The White Jehovah

After 5 years of stopping at the 7/11 on MacArthur Blvd. in Oakland, 5 days a week, to get a Big Gulp of Diet Pepsi for the commute, the Jehovah Witnesses that stood out in front had never approached me or even moved to give me a Watchtower, their periodical that helps explain their ideology. At first, I figured it was just a black and white thing or a culture thing, as they were all immaculately dressed, well groomed, attractive African Americans (Who knew this religion attracted such a pretty bunch) and I was a godless, affected, tired looking white man. Or at least that’s how I felt and looked. They were not dumb - my type had a low conversion rate and I wasn’t worth wasting a Watchtower on. So, they left me alone.

3 Jehovah men and woman adorned opposite sides of the entrance to the store - men on one side and woman on the other. They rarely socialized, keeping to their own sides. When they did, it was to pass some sort of pertinent information. After the information was relayed, they returned to the safety of their side of the double doors. It was very 6th grade without the immaturity and cattiness.

While waiting for customers to enter the store, they held the Watchtower breast high, facing toward the street. It was an awkward position - not natural, but you had to assume that this was a proven tried and true recruiting tactic, a failsafe method just in case an errant potential Jehovah candidate slipped by their ranks unnoticed. However, this was highly implausible, as they always kept an eye out for walk-ups and cars pulling into the lot. Therefore, this pose made them look robotic

During lulls, some read the bible or the Watchtower and the others just sat there passively. This is what they did - their job - and they were good at it.

One morning as I walked past them, I overheard a conversation between one of the Jehovah’s and a civilian, which gave me insight into their recruiting process. The two talked and appeared to be friends. This was not unusually as they knew a lot of people in the community:

Civilian: “How’s your son?”

Jehovah: “Fine, thank you. He’s working out in front of Richmond.”

I thought: “Out in front of Richmond? What does that mean?” To most it was an innocuous conversation, but to me, I read between the lines. It had to be that his son was working in front of 7/11 in Richmond, pushing Jehovah. I had never thought that this proselytizing was a well thought out web, placing the right people in front of the right stores in the right communities; and that there were probably meetings to discuss strategy and share tips and recruitment goals. It all became very fascinating and started to make perfect sense. Or, I was crazy, which is always a possibility.

After years of observing people, they knew who were receptive to God and who wasn’t. They were not there to recruit me or anybody other white person, they were there to flip black Christians and prey on the occasional non-English speaking Latino immigrant. This is why they never paid me no attention and I could walk though them unscathed.

It was pretty simple how they worked:

Candidates would pull into the parking lot, get out and approach the double doors, where the Jehovah’s stood. They would usually make eye contact with the candidate and then go back to talking. I would like to think that the group would make a snap assessment of the candidate and nominate the best Jehovah to approach them on the way out: the young cute Jehovah; the older, sophisticated Jehovah or the salt-of-the-earth, everyday man Jehovah. Whatever the Jehovah calls for.

When the candidate returned, after getting a Big Gulp, cheap coffee or Tacquito, they would wait until they got to their car to approach them, if they felt they were open to conversion.

They‘d catch their eye, raise their periodical and wait for a positive or negative affirmation. If yes, they’d walk over and hand them the pamphlet and make chit chat; if not, they’d smile and walk back to the fray, waving their hands and wearing forced smile as if to say, “That’s cool. Sorry to bother ya. Have a nice day.” They were never pushy and always polite, unlike other people who hang out in front of stores. That’s how the Jehovah’s do it.

One morning I pulled up in front of 7/11 and there he was: a white Jehovah Witness. After 5 years of observing them, watching their every move, I couldn’t help but think that they recruited him to convert me. This made no sense. Why else would he be there? This 7/11 was predominantly patronized by African Americans and because of this, 6 black Jehovah Witnesses were out front 7 days a week (they brought in the retired Jehovah’s on the weekend for part-time shifts) attempting to recruit African Americans. Simple marketing: black-on-black, white-on-white and Latino-on-Latino.

