the way I wrote about them, even if you don’t know them. But maybe they pinch something similar in you and you stop and think and remember a piece of your life the way it should be remembered—not in crisis but in private, otherworldly elation.

California Soul

by G. Sax

The title anthem has been taking up a sizable chunk of my brain since the Dockers “Work. Weekend. Dress. Golf.” ad campaign has been playing full steam around here. “California Soul” by Marlena Shaw is so freakin’ awesome I could just spit. It’s my current #1 (yes, I still keep track) and I play it all the time. Including right now.

I love my home and my hometown quite a bit these days. I love St. Paul. I love living in my childhood neighborhood again. It’s all so familiar and, oh, so unexpectedly different at the same time. I feel a sense of purpose raining all over me like Shake n’ Bake that I haven’t felt since my arrival in San Francisco in 2000, the featured city in the Dockers ad.

Sweeping camera zooms onto Market, the GG, and Marin, with a final pullaway from the ferry building toward the East Bay make me homesick for the place. I’ve been wanting to get my travel on of late, but SF is just a wee bit out of reach so I’m going to soak in the culture of another great city, Chicago, in the meantime. But I’m ready to go back to SF and see what kind of trouble I can stir up sometime very soon.

I once wrote a layperson’s tour guide to San Francisco for a colleague visiting from Michigan. I’ve been wanting to share it somewhere, and this seems like as good a place as any. I’d do up a Vallejo Tourist Guide, but I’m pissed off at that place. Vallejo straight declared bankruptcy. It was one of the most dysfunctional, mismanaged cities I’d ever been a part of (and that includes Milwaukee and Baltimore, people), and I shouldn’t be shocked that it came to this.

An “Insider” Tourist Guide of SF from a Guy in MN
I lived in the Bay Area for six years. Loved it. Hated the cost. Hated the traffic. But I’d live there again under the right circumstances. I learned a few sweet things about The City (don’t call it Frisco) that tourists might appreciate. Don’t buy a book. They’re not as fun to read as I am.

And here’s an up-front tip for any city you go to. Maps are plentiful and free at both staffed tourism offices and rental car places. I tend to stop at one or the other before I explore any city, and I’m always thankful that I did. Usually you can learn a good portion of a city by studying a map while your travel partner takes a shower. You heard it here first!

Okay, on to the San Fransciso tourist’s guide.

Alcatraz (duh!): Get the audio tour; it’s worth the extra money.

Fisherman’s Wharf: Sea lions, Pier 39, seafood, silver guys, dudes painting amazing pictures with spray paint and fire to a techno, boombox beat…you can’t do SF without a visit here. If you do a lot of wandering around The Wharf, beware the guy hiding behind the tree branch.

Union Square: Shopping! Capitalism! City life! I think the visit to the Cheesecake Factory atop Macy’s is worth it. You feel like you’re somewhere special.

Ghirardelli Square: Mmmm, chocolate; beautiful architecture; great photo opportunities of the GG, Alcatraz, and The Bay. If you’re interested in a stiff (as in whiskified), caffeinated drink, stop at Buena Vista for the world famous Irish coffee. You’ve never had anything like it, I promise you.

North Beach: Italian restaurants as far as the eyes can see; if you love garlic, try The Stinking Rose. Broadway and Columbus gets a little wild late at night, but you’ll enjoy Columbus Ave. and perhaps some sidestreets around Jackson Square right up through the dinner hour. I think this is my favorite SF neighborhood.

Chinatown: One idea is to do this on the same day as Union Square; work your way to the Grant Street gate (photo op!) of Chinatown from Union Square and walk up the street for great window shopping and people watching.

Union Street (as opposed to Union Square): More shopping! this time of the boutique variety rather than the big name brands at Union Square.

Haight/Asbury: Kinda cool but you’ll probably be underwhelmed. The actual corner features a Gap and a Ben & Jerry’s—if that gives you any idea of what’s happened to the area. This is a cool neighborhood for food. Kezar Pub on Stanyan features incredible buffalo wings and lots of sports TVs, but they don’t take credit or debit cards. Magnolia is a cool brewpub. Cha Cha Cha is a “happenin’” Mexican restaurant. Proximity to Golden Gate Park is a plus.

Golden Gate Park: There’s so much to do in here, it’s crazy. One definite highlight is the Japanese Tea Garden. You won’t see anything like this anywhere else in the country. Beautiful and unique flowers and trees. A simple, enjoyable, memorable experience.

Ocean Beach/Cliff House: The old Cliff House ain’t what it used to be, but this is still one of the best places to get your ocean sunset in (if it’s not foggy), get some good walking in, and maybe get some eats at one of the overpriced restaurants.

SOMA (South of Market): The Sony Metreon is just a fancy electronics-oriented mall, but SFMOMA and Yerba Buena Gardens are nearby. Go a little further south and you’ll be in the cradle of the SF Giants civilization; the restaurants become more sports-oriented and the park itself is all wow on gameday.

