Kicked out of “The Happiest Place on Earth”

By Schatzie Frisch 

I just ordered Swollen Appetite from Bookshop.org yesterday and I'm so looking forward to reading it. I heard Sandra read excerpts from her book at the Launch Party in July, and that prompted me to send her the following message the next day:

"Sandra - thanks for sharing bits of your life last night. Ha! I'll be purchasing your memoir... as I grew up here in the nineties as well...  I drank a ton...ouch! I remember (or vaguely remember) driving my tiny Opal Gt on the walking paths in Golden Gate Park...on MDMA. At any rate I appreciate your candor. Helps you, and helps others.”

I have many tales to tell about growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in the nineties, but I wrote this piece after going to the Launch Party. It takes place in SoCal my first year in college where I lasted 2 years before coming back to SF.

 Flashback #476 

Kicked out of “The Happiest Place on Earth” - 1980

I took a trip to Disneyland with three of my UCSD Dorm Mateys in 1980. How we smuggled in that rum (Bacardi 151) I am not sure, but I don’t think Security was that rigid in the eighties. But I am sure the Disneyland Security was on “High Alert” and tracking our rum-bunctious antics shortly after we cracked open that bottle. We bought our $9.25 ticket books and then purchased official Disneyland Pirate hats near the “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride and had our names stitched onto them in famous Disneyland fashion. Four Pirate wenches with a bottle ‘o rum let loose in “The Happiest Place on Earth”? Batten down the hatches.

 And yes, the Disneyland Security Officers and of course Goofy were on our ‘scent’ from the get go. We left a trail of pungent rum scent wherever we roamed. But even despite our scent, us Pirate wenches would have stood out like a peg-leg.

 Our time in “The Happiest Place on Earth” was about to end shortly after we arrived at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cup Party ride in Fantasyland. I remember I gave the ticket-taker my ride ticket in a most unconventional manner. I ripped the E ticket (the most expensive ticket at 85 cents)  out of my ticket book and stuck the tip of the ticket on my rum-drenched tongue. I then stuck my tongue out at the hesitant ticket-taker. He removed the slightly damp rum smelling E ticket off my tongue, and let me run carefree to one of the empty, soon to be light-speed twirling and spinning out-of-control tea cups. I think he knew this was gonna be my “last ride”.

 But before that tea cup started to spin, me Mateys and myself took (another) shot o’rum. There is a manual control in the center of the tea cups and when you turn it, the tea cup spins faster. Us rum-fueled pirate wenches had that tea cup spinning high into the stratosphere! Our Pirate hats flew off our heads as we spun up into the sky! Peter Pan, Mary Poppins and Dumbo flew by. It was a crazy Mad Hatter Tea Party to die for!

 When we came back down to earth we stumbled laughing out of that giant tea cup, a bit woozy, and were planning our next ride adventure, when to our surprise we noticed the subtle Disneyland Security Officers patiently waiting for us near the scowling ticket-taker (who had ratted us out no doubt). Aaaargh! Davy Jone’s locker for you! We were instructed to march single-file (Security-man in front of us, Security-man in back of us. Four Pirate wenches in the middle) through the Park to the Disneyland Jail. Could we have made a run for it? Probably, but for some reason these giggling captive tipsy Pirates chose to comply. We left the empty rum bottle in the tea cup like the good Pirates we were.

 In the Disneyland Jail we were ordered to be quiet and sit on a couch below a giant framed photo of Mickey Mouse donning a blue police uniform complete with badge and police cap. Micky the Policemouse was waving two revolvers in the air. Mickey’s smile said it all, ’Do you feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"

 The room was filled with crying kids who had shoplifted stuffed animals, and their irritated parents, and maybe there was a felon or two, or three as well. One by one us Pirate wenches were called into the “Judges” office. I thought I was gonna see Mickey the Policemouse! but it was just some mousey Disney employee. He did have a Mickey mouse cap on with mouse ears. The word “Judge” was embroidered on it. (OK maybe he was not wearing a cap.)

The Judge asked me for my ID. At least I had one! I pulled my ID from my wallet. My ID stated that I was over 21.The photo of the young woman on my ID had dark brown hair like me, but she was Japanese. Her last name was Higashi. I didn’t have my regular ID that day, I guess I had bought the rum? (And you gotta have a fake ID if you are underage to buy rum, even if you are a Pirate)

 Miraculously that Judge took pity on us poor four Pirate lasses and we were escorted out of “The Happiest Place on Earth” single file thru the park again. We had been told by the Judge, “You are not allowed to come back” (That day? This lifetime?) I am still not sure.

 We were silent as the giant iron gate slammed closed behind us, and then we paused for a moment, took a big breath and looked at each other…What? How could it be? Kicked out of “The Happiest Place on Earth”?

 We almost cried… but instead, burst out laughing and started singing “Yo ho, yo ho a Pirate’s life for me”.

Schatzi the Renegade Deli Heiress is a Bay Area artist , musician, and writer whose work is one of a kind — I’m partial to her 20 years of hearts and donut photography!