This new addition to the Jehovahs unnerved me. My sensible side said that it was a fluke - this guy moved to the area and requested a transfer; the paranoid and fantasy driven side said that he was there for me. I couldn’t help but think that at one of their recruitment meetings, I was on the agenda. My face would be projected onto a white wall, a picture they clandestinely acquired from one of my many visits to 7/11. They would throw out ideas on how to recruit me. Eventually, someone would say they have a white Jehovah friend from Pleasanton who had been very successful at recruiting tough demographic markets. They would agree to bring this guy in temporarily to the Macarthur store. Brilliant. This was the guy.

I waited in the car and watched them. The white guy was wearing a dark suit, a long wool coat and had a thick mustache with a combed-out side part. He was over friendly like a concierge and broke protocol by mingling with the women. You could tell he was annoying and trying too hard. Maybe he was nervous, knowing that he was there for a specific job.

I slowly opened the door, keeping my eyes on them. One of the men noticed me and turned to the person next to him. I swear he said, “There he is.” I smiled and the white guy caught my eye and nodded. I acknowledged his presence. Fuck! He was there for me!

Up until this moment, I had an unwritten agreement with the Jehovahs: we would smile, maybe say hello, but that was it. We never broke rank and mentioned the weather or inquired about our well being. No, we smiled and kept moving.

Breaking the threshold of the double doors, I greeted the clerk in a similar repetitious style:

“What’s going on, brother?”

“Nothing much, brother.”

The clerk was there all the time and in the 5 years we had never asked each others’ names. Our relationship was simple and to the point, never progressing beyond pleasantries. You need low commitment relationships like this. The only deviation of our relationship was Fridays, when I would say, “Have a good weekend.” But I soon stopped saying this upon learning that he also worked the weekend. I changed the valediction back to: “Have a nice day.”

I kept an eye of them through the front window, while I poured Diet Pepsi into a Super Big Gulp cup. They didn’t appear to be rehearsing or finalizing a plan on how to get me; there was no flurry of chit chat nor were they patting the white guy on the back and saying, “Good luck. Go get’em.” But this didn’t mean he wasn’t there for me.

Before leaving I paused at the door and gathered my thoughts. Leaning forward, I crossed through the door a little faster than usual, with my keys in my right hand and Big Gulp in the other. The beep of the electronic lock rang out. Because both my hands were occupied, I put the soda on the roof of the car while simultaneously opening up the door. This gave them time to react.

I made the mistake of looking up. I was intrigued, of course, and kinda hoped that something would happen. The white guy caught my eye and gave me a look like, “Hey, I’m here. Let’s do this thing.” I sat down and looked out the window. HE was walking toward the car with the Watchtower pointed my way. We locked eyes. His eyebrows were arched with anticipation and he continued moving toward my car door. I gave him the biggest forced smile and shook my head “no,” mouthing the words “No, thank you.”

As he was trained, he stopped and waved his hands, mouthing, “No problem, thank you,” bobbing his head. As he walked back to the group, he continued to smile and wave. The Jehovah’s were nice.

The group was waiting for him. I figured there would be lots of slaps on the back and words of “nice try” or “he’s not worth, he’s too far gone.” But he chose to walk past them and be by himself. He paced for a bit and then returned to the group.

The white Jehovah was only there for a few weeks and then he disappeared. I assume he was transferred back to Pleasanton…disgraced.

Girl, I'm Gonna Miss You

Listening to Casey Casem’s Top 40 countdown on the fourth of July in 1988, with a six-pack of Sharp’s near beer on the passenger side seat, I drove the back roads of Alabama in search of meaning to a fledgling life. Through tree-lined streets strewn with American flags, I threw empty beer bottle after empty bottle out the driver’s side window, trying to hit telephone poles. It was the south and I wearing a hat that said “American by Birth, Southern by Choice.” I was playing the part of ugly American on her birthday. And playing it to a “T.”

