I’m a man of the world, bay-bee.
East Bay, you so crazy.
Oakland keeps you at arms’ length, is warm but makes it known:
THIS is what you need to know, don’t look any further, Westsider. Talk about the Black Panthers, about the history of your father in Oakland in the 60s, tell your friends how much you like it here. We all know where you’re sleeping tonight.
Fearful of the parking lot, the city-dwellers wait in the safety behind the turnstiles, the international waters, as it were, and pretend that this is merely a prettier Civic Center Station with the smells and sounds of Oakland.
Sunday was Thanksgiving for booze, as I mentioned the other day.
My great-grandmother on my father’s side was a bootlegger, a necessity given the combination of many children and a deadbeat husband. She was found out, and few people can agree whether it was then that she lost the house or the farm.
She lived to be 104.