Oh, God, what's wrong with us? What?
Sniff. OK, we're going to try not to take this rejection personally; we think Ken may just have gotten a little frustrated trying to work his e-mail. "In response to my letter to Ken and the City of San Francisco, Mr. Garcia sent the now-famous 'self-righteous fool' response directly to the Mayor, the Supes, the planning and transit commissions [who had been cc'ed on the origi- nal e-mail] himself," writes troublemaking correspondent Eric Barnes. "This netted me a nice letter from Willie Brown, who said Transit First was here to stay! Anyway, I was a bit taken aback myself when Ken e-mailed me later to say the letters, which to me seemed obviously political, were in fact 'personal e-mail which should not have been offered to another party, particularly the Weekly.' Personal to whom, Ken? The entire city government you responded to?"
Still, maybe Ken will mellow in time: According to sources at the Chronicle, the constant flow of cakes into the newsroom -- mostly to mark the departures of various staff members, but sometimes as a morale-builder -- has already begun to render staff there bloated and lethargic. "Last week we had two cake sessions on one day. We had some at 3 in the afternoon, then again at 7 at night (for different groups of people, but some of us did eat cake twice. I name no names.)," reveals an insider. "We had cake to spur the troops on in our 'war' with the Evil Empire of the Mercury News, which, as I'm sure you know, is greatly expanding the size of its San Francisco bureau, looking to pick up the subscribers that the Examiner might soon be losing."
Meanwhile, according to the Nob Hill Gazette -- which incidentally makes wonderful laundromat reading -- Examiner Executive Editor Phil Bronstein is rumored to be considering a move to Hollywood, where he would perhaps be in charge of something or other at some movie studio or other. Hey, it's who you know! Anyway, we're sure Ex newsroom staffers are already salivating at the prospect: Imagine the size of the cake they'll get when Phil leaves.
On the Town
Is the Blind Tiger over, or what? Dog Bites spent about 10 minutes there Saturday night and was appalled by the sub-Marina crowd; plus, the infused vodka bar was closed. However, we would like to take this opportunity to make some fashion suggestions to those perhaps new to the city: Please, boys, find something other than skanky jeans and plaid shirts to wear when you're out on the town; trust us, it's not as though your inherent attractiveness is compensating for your wardrobing problems. "If I wanted glamour like this I'd go to a club in Daly City," remarked one of our companions, and indeed, our party just couldn't get back out onto Broadway fast enough.
Maybe it's San Francisco magazine that's responsible for our bad nightclub experiences. Look, everyone else is blaming the media -- why can't we? After all, the weird, Contra Costa West feel of that publication must play some role in encouraging the youth of such places as Orinda and Pleasant Hill or Valley -- whatever it is -- to climb into their moms' SUVs and head for the bright lights on the other side of the Caldecott Tunnel. We'll be interested to see how brand-new Editor Bruce Kelley, formerly of Health, meets the challenge of turning the city magazine into something that makes interesting reading for those of us who actually live here. Meanwhile, it looks as though Kevin Berger, who many had speculated would be promoted to the top job, will stay on as executive editor. "Why not? It's a good gig," he told us.
So maybe it's Saturday night in general that's the problem. Or, of course, it could always be us. We're so negative. There we were at "Loöq Hard" at 111 Minna when a man who'd evidently reached the "extremely confident" stage of intoxication sat himself down at our table, leaned over, and asked, "Is that your friend? She hardly has any clothes on."
We didn't know how to begin to answer an assertion of this nature, so we just watched the light show until he spoke again. "This is my first rave," he confided.
"Where?" we asked, though -- probably fortunately -- he appeared not to hear.
"So, do you like techno?" he shouted, after a pause in which it had become evident we were not going to make any further effort to converse.
Tip Dog Bites -- especially if you're disgruntled. Phone 536-8139; fax 777-1839; e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org.