A Renunciation, A Pivot, A New Beginning

By Stephen Smith

Gods Eye

Approximately a century ago, in 1993, I arrived in San Francisco. As befits such a long-ago occasion, my memories of the time are fuzzy. I know I flew here, spent a few days in a stranger’s house (a friend vouched for me), and promptly found myself a room in the Mission, at Guerrero and 15th.

Unlike our blog hostess, Sandra, by 1993 I had already finished my quest for fame. My appetite for success had waned. I had been teased, sometimes rewarded, and ultimately shooed away from musical renown. I had been fortunate to make a few records on indie labels in the U.S. and Europe. I had toured the U.S. a few times with one band, and been flown to London for a few press shows with another. But, ultimately, I hit a wall. A few major labels (every band’s goal at the time) had expressed interest. One took a breakfast meeting with us, suggesting various promotional angles they would pursue. It seemed like it was in the bag. But when they ghosted us (a term we didn’t have at the time, kids), I had had it. I needed stability. I needed a future. I didn’t want to be subject to the whims of the industry.

Salem 66

So moving to San Francisco was a renunciation, a pivot, a new beginning.

What does a person of moderate intelligence do to start again, with no particular skills and no particular professional interests? Law school, obvi. A classic stop on life’s journey for those with no real idea of what to do with themselves.

I was 26, on a fixed income of about $600 a month. That covered my $330 room, and left me enough to buy plenty of $1.25 rice and bean burritos at La Cumbre. Enough for a beer now and then at Casanova, as well. At the time, Casanova was more of what we considered a “Vietnam Vet bar” than the place it is today. There was a pool table. I was often able to hold it for a few games at a time. My roommate and I would occasionally go to Jack’s Elixir, as well, just a few doors down from our apartment. But that was spoiled a bit when he had to go to the hospital after someone there punched him in the eye, with a fist adorned with a very-three-dimensional pewter ring.

As I’ve said, my memory is fuzzy. I don’t have much in the way of stories from the 90’s, more a series of impressions. Of places like New Dawn, with the huge pile of potatoes you could get for breakfast, saving most for subsequent meals. Of Café Macondo, where a new arrival might sit with coffee, wondering why he was unable to strike up a conversation with any of the maybe-interesting people sitting nearby, but still coming back regularly.

My greatest regret about my 90’s in San Francisco is my failure to really take the City in. I lived in the Mission. I went to school in the Tenderloin. I rarely ventured out to other places in the City. North Beach was unfamiliar. I may never have seen Golden Gate Park. I lived a very circumscribed life. This may have had to do with the rigors of law school, it may have had to do with my relative poverty, but it was largely just my myopia. These days, my wife and I try to take in all of the City. An afternoon in the Sunset. An evening in Dogpatch. We don’t stick to things within a stones throw. As youth is wasted on the young, 90’s San Francisco was largely wasted on me. 

Stephen Smith is an accomplished constitutional law professor and author, as well as the kickass singer/songwriter band leader of The Morning Line. Follow him here.

Whore Baths & 7-Up

Written by Wendy Newman

3AM:

“Come on, baby. Just climb into my bed. I’m lonely. Just lay here with me.”

“Fuck you, you fucking liar,” I said, pushing myself off the floor from beneath a small, round, wooden table in the center of a dingy, one-room Tenderloin SRO. I grabbed my pillow-roll of a leather jacket, my backpack, and my dignity, and was out the door.

That was week three of living on the streets. I was technically employed and had said yes to this guy’s invitation when he opened with, “You look really tired. Want a safe place to sleep?” Isn’t that how it always starts?

It was 1987. I was a 19-year-old punk rock girl who’d left Salt Lake for good. I wanted to move to New York, but I was smart enough to know I was too dumb to make it there. If I ended up homeless in NYC, I’d freeze to death. San Francisco, though? I could sleep on those streets for a minute if I had to, and I did.

I rolled into town with $550, a red, 1972 piece-of-Pinto, a truck filled with treasures, and a reservationist job ($8 an hour) at a boutique hotel chain in Union Square. The Pinto broke down on the Bay Bridge the first week—gear shift gave out; but I somehow coasted off at 5th Street and into the doughnut shop parking lot. A fog-soaked phone book pointed me to a garage with a tow truck, so my baby (and everything I owned) ended up in the Tenderloin.

A lucky break, as it turned out.

San Francisco was home now. Scary, unsafe, and untethered—but I knew one thing: there was nowhere to go but up.

My shift started at 7AM. By 3PM, I was free. I’d walk to the top of Nob Hill and look at where all the boughie people lived, then head back down to Union Square, throw down my backpack, and nap in the grass, praying I just looked like a tourist. When night fell, I’d bounce between Pinecrest and Lori’s Diner on Mason, nursing a 7-Up until they kicked me out. (I really wished I was a coffee drinker.)

After they tossed me, I’d sit up in the alley beside the King George Hotel. Not too close to the street where I’d be noticed (God forbid anyone think I was homeless), and not too far back where things got dicey. I’d sit cross-legged, pretending to draw. I can’t draw. I’d journal. I’d do my best to look like a moody art student, not a girl sleeping rough.

