Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

BRANDING





It’s not too unusual in this town to see a man or woman holding a leash that’s attached to a dog collar worn by another man or woman. Whether at Folsom Street Fair or Saturday shopping at Cala, it’s just not that big a deal.

[Below, the person second from the left is wearing a collar and leash. The guy next to her, on the far left, is wearing a St Christopher medal.]



And, it’s sort of cliché to say that some powerful entity “owns” a politician, in the same way that a master owns a dog.

It would, however, be highly unusual to see such an entity, say Gordon Getty, leading a paid-for politician, say Gavin Newsom, down the street with the leash/dog collar arrangement. That would make it all too obvious.

But that’s what’s happening with the PlumpJack brand. It’s a symbolic leash.

“Plump Jack,” a nickname of Shakespeare’s Falstaff, is the name of Gordon Getty’s opera in progress. “PlumpJack” is the name of many of the businesses Gordon Getty bought for Gavin Newsom.

The connection implied by the PlumpJack brand is the same connection implied by the dog collar leash thing. It’ sort of embarrassing.




Pud is impressed that “rosebud” the obsession-word of another great San Franciscan, WR Hearst, is “totally yonic.”

And Getty’s obsession-term PlumpJack is “totally phallic.” Pud thinks “that’s nice.”

Here’s a website where you can purchase collars and leashes designed for humans. The market for real dog collars and leashes is so huge, I wonder why those so inclined would buy from a leather-fetish shop.

If I were a dog-boy I’d want a collar from Van Cleef (hint), not some cheapass leather thing from Joe’s Beatoff Emporium.

“Branding,” is a buzz word.

I knew a guy who got branded, a punk musician Haight Street store clerk, green hair, nose ring, etc. He went the extra step and got a brand burned onto his right calf.

The experience humbled him. The pain continued for weeks. He said he’d never do it again.


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GOING NATIVE

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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Everly Brothers: BIRD DOG



Pud said that in addition to beef (dog meat), his great-grandfather Clarence also sold plenty of chicken (seagull meat). So, in a way, he had a kind of bird-dog thing going on.

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