It happened Friday night. Anna’s Cantina was the perfect place. Seems my Cal Senior, The Dodes, and her pal Carlo (whose family owns a little winery up here) went down to Anna’s to shoot some stick. Bad parents that we are, we had raised her on a pool table. There’s no truth to the rumor that her first words were “eight ball in the corner pocket.” Part of her shtick, however, is to beat guys at “H.O.R.S.E” on the Maplewood and to keep control of the green felt for hours on end. Hey, what’s a college degree for?

Apparently, the Dodes was wearing a Cal jersey, while Carlo sported a Saints sweatshirt. A wedding party came through the door. They weren’t in tee shirts and shorts.

“To them I looked like the white trash, beer guzzling, pool stroking Bimbo, they’d seen in the movies, but never met in person.”

Suddenly a couple of bolder women screwed up their courage and approached. “Are you locals?” (They drew the words out slowly--as in awe). They wanted to touch them. They’d discovered the Mother Lode.

“Can we take your picture?”

Must have been like spotting the medicine man on the reservation as he produced a magic potion to caste off evil
spells.

“Tell us what it’s like to go to school and grow up here.”

Never one to miss a moment, the Dodes played them like a fiddle. “If you think going to school here is weird, get this: Our fathers went to high school here and played football together.”

The call went out for the smelling salts.

The White man had discovered the aborigine in his natural habitat. (Maybe if they stayed around long enough they could see an actual human sacrifice or at least a rain dance). Alas, they had to make do with playing “Nudie Photo Hunt.”

If they truly wanted to see the Natives ushering in Spring with true Bacchanalian revelry, they should have made it to the firehouse on Saturday. It was Main St. meets Bourbon St.

Apparently, everyone got the memo. “Walk, don’t drive” to the fireman’s ball—or lobster feed—or whatever they call it. (Once, it was the Kiwanis Kapades but that’s another column).

Hundreds of folks snaked, amoeba-like through Main, Adams, Madrone and Railroad to convene at the Station. As we waited in line, a Dixie Land Jazz Band serenaded folks as the corkscrews came out and the first bottles were uncorked. It was Mardi Gras—St. Helena style.

Tickets cost a Franklin and are impossible to get—unless you know the trick.

Some winery folk came by Allyn Ave. to park their cars, and put on their game face. Winemakers being winemakers they followed their taste buds—right over to the Patron, Cazadores and Milagro tequilas. A shot of cultural diversity is an interesting way jump start an evening.

Inside, five long tables, seating 100 people each, were covered in thick, white butcher paper. In the back, Mestro John Sorensen , like a symphony conductor led a band of 40 or fifty “cooks” who stood over their pots of boiling water. He’d raise up the garlic, dump it in and they’d follow suit—almost in unison. Then the corn. Then it was time for the lobsters—up and in with a splash.

The bell rang, people found their assigned seats and volunteers toting aluminum vats filled with corn, artichokes, sausage, prawns and lobster made their way down and dumped the slumgullion on the tables like a scullery maid tossing out a bucket of water.

Their wasn't a knife, fork, or plate in the house. That's for the White Man. We primatives eat with our fingers right off the butcher paper. We don’t need no stinkin’ utensils!

Despite the down economy conviviality was the order of the day. Homies and Nubies mingled together and yucked it up. Like all Spring fertility rites there was a plentitude of pulchritude, and granddads were agog at the gaggle of Godiva’s. Firemen took off their shirts to shouts and whistles, and Grandmas stuffed dead presidents in Levi Loops. Now that was funny!

Somehow the night ended. The professionals made it down to Anna’s. We amateurs (hey, I’d gotten up at 3:30 to go turkey hunting with the boys) meandered back to our caves. A ton of dough was raised. Laughs were doled out by truckloads.

Now, we're city folks--not true locals. One has to be a Dr. Woods baby for that. Jim pop didn't buy up here until the late 50's.

No doubt, soon San Francisco politicians and tourists will dominate our culture and eventually civilize us. But sometimes “going native” is just what the medicine man ordered.