Nearing Fort Wayne, Arkansas, Casey announced the number one song in America. As with tradition, he read a letter from a listener before playing the song. The letter was from Gina Trifletti from Akron, Ohio:

“Casey, a year ago I lost my daughter to cancer. In the year after her death, there have been many times I thought I couldn’t go on - suicide was always on my mind. I quit my job, alienated my friends and didn’t go out of the house. “

“Last week,” she continued. “I was vacuuming the living room when a song on the radio grabbed my attention. I sat down and listened to the lyrics of the song and started to cry:

“Like a honey bee, you took the best of me. Now I can't erase those memories...I’m gonna miss you. Girl, I’m gonna miss you.”

“I opened the cutains and the healing process begun,” she said.

“And there you have it,” Casey said. “The number one song in America: Girl, I’m gonna miss you by Milli Vanilli.”

Like young lovers dancing to Open Arms by Journey, it was both touching and pitiful.

The Great Shadow Breast

At the corner of O’Farrell and Polk, San Francisco’s most reputable strip club, the Mitchell Brothers, has been entertaining men in suits and young men in baseball caps for 4 decades.

I’ve never enjoyed the inside of the club, but I do enjoy the augmented women in Juicy Couture sweats, oversized sunglasses, toting roller luggage that circle the place and then mysteriously slip through the front door. I’m sure these women are using the proceeds of their trade to pay for college.

If one of these bleach blonds were to stand in the middle of the street outside the club and look west, she would see St. Mary’s Cathedral, or sometimes known as the washer machine, due to its organic shape. And if one of these librarian-foxes-turned-hot-teacher happened to be standing in the middle of the street at 10 am in October or April, she would see this.




Yes, it’s a great shadow breast on the side of St. Mary’s Cathedral.

Like Christians seeing the Virgin Mary in the wood grain of a bathroom door, Strippers from all over the world come to San Francisco in mid October and April to worship the Great Shadow Breast! All bow.

It’s a Personal Thing…Like a Phil Collins Song.

“We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll” by The Jefferson Starship is a cliché. It has become one of those go-to jokes that everybody is in on, but is still constantly brought up like it’s breaking news? “Have you heard that song by the Starship? It’s horrible.” It’s a lot like pronouncing “Target” (department store) as “Tar-shay” (like cliché). We get it; we’ve heard it a 1000 times.

Cliché aside, it’s really a horrible song and deserves all its negative accolades. Really, if the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame had any balls, they’d ban them for life for this song. Regardless, the songs give me some kind of visceral enjoyment, the same way I find enjoyment in movies like Pointbreak and Roadhouse.

Awhile back the SF Tourism Board asked my Live Karaoke band to play a gig at Pac Bell Park. Yes, the place where the SF Giants play ball. The idea was this: hire bands that represent the diversity of San Francisco and have them play in luxury suite at Pac Bell that represent the neighborhoods of SF (for example, a Salsa band would play in a suite called The Mission. I’m not sure what neighborhood we would’ve represented) and invite SF party planners and pretty much anybody that worked in jobs that dealt with tourists. It would be like a big, multi-culti, look-how-great-we-are SF hug..

Guests would walk down the hallway the led to the suites and partake in different musical flavors that were emanating from the suites. At the end of the evening, partygoers and band members would proceed outside and watch the Jefferson Starship on a big stage in center field. The Starship would play a short set, and then all the band members – including us - would join them on stage to sing “We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll.” It doesn’t get much better than this. I would’ve played this gig for free.

Unfortunately, it was a bad idea – a real bad idea and some smart person at the Tourism Board nixed it. Idiots.

My Old Lady's Into Malsteem

Whether I’m playing to sugar- drenched 5 year olds or drunken 22 year olds, I’ve had my fill of talking about rock and bullshit after playing shows. Not drinking may have something to do with this. I now prefer to stay on stage and perform roadie duties. It gives me something to do and keeps me away from crazy-ass toddlers or drunken EL Rio live Karaoke singers who want to talk song selection or want to sing just…one…more…song.

Many, many years ago at the I-Beam in Haight a normal looking guy, slightly overweight with a flannel, came up to me after we played and said, “You know, my old lady plays a little guitar. She’s into Malsteem.” How do you respond to something like that without sounding like a dick? It’s almost impossible. The obvious response is, “Who the fucks cares?” But years and years of a polite Pleasanton upbringing renders me incapable of such a response (In print, yes; in real life, no). I don’t remember how I responded but I’m sure I said one of 3 things: “Oh, really, that’s cool,” “My old lady is into Satriani” or “Yes, I hear he’s very proficient on his axe.” And then I walk to bathroom. Having to go to the bathroom is great way to get out of any conversation. Take note, people.

