Deep Thoughts by Justin Juul, in honor of Cannabis Awareness Day, Sat/3

The University of Santa Cruz has a long history of embracing pot-heads, communist philosophers, vegans, musicians, artists, and white Rastafarian dudes. That’s why it came as no surprise that The Grateful Dead recently chose the school as the new home for its entire catalogue of music, articles, photos, films, etc. But it was no small feat. UCSC actually beat out bids by Stanford and Berkeley, which, to some, suggests that maybe the world really is changing for the better. Maybe hippies actually are kind of smart. After all, UCSC, a school founded by a roving band of love children back in the early 1960’s, a school that was once featured in Rolling Stone Magazine as “The Best School for Stoners,” a school that David Horowitz singled out on Fox News as “The Most Un-American School in the Country” has become one of the harder schools in the UC system to get admitted to.

The Grateful Dead deal is just another big step in the right direction for all of hippy-kind. But wait. Is the school really that dedicated to its roots or is it just cashing in on them for publicity, hoping that accepting the Dead catalogue will convince the world that hippies are still running the show at UCSC? The truth is they’re not.

Photo by mvgals.net
How Weird Street Faire is the best annual party in San Francisco, bar none, particularly on days like this Sunday when the sun is scheduled to shine brightly. I'll be among thousands of people dancing my ass off to some of this city's best DJs and generally mixing it up in a way that I'll probably regret on Monday, particularly with the plethora of cool after parties around the epicenter of Howard and 2nd streets. The fair shuts down at 6 p.m., an unfortunate cut-off that the city first imposed last year, so get there around noon-ish and don't forget the sunscreen.
DJs lineups on the flip...

By Justin Juul

Hey! Learn some history, dude.

I don’t know exactly how you’re going to celebrate Cinco de Mayo this year (or have celebrated it already) , but odds are it’s going to involve excessive drinking, a BBQ grill, and a few of your close friends. I mean that’s what it’s all about right? Drinking Mexican beer in the sun? Well, the simple answer is yes. Cinco de Mayo is one of those holidays, like St Patrick’s Day and Easter, that most Americans use as another excuse to drink beer when they should be working. But have you ever wondered what it’s really all about? I mean, the fifth of May wasn’t just picked randomly by The Corona Corporation was it? The date must signify something.
After a long weekend of cerveza and sun, The Guardian got to feeling a little guilty about its ignorant participation in the traditional (and early) Cinco de Mayo celebration at Dolores Park and decided to ask Paul Ortiz, professor of Latino/African American History at UC Santa Cruz and author of Emancipation Betrayed, to share his insights on the holiday.

SFBG: What exactly is Cinco de Mayo a celebration of?

Paul Ortiz: Cinco de Mayo commemorates the victory of a Mexican militia force over Napoleon III's army at The Battle of Puebla in 1862. France sought to take advantage of a nation still reeling from the impact of The Mexican-American War (1846-1848) and the resulting internal strife. The French planned to install a puppet dictatorship in Mexico and they landed their imperial army in the state of Veracruz to implement this plan. The French expected little or no opposition. Instead, the Mexican people organized a volunteer militia and met the French expeditionary force near Puebla.

The Mexican soldiers were outnumbered and faced troops with superior military training and leadership. In spite of this, these citizen soldiers prevailed over the French and defeated them on the field of battle.

The remarkable victory at Puebla provided a much-needed sense of pride to an embattled nation. The French defeat also prevented Napoleon III from intervening in the U.S. Civil War on the side of the Confederate States of America. After the end of the Civil War, the U.S. assisted Mexico in expelling the remaining French occupying forces. Thus, Cinco de Mayo is a truly American day of celebration!

SFBG: I heard they don’t really celebrate the holiday in Mexico. If that’s true, then why do we celebrate it here?

By A.J. Hayes

Somewhere, maybe in a moldy gym locker or a clandestine liquor cabinet, a brilliant game plan for big league success has sat untouched for more than a quarter century.

Were talking about "Billy Ball," the late Billy Martin's blueprint for righting the ship of moribund baseball franchises. It was last used in Oakland in the early 1980s.

The A's were the last team of dubious talent that Martin managed to meld into winners. He took an Oakland club that had lost 109 games in 1979 and led them to the American League Championship Series within two seasons with essentially the same personnel.

Martin may have been a kook of momentous proportions, a guy who drank and fought like a pirate - a real pirate, not the Pittsburgh variety. But he knew how to light a fire under a ball club and get it back on the winning track.

Billy took four major league clubs with losing records (Minnesota, Detroit, Texas and Oakland) and turned them instantly into winners. He also increased attendance by his presence alone - and what percentage of ticket sales do you think current A's manager Bob Geren and Giants skipper Bruce Bochy are responsible for?

Employing a ramped up style that resembled sand-lot ball (some would prefer the term "bush league") Martin led clubs would blitz opponents by using everything from double steals and hidden ball tricks to literally falling down on the job.

"My favorite was the 'first and third play," recalled Shooty Babitt, an infielder on Martin's 1981 Oakland club. "Billy loved to steal home. So if he had runners on first and third would have a guy like Wayne Gross, who was probably the least athletic guy on the club, take a good lead off first and then suddenly fall down. Right, away and the pitcher would throw to first base and the guy at third would walk right in. We thought he was crazy when he told us to do that, but lo and behold we scored a few runs by doing that."

