Tuesday, January 23, 2007


Pud and I both hate this Yale Choir beating story. The actual crime, basically white-youth-wilding, is embarrassing for the city. But the cover up, so extensive for such a low level crime, hints at secrets far deeper and darker than a prominent parent’s inability to control her kids.

How does it relate to Fajitagate? How does it relate to the unsolved murder of SFPD vice-officer Lester Garnier? How does it relate to the weird political rub-out of Roger Boas?

If you’re a true crime fan at all, this story about the cover up in the murder of Lester Garnier will make you’re skin crawl.

Some of the Yale beating commentary involved the nativeness versus non-nativeness of residents and visitors. This reopened the dispute between Pud and me about which of us was more native.

I have documentary evidence. Pud has a story.

I have census documents showing that my grandfather was born in San Francisco in 1865. There are UC records showing he finished Medical School in 1894, and phone books showing he was practicing medicine and living at Haight and Masonic in 1901, the year my dad was born.

Pud has bullshit.

According to Pud, his great-grandfather worked for John Sutter in 1847 but was banished to San Francisco when he screwed the pooch.

“My great-grandfather, Clarence Wilson, was a beastialist,” Pud said, hanging his head for effect.

“There’s no other way to say it, he was a dog-lover. I guess he wasn’t too discrete about it, so he had to keep moving along. Finally, he came to California.

“You know how these days some people come to California for the 'California Girls'?

“So great grandpa found himself near Sacramento, milling at Sutter’s and raising dogs on the side. Until one day great granddaddy Clarence got caught having sex with John Sutter’s favorite Lab.

“Of the choices presented him, old Clarence chose the highway and came to San Francisco where he pursued a number of occupations.

“Then when the 49ers started arriving, Clarence put his dog husbandry (so to speak) skills to work, and overnight he was proprietor of the biggest meat packing plant west of Chicago. Prime beef, fresh and cured.”

“And the prime beef wasn’t really prime?” I asked.

“The prime beef wasn’t really beef,” Pud laughed.

“So the entire gold rush was fueled by dog meat?”

“Good part of it,” Pud said.

“When old Clarence was shot by what we’ll call a ‘dissatisfied diner’ his presumably large fortune was nowhere to be found. The lawsuits against Clarence’s estate would have reduced it to zero.

“There are still people in San Francisco who are pissed off at the Wilsons. Some people think we still have old Clarence’s fortune stashed away somewhere.”

“But look at me,” Pud gestured, “I live like a pig.”

“You ARE a pig,” I said, “but you’ve never worked a day in your life.”

“So the mystery lives on,” Pud said.

“So my family’s been here longer than your family,” he said, almost nyah-nyahing. “Clarence was already here when you’re great grandfather arrived. Your great grandfather probably loved Wilson’s Famous Beef Tamales.”

Pud cites the truthfulness of his father and grandfather as proof that the dog story is true. I don’t want to be in the position of calling either of them a liar.

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