That same night, an energetic, skinny guy, who looked a little out of place, approached me and earnestly said, “You know, New Kids on the Block are good dancers.” I had no idea what he was talking about, and then it clicked - I was wearing a NKOTB shirt. In one sense, it was extremely sweet that he thought there was no irony to my shirt and that I actually liked NKOTB. Explaining irony is pointless and only makes you look stupid – you either get it or don’t. And it was even sweeter that he found something good about NKTOB to approach me with. I had to be nice - he had me. “Yeah, they are good dancers, “ I responded, with a half smile across my face. I almost wanted to hug the skinny guy and take him home.

And then I went to the bathroom again.

The Hum Track (Not Gross)

There was no window between the mixing booth and the area we recorded, so we relied on headphones to communicate. I was layering a song with an acoustic track. Mel, Tom, George and Jonathan the producer were in the other room, looking at every musical instrument and amp that we owned:

“How was that?” finishing the song.

Jonathon clicked in on my headphones.

“Do you wanna come in and hear it?” He asked.

Feeling the creative urge, I said, “No, I trust you. I have an idea for the song. I want to add a hum track.”

Through the headphones, I heard them talking. Inaudible sounds.

“Foot, what’s a hum track?” Tom said in a mixture of curiosity and half laughing. His voice was distant. I pictured him sitting in an armchair behind Jonathan, who was in an office chair in front of the mixing console.

“I want to add an ambient hum throughout the song. When we mix, we can pick and choose where we want it.”

There was a long silence. My headphones clicked in and once again there were inaudible sounds of them talking.

“Greg, you’re rolling, count it off.” We were paying Jonathan $3k for this record. Rough Trade gave us $1800 for the first record and $3000 for this record. We gave it all to Jonathan, so he was ok with adding a hum track, despite it being a horrible idea. He was paid to endure bad ideas.

For 3 minutes, I hummed. A very long 3 minutes. Regardless of how I thought it was going - it was pretty obvious that it sucked, but I was gonna finish the excruciating 3 minutes.

The headphones clicked in. Unlike the other times of distant chatting and ambient noise, I was met with wild laughter.

“Fuck off.” I said, shaking my head and smiling. I kinda enjoyed the abuse. More laughter. “Fuck off.”

Doing his best to appear professional, Jonathan said, “Greg, do you wanna come it and listen to it.?”

“Fuck off, Jonathan”

More laughter.

Trust Me, Elisa is Totally Gay

Near the top of the hour, the students filed out and were replaced by a new bunch that was just as loud. I had gone from grumpy to acceptance, justifying their obnoxiousness as youthful audacity and tried to remember how I was like when I was their age. When I do that, I intellectualize and justify their actions.

There were 2 women in the new group who were exceptionally loud and intriguing. The leader and louder of the 2 had on an on oversized track jacket, boxy jeans, multiple face piercings and a plaid baseball cap with the letter “A” on it; the other woman wore dirty jeans, Harley shirt and appeared to be pining after her friend. She agreed with everything she said, laughed at all her jokes and addressed her as “Sweetie.” She had a paternal feel that reminded me of Rosanne Barr in Rosanne: brash but sweet. It was obvious that they were friends, not partners. Like the other students, they talked about fellow students and teachers.

Every opportunity the piercing woman had to express her sexual preference, she did…with gusto: “I don’t care what they think, I’m gay and there ain’t no way I’m going back,” she expressed, looking around to garner attention. She was also fond of outing other students: “Elisa in English class is totally gay. Trust me.” She repeated the same statement with many different people.

I was putting the final touches on my Britney essay when she caught my ear. I only caught the tail end of what she was saying: “Martha thinks that just because I’ve got piercing and don’t wear dresses, I don’t have great legs. I’ve got great legs.” The woman in the Harley shirt agreed saying, “Yes, sweetie.”