Definitely a no-smoking zone

My stepdaughter, bless her soul, loves helping out. Give her a task, she's on it. She's six, adorable, and smart as science.

Even when you don't give her a task, she's always on the lookout for something to do. Some way to contribute.

The other day she was in our front yard and saw a red watering can. "I'll feed the plants," I reckon she said to herself.

Feed the plants she did. With GASOLINE.

Thank heavens it's raining today...

Poem

like a troll
in a dusty hole
brushing one's skin
against the dirt
digging, digging
smells like tinder
and mold
there's no gold
just the aged
bones and ash
of lives that passed
before your own
in a dusty hole
digging, digging
like a troll

Monday, Monday

1:45 p.m.

Got out of interview with "strategic planning officer" of tech company, a lizardy sort who couldn't stop talking though his voice failed. Leaving the Hilton, heading toward Market Street. Hot. I take off the $5 wool sports coat I picked up from Goodwill and think about giving it to a homeless guy.

The bare bones of the situation: I have an hour to kill, I'm done with work for the day, I have no kids on me and it is Monday. I need a bar. But this is not the Market Street I knew in my teens. Between Powell and Montgomery, there are no places to drink. Just Puma shops and electronics stores.

Look down side streets, Swill had said. Look, look. Is that one? Closer... Looks a century old. Crusty tile floor, wooden booths painted brown. Empty, but there's a blonde at the end of the bar on her cell. Yes, we're open. Saved.

Cheapest beer per ounce? PBR. You know it.

I have no cash and there's a $10 minimum tab. But my friend is coming, I will make him, using a magical text message. He will drink.

The beer goes down like soda and the girl cranks up some Bowie. I fold my coat, pull out a notebook, and toss my cell on the brown counter top. It sticks. I smile.

I always feel a little bit fake after talking to people like the lizard man. Now, lifted by the souls of generations of drinkers, I'm starting to feel OK, even if I'm bound to fall asleep on BART later and miss my stop.

An hour later my friend is by my side. He's making me laugh something stupid. Or maybe I'm making myself laugh. I can't remember. Probably both.

Ah, Mondays...

(Turns out I stumbled into a San Francisco landmark. The House of Shields originally opened in 1908. Stanton Delaplane mentioned it at least once, in a story about old watering holes in The Chronicle more than 20 years ago. "Writers discover saloons by a kind of ESP. They get on a stool behind a glass of Heineken and they know they're home. The Wash. Sq. is that kind of place. So is the House of Shields...")

She's a bouncy little thing, isn't she?

I was trying to find out what happened to Kenneth Eng, the "Why I Hate Blacks" guy. It appears I'm not alone. Funny how you can set off a racial firestorm that involves everyone from the NAACP and the House Speaker, and then make the world go away by masturbating into your plushie doll collection.

What I did find, however, was an unedited version of the column, proving the fine folks at AsianWeek at least did some work on this piece. Ha ha.

The superior find, however, was the above video, which immediately transported me back to 1980. When you're 12, there's nothing better than watching Battle of the Network Stars and seeing your favorite TV stars kick the asses of your little sister's favorite TV stars. Except, that is, for Chachi, who, I admit, OWNED the obstacle course event -- and Howard Cosell's heart:

"A tremendous victory! Scott Baio, what a victory! C'mere! Top of the heap! King of the hill! 'A' number one! Scott Baio, what a performance!"

It's almost like Cosell wants to take that scruffy little Scott Baio home and nuzzle him cooingly, while brushing his cigar-stained fingers up and down his back. Step off, Joanie!

Nice, too, were the days when one could call one's female co-star a "bouncy little thing."