Thinking of the children

Eulogy for the Dolores Park Playground

The Fog Bender eulogized the Dolores Park Playground so perfectly that I feel compelled to do the unorthodox thing here and quote him, in full, so you don't lose anything:

they tore down the playground at Dolores park and i’m bummed about it.

this was the place i went to countless birthday parties in my youth.

the place i would take countless dates to drink and chat on the wooden structure under the stars.

the place i would count hundreds of football sized rats running from the bushes to the big wooden boat that sat beached in the sand.

this was the place i would run off to after getting too fucked up to hang out at the bar.

i would swing on the swing set by myself and sometimes meet other people doing the same thing.

one time i was swinging really high and at the highest point in my back swing the swing decided to break and i flew backwards all the way across the sand and landed on my stomach on the concrete part of the playground.  that will never happen again because they’re putting in a new playground made of plastic and rubber.  no more waking up with sand in my pockets.  no more scraped knees.  it’s kinda sad.

Let's just hope they don't do the same to Tallboy Terrace.

[The Fog Bender | Photo by Alison Zick]

The Most Impotant Letter of Them All

Emilie Ridley is South African by way of Cape Cod. He attended Evergreen college in the late 70s, where he experimented with acid in a polygamist tribe before moving to San Francisco to open a biodegradable dog kennel business. He has been here ever since. This is his story…

Deciding I needed a reprieve from the neighbourhood gang crew spraying their stiffy doodles upon my doorpost, I wangled into my pleated shorts and hopped the ferry to bask in the sun of refined and tidy Sausilito.

After attending several houseboat open houses, I strolled back onto the ferry, energized from the clean air and a brilliant sunset.

Imagine my dismay, then, when I am greeted with this vista upon my return to this ever-viler city:

  

Is no one aghast at the city's inability to keep the most important letter of them all alight? For what do I pay my tax dollars? So that Johnny B. Feelgood might shoot up on the city's dime? 

Meanwhile, how do I explain to my 5 year old niece (were I to have a niece, I imagine her as 5) what “Pot” is and why so many gritty knucksters are giggling and snapshotting this grotesque oversight of public funds?

A new low in a city set on sinking ever deeper.