Once a particular recipe for success has worked in professional sports - Bill Walsh's West Coast offense, for example - other teams desperate for a winner will run it into the ground. So why it is that no one has adopted Martin's strategies?

One word: fear.

Photos and text by Ariel Soto

At the San Francisco Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) office an emergency protest and a call for justice was held on May 5th in a response to condemn last week's raids where 60 immigrant workers were detained by the ICE. People gathered at the protest to call an end to these raids that tear apart families and criminalize the important work immigrants are doing in the community. Of the 60 workers who were arrested, some have been released, but must wear an electric ankle bracelet while they wait for deportation hearings. "Estamos aquí y no nos vamos" ("We are here and we're not leaving") was one of the many slogans chanted by the passionate and diverse group of protesters at the event.

Participating organizations included: East Bay Alliance for a Sustainable Economy, Bay Area Immigrant Right Coalition, Clergy and Laity United for Economic Justice, Pride at Work, and San Francisco Immigrant Legal and Education Network.

While we shine a little frowny face upon fossil fuel burning for the sake of it, we're suckers for antique motos (and, occasionally, their riders). David Carini checked out the International Concours d'Elegance.

Classic motorcycles sprouted from the lawn of the Ritz-Carlton in Half Moon Bay on Saturday May 3 as enthusiasts, mostly old white men, drooled over immaculate bikes of almost every brand and decade.

At Legends of the Motorcycle (aka International Concours d’Elegance), an annual event in its third year, contestants enter their meticulously restored motorcycles into one of several categories, from early production models from the turn of the 19th century to modern custom bikes, and then each category is awarded prizes.

Every year, there has been a focus on a particular brand, this time honoring Italian manufacturer MV Augusta and British Norton. As judges toured the golf course-like lawn, these bikes had the chance to rumble alive as many 70+-year-old men stared like children at a new toy under the Christmas tree.

The foggy morning started in the Dainese (a motorcycle apparel and helmet manufacturer) Tent with the unveiling of new safety technology and a collaborative effort with AGV (an Italian helmet) to unveil a limited edition Giacomo Agostini helmet.

Burning Man will lose all meaning this summer for thousands of revelers who will attempt to attend the event under a dark cloud of startling sobriety.

That’s because a man named Yacov “Jacob” Yida was sentenced today in federal court for conspiring to smuggle into the United States 500,000 ecstasy pills from Paris to California.

The U.S. Attorney’s Office is claiming that the pills had a street value of about $15 million. If you know anything about the drug war, $15 million is probably a vastly overstated figure, but that’s still a lot of fucking drugs now unavailable to people with bad dye jobs and goggles as accessories.

So now what are you people going to do? Rely on cocaine, booze and pot alone to convince you for two weeks that bolting back and forth across the desert next to a guy in a leather thong who works as a corporate branding consultant by day is a good idea? That surely won’t be enough.

Okay, okay. So we’re being a little cruel. Yida actually arranged the sale all the way back in 2000, according to court records, which means that short-lived void in the black market is long gone.

A confidential source tipped off the feds to Yida's pending exchange, and when the shipment arrived in the United States, it was intercepted by narcs. Yida fled the country to Mexico before police could nab him, but he was extradited in 2005. He was convicted by a jury in December of 2007 and today sentenced to 121 months in prison.

By A.J. Hayes

In current baseball vernacular, "wearing it" refers to owning up to a hellacious slump, a shoddy performance or bone-headed play sans lame excuse.

"I threw like ass... basically," former Giants pitcher Sidney Ponson so elegantly put it following a horrible game a few seasons ago. That's a fine example of "wearing it."

Blaming a shipment of "soft" bats for a home run drought -- as Oakland slugger Jack Cust did this spring -- is most assuredly not "wearing it."

In the late '70s, much-maligned former Giants shortstop/futility icon Johnnie LeMaster, AKA "Bones," AKA "Johnnie Disaster," took "wearing it" to a whole new level.

In one game vs. the Montreal Expos in 1979, LeMaster "wore it" - literally.

A prototypical good field/no hit shortstop during his best days at the park, the super slender LeMaster was enduring a prolonged stretch of through-the-wickets fielding/don't-even-bother-stepping-into-the-box hitting that had everyone from little kids to blue-haired ladies at Candlestick Park calling for his scraggly '70s-style mustache.

Razzing LeMaster had become the official second language of the frozen concrete bowl by the freeway.

So without informing the higher ups in the San Francisco front office, LeMaster had his name plate removed from the back of his No. 10 Giants jersey and replaced simply with a three letter word: "Boo."

"It really caught everyone off guard, in fact when I walked to the plate that night I could hear manager Joe Altobelli say, 'Why does John have "Bob" on the back of his uniform?'

"That stunt cost me a $500 fine, but it was worth every penny. It won over some of the media and the fans really got a kick out of it," said LeMaster who was honored by the Giants last weekend as part of the club's season long 50th San Francisco Anniversary celebration.

It was the Paintsville, Kentucky resident's first visit to San Francisco's downtown ballpark.

By Justin Juul

The Tourist Club , an authentic German beer garden at the end of a mile-long unmarked trail in the