Streetcars: Long waits and crowded during the heavy season, but the “F” line in the Wharf, on the Embarcadero, and on Market Street are still, in my mind, one of the easiest and best modes of transportation for tourists. It’s certainly more friendly than the 15- or 30-Stockton routes (which both go through the heart of the city if you’re into the whole immersion thing.

The Embarcadero: Lots of people stroll along it on a warm day; if it’s cool when you visit, you may find it better to ride the “F” and marvel at its uniqueness from a window seat. The ferry building is a nice stop for coffee and light food shopping if you happen to be near it. The renovation has created a lively spot where once there was nothing for a former
boat commuter like me.

Crooked Street (Lombard): Take it or leave it; maybe worth a photo at the foot of the hill if you happen to be in the neighborhood; it is interesting, I’ll say that much.

Cable Cars: Take ‘em or leave ‘em. Riding them isn’t all that exciting and the lines can be long (maybe take a picture instead).

The Castro: Take it or leave it. Unique in its open gayness, but otherwise I find the restaurants underwhelming.

The Mission District: Take it or leave it. I know tons of people who swear by its nightlife and funky little burrito joints and sushi stops. If you want to go where the twentysomethings are loudest, ask around and you’ll find a party in this realm. Cabbing back to the hotel from here should be mandatory.

Weather Hint: Pack a light but warm jacket or at the very least a sturdy sweater or sweatshirt. Unless you want to be one of the multitude of tourists who sport an “SF” jacket that screams “I came unprepared.” You’ll see plenty of them. SF can be chilly at night (and often during the day); it won’t feel like Detroit, but it ain’t LA.

Fun Hint: March to your own drum. San Francisco is often best enjoyed at random. Start with an idea and let your spirit move you. It’s as great a city as you allow it to be.

If you decide to boat to somewhere other than Alcatraz, I would recommend the quaint and exclusive town of Tiburon. It’s just close enough to SF, and it’s just small enough to enjoy a walk through its historic setting, a good meal, a wine tasting, and an ice cream all within a couple-few hours. Many tourists like to cross the GG and go into Sausalito, but for my money, Tiburon is much better and not much farther.

Basically, you’ll never do all of SF in the time you’re there, but with these tips, you can sure take a big bite.

4th of July, 2007

by G. Sax

I’ve been fortunate enough to spend the Independence Day holiday in many great cities in the U.S. An evening on The Mall in Washington, DC. Wrigley Field and a dozen fireworks displays from a vantage point on high in Chicago. A little patch of green in Surprise, Arizona. A farm in Estelline, South Dakota. Friends in town for a holiday visit in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Baseball games in Sacramento and San Francisco, California. Even dirty little Vallejo evokes a charming memory of a shabby parade.

There have also been several in Minnesota, including about a half dozen at Langford Park in St. Paul’s St. Anthony Park neighborhood. That’s where I went last year for a dash of nostalgia. But I didn’t really feel like I reached back far enough.

For the first 5–8 years of my knowing life, I spent the 4th on Norton Street, at Marydale Park, and in the surrounding neighborhoods of St. Paul’s North End. That’s all the bigger my world was.

I remember holding ladyfingers as they popped, running from the unpredictability of jumping jacks and bottle rockets, sticking firecrackers in dog poop. I remember the big fireworks displays they used to do off of Mackubin Street by Loeb Lake. I remember when my mom’s boyfriend threw an M-80 in the dirty little pond just to the south of the lake and how exciting that watery explosion was. I remember drinking too much New Coke. I remember throwing a firecracker under a moving cop car. I remember when my full bag of fireworks went up in a fireball from an errant ash. I remember it all fondly.

Today, CarlyGirl and I ate a simple meal at a Minnetonka Perkin’s, took a few funny pictures at Midway Stadium, looked at some homes for sale, and then went to Norton Street and Marydale Park. We walked the length of Norton, lingering at 1165. We walked all the way around Loeb, watching a pops band while eating snowcones. We watched a volleyball tournament that seemed to pit Hmong vs. Rice Streeters on two different courts. We finished our day by 4 p.m., but I caught up on 30 years.

Best Films of 2006

    

by James Evans

My Neighbors

by G. Sax

Everpresent, shuffling Michael…who used to cough a lot, and then he didn’t, but now he does again.

The holistic health woman who listens to AM talk radio in her bathroom. The man who plays with his wide-eyed son on the stairs.

The scuba diving man who occasionally has his teenaged son who plays football.

The Hispanic family with the crowded back porch.

The caretaker woman who assures us without actually saying so that we won’t see much of our rent deposit returned.

The woman who smokes cigarettes on her balcony while her little dog Nitro plays sentry.

The Mexican dude with the fancy red sports car.

The Mexican men who drink Pacifico near a truck with the hood open.

The black woman with the dog that rarely barks, but when he does it is always a jump shock.

The $50,000/year country club across the street.

The ultrarich behind the dry creek bed with the pampered children that stay up past their bedtime.

Apartment complex people tucked safely behind many trees.

Tree rats.

Little birds.

Wild turkeys.

The beautiful tree, older than me and you, which offers protection from the sun and the elements.

The moon—up from east to southwest.

These are my neighbors.

I like them all.