Don’t call it Frisco
: I was feeling far more charitable and nostalgic this morning, with the bang-banging of the union goons gone. I went running early, past all sorts of memories:
There’s the old Examiner offices where I worked, now with Herb Caen’s typewriter enshrined in the lobby… That’s where I stood to give away $10,000 when an Australian kid brought us a piece of SkyLab — and my career survived… There’s the old M&M, the cruddy bar where we used to hang out with pressmen and mailers when papers had such people, now a cutesier restaurant…. There’s the apartment of someone I dated briefly when we were both on the list of San Francisco’s 100 most eligible (I’m not bragging… there were only 100 straight single men in the city at the time)…. There are the fast-food joints where I took a bunch of Chinese chefs for their first taste of America… There’s the Punchline, where I got to see lots of early comedy stars (most has-beens already)….
But I was shaken out of my nostalgic reverie when I ran by the goons banging their garbage cans again… at 6 o’clock in the morning!
Man, these place needs Rudy…
