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San Francisco: The Beautiful Bubble

By       Message Allan Goldstein       (Page 1 of 1 pages)     Permalink

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I live in San Francisco, the beautiful bubble, home of the world champion San Francisco Giants. Don't you envy me a little?

The nation is having a nervous breakdown. The Retreads, uh, I mean the Republicans, will soon be back in control of Congress. The American people have spoken. Through the wrong orifice, perhaps, but they've spoken, bringing forth a new political leader, John Boehner, who sports a permanent orange tan.

I wonder, does that make him a Giants fan?

I'm proud of my home town. The idiot wave that swept the rest of the nation couldn't breach our beautiful bubble. We didn't fall for the horse bleep. My city kept its good sense and good humor in hard times. That's more than you can say for most of the nation, and we're the World Champions of baseball, which is more than you can say for the rest.

San Francisco just won the World Series with a team we couldn't help but love. The Giants are led by a long-haired pothead, a leather daddy playing sly tricks on the media, and some tattooed guys from out of town that nobody else wanted. This team is more ink than Inc. They represent the most derided stereotype in America--the San Francisco Liberal.

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SF is such an unappealing liberal hell-hole that America's best and brightest sons and daughters flock here like lemmings, as soon as they're old enough to leave home. Some even before, and they wind up on our streets. They'd rather be homeless in San Francisco than under a roof in Abilene.

You say we're too liberal for you? Hell, we're too liberal for ourselves! But that doesn't stop us from having a better time daily than you have yearly. We live in paradise and we like to whine about it. You live in rusting hell and like to whine about us too. So we've got that in common.

But come on, let's be real. Don't you envy us a little? When they showed those panoramic shots of our town, looking gorgeous in the low, slanting sunlight of October, I could almost taste the envy of red state America.

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You say you believe in markets? I'll show you how much San Francisco is despised. Here's a million dollars. See how much of your city you can buy with that. Here's another million. See how much San Francisco that buys you.

We've got better food, better air, better water, better weather and now we're the World Champions of baseball.

It will soon be wet, chilly December, here in the big ballyard by the Bay. But it won't snow. We don't have a white Christmas, like you guys do. But this year we'll have an orange one.

There will be Giants tee shirts under every tree, Panda hats and Brian Wilson beards in every stocking. In the Castro a few lucky boys will get spiffy, new, leather "machine" costumes.

After 53 years in town, the Giants finally won it all, for all of us.

This one's for my pop, who sold peanuts at the Polo Grounds back in the '30s, and who gave me my love for the great game prenatally, by taking my pregnant mom there back in '47. This one's for everybody who lived and died with the Giants and didn't make it long enough to see the 2010 team from street level. But if there's a mote of justice in the universe my late father-in-law was watching through archway ten, the one straight overhead, which is one more reason baseball should never be played in a dome.

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We've got great songs about our city. We've got a Golden Gate. We've got a ballpark with so many kids inside it looks like a day care center. You want to know what America will look like in twenty years, where you live? Take a look at the kids at AT&T park. Every size, shape and color, all of them golden, getting along just fine. They've got last names you can't pronounce and ball gloves on their hands.

You say San Francisco is un-American? San Francisco is America, you dummy. From the mountains of Twin Peaks, to the prairies of Triples Alley, to the oceans of McCovey Cove, white with kayaks spouting foam.

Some of us are lucky enough to call San Francisco home. And now that our national game has given you a good, close look at our beautiful bubble, don't you envy us, just a little?



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San Francisco based columnist, author, gym rat and novelist. My book, "The Confessions of a Catnip Junkie" is the best memoir ever written by a cat. Available on Amazon.com, or wherever fine literature is sold with no sales tax collected. For (more...)

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