At 6AM, the car repair shop opened. They let me swap clothes from my trunk and reminded me (each time) that my car was ready and they wanted their money. (Spoiler alert: that car and I were never reunited.)

I’d walk across the street to the one-hour drycleaner, get those clothes pressed for $1.50, then carry them carefully to the Westin St. Francis (where I had no business being), and take a whore’s bath in the fancy public women’s room.

Long hair twisted up. Fresh makeup. Pressed clothes. Back to work in the reservations room like nothing ever happened.

Three weeks in, I scraped together enough cash to march my broke ass up to Roommate Referral in the Upper Haight. Remember that place? Tiny storefront, shelves of three-ring binders filled with ads, sorted by price. I grabbed the cheapest one "$210 and up" and called the first listing.

That night, I unlocked a door that was mine. A real door, with chipped paint and a sticky knob and an empty bedroom the size of a walk-in closet. I dropped my backpack and jacket on the floor, and exhaled like I hadn’t in a month.

Within a year or so, I had the life I’d imagined: a place of my own in the Lower Haight, a circle of friends, and an adorable, irreverent guy who would become my husband. He had a giant record collection and a thing for late-night burritos. The bars were ours: Toronado, the Albion, Nightbreak were all the places that made the city feel like it was ours, too.

For the modern-day punk rock kids fleeing their towns to save their lives, it’s not that simple anymore. There's no grass in Union Square to fake-snooze on. No chance anyone could stash a car full of belongings at a shop on Turk without getting everything repossessed. No $1.50 pressed-shirt miracles. Try taking a whore’s bath at the Westin St. Francis today—good luck, friend. And Roommate Referral? Long gone. I had it rough, but it was an easier time.

I’ve left San Francisco a handful of times. But I always come back. The re-entry’s always brutal, financially, but always worth it. When I leave, I don’t just leave my heart here. I leave my self here.

These days? I sip good coffee, smile at the memory of getting married at the Westin St. Francis, sell fancy SF homes, and live at the top of Nob Hill.

Nineteen-year-old me? She never dreamed this big.

Wendy Newman is the author of 121 First Dates, a Workshop Leader, and a realtor in San Francisco and Nevada County. Follow her Insta @wendynewmanrealtor

Who Did We Think We Were?

A buck with fuzzy antlers crossed the path where Marissa and I were walking in the Mountainview Cemetery. We paused for the elegant beast to pass, unthreatened by the two middle-aged ladies’ presence. I said hello in my sweet-talking kitty-cat voice, then Marissa and I continued our discussion. I needed help promoting my memoir, Swollen Appetite, to new readers. 

I worried that I had only a few smoldering embers of energy left for pushing the book. Something had to be done before the fire grew cold. Marissa mentioned before I started moaning and groaning that she had dropped her son off at SFO that morning, and for the first time, had not gone to the gate with him. He was ready to go without her, so off he went into the wild blue yonder, and to the next gate where his Dad would be waiting. I said, maybe my book is like Dean, on its own now, ready to go where it needs to go. But no more than my pal is ready to relinquish her son to the big old world, am I ready to stop trying to get Swollen Appetite in front of new readers.

The problem is not exhausting my friends while trying to reach a broader audience. Every relationship I’m in is a throuple: me, my anxiety, and the other. I know I’m a rich dish. But lucky for me, I have patient friends, and Marissa had some good ideas! She noted that as she read Swollen Appetite, she was transported back to her own experience of living in San Francisco in the 1990s. It was more than nostalgic, it was evocative. She marveled at who she was then. I’ve heard this from others as well. That sweetness, that connection keeps flowing back to me from readers. 

The exciting idea Marissa came up with is to create a collective blog post like the one I had curated a few years ago on my website called Immigrant Song. I could ask readers of the memoir to submit their own stories and pictures about what memories or thoughts Swollen Appetite pried loose inside them. It could be about their time in San Francisco in the 1990s, or any other place they had been when they were on the cusp of becoming who they eventually became. Writing prompts could be anything from overwrought ambition, comedy, poetry, or music scenes to strange dates, or discovering new friends, jobs, or talents, and especially, unleashing unknown power.

Swollen Appetite can be the catalyst, which is what this writer has wanted all along. Brian came up with a name for the blog that nails the attitude of youth: Who Did We Think We Were? There’s a silky scar as long as time separating us from another version of ourselves. Stitches of seconds, minutes, and years knit a thicker skin over the past. We’ve survived youth. Not everyone does. We had dreams, relationships, ambition, and oh so many feelings: disdain, doubts, jealousy, joy, contention, and longing. Who did we think we were?

Please submit your personal stories of 500-850 words max, along with at least two pictures, to sandraaustinmello@gmail.com. And please tell your friends who haven’t read the book that it’s available in paperback and Audible. Can’t wait to read your contributions to our collective!

Next up: 1990s Karaoke Party at the Mel-o-dee Lounge September 20th -  stay tuned!