What's goin' on?

“And I try / Oh my God, do I try / I try all the time / In this institution / And I pray / Oh my God, do I pray / I pray every single day / For a revolution“ - 4 Non Blondes, "What's Going On"

She was remarkably mean. A rough-edged, middle-aged woman who always wore sunglasses and was prone to donning sad little sundresses. She constantly smacked her gum as if chewing were an unpleasant chore that demanded to be shared. Her teeth were yellow. Her mood was always dark. And she talked down to us as though we were idiots. She had a complete lack of empathy and the depth of her indifference was a modern marvel.

Granted, fifth-graders aren’t always the best at remembering the rules, such as they were in 1975. And that type of thinking led to this wicked woman changing my life forever.

It was a hazy day as our school bus sliced through the city traffic to transport us from the east side to the west in San Francisco, my hometown. The rules were basic, and often broken with impunity. Among the most mentioned was to stay seated and not to lean forward. This rule was inconvenient because it limited our ability to flirtatiously switch seats and throw the Nerf ball around. We were six blocks from my stop where my mom was waiting. 

In an instant, the lights went out, and then flickered back on. When I finally shook the cobwebs, I saw a curious white bug on the top aluminum bar across the seat in front of me. As I discovered it wasn’t a bug, my friend asked me if I was OK. The bus had stopped short after the driver slammed the brakes, and the impact of my face on the metal bar had not only knocked me unconscious, but had cracked my front right tooth. When the other kids noticed and told the bus driver that my mouth was bleeding, she looked back at me at the next stop sign. 

She paused, lowered her glasses and simply said, “Tough”.

I stumbled off the bus, and told my mom what had happened. I had no choice. But I waited till the bus left, before my mom could scream at the bus driver in front of my friends. We went home and she did what most 4’11” Italian women do when tested like that. She made pasta and plotted justice.

Six months later, I found myself in a courtroom. Since her maiden name was Bacigalupi and not Corleone, I guess she didn’t have the “muscle” for the traditional Italian movie justice. So she went mainstream, Bacigalupi v The San Francisco Unified School District. For some reason, civil court proceedings back then happened at City Hall. It was cool to miss school, but I had to endure this ugly stainless steel band wrapped around what was left of my front tooth. I looked like a skinny, white, prepubescent Mike Tyson.

I got bored during the court sessions. So I explored City Hall by just walking into the offices unannounced and saying hello. And on one occasion, I landed in the office of Mayor George Moscone. I don’t recall why his secretary let me in, but I remember him smiling as he introduced himself. Not a hint of arrogance. No dismissive tone. No condescending rhetoric or “I gotta get back to work”. I stayed for about 30 minutes. 

Mayor Moscone

He tried to explain city government to an 11-year-old. I told him my Italian mom was suing his city. Turns out he lived in a ritzy area called St. Francis Woods, not far from my modest home. During our goodbyes, he handed me a large autographed poster depicting the engineering plans for an old-time cable car. It still hangs in my bedroom.

Two years later, I was in Social Studies class when the principal called a fellow student to the office. That student was John Moscone. And he left the classroom that day to find out that his father, the mayor, my half-hour friend, had been shot and killed. I didn’t know John. But I remembered his dad. A disgruntled city supervisor (councilman) had snuck a handgun into City Hall and killed both the mayor, and another city supervisor, Harvey Milk.

Political differences had boiled over. Insecurities set ablaze. And in the end, the city exploded into riots and burned police cars.

Zindler Interrupted (Part One)

 

"I sell you the things you need to be, I'm the smiling face on your TV, I'm the Cult of Personality."

Living Colour, "Cult of Personality," Vivid, 1988

I’m guessing Texas legend Marvin Zindler was a fan of doo wop. In 1961, a singer named Dion DiMucci recorded and released a song called The Wanderer. 

I don’t know what Marvin was up to in 1961. In fact, I don’t know how he became The Wanderer, when he did or if he even knew that he had. The song went on to become a hit. So did Marvin Zindler. 

Zindler. Wikimedia Commons.

For the younger generation of Texas journalists, you may have heard his name. Movie characters have used him. He was behind a scandal at a famous Texas bordello. But until you’ve actually seen him with the whole get up and all the attitude juice behind those blue shades, your vision is short on context.

I won’t belabor Marvin’s TV screen presence, his fearlessness or his intimidation. Suffice to say that I purposely asked the KTRK news director to have someone copy an air check during my job interview solely so I could go home and show everyone this crazy dude with the John Adams wig.

And of course, Marvin produced his widely worshipped Friday “Rat and Roach Report.” It was a brilliant model; poach a few restaurant inspection reports and shame these places publicly for leaving lettuce out and not storing the pork chops under proper temperatures.

And there was, “Slime In The Ice Machine.” It was a brilliant business plan. Produce a snazzy graphic. Write a catchy tune. And lump it together with Marvin’s delivery like clods of outrageous Play-Doh. When I finally began my Channel 13 tenure, Marvin was a daily occurrence. You see, he loved to wander.

It would usually begin around 3:30 p.m., right around the time work starts bubbling with deadlines, script approvals, timely voice tracks and if you’re lucky, time in the makeup chair. It’s not a time for distraction. Marvin did not care about this. He would approach my desk to discuss daily matters of interest, his opinions and his need for other people’s thoughts.

The fact that I was shoulder deep in responsibilities didn’t matter because Marvin had already handed his work off to his producer and editors for completion. Ultimately, he would wander from desk to desk before his anchor desk appearance, provoking chat and fishing for conversation. 

One day, I had some extra time and decided to send a video greeting to my friends back in California. I enlisted the help of videographer Mario Segura, and simply presented a walking tour of KTRK. I just strolled and narrated the sights and sounds, which included the commissary where two old, giggly ladies worked. Miss Noveline and Miss Betty were high energy women with sharp wits and loud laughs. I assumed they were from Louisiana. And they knew what was happening in our workplace more than upper management. 

When I sauntered into their cafe with a camera in tow that day, both Noveline and Betty stopped in their tracks. They gasped. Their eyes got big, like ping pong balls. I thought I’d done something horrible. Or had blood on my face. They both appeared absolutely terrified. And Marvin Zindler was to blame. 

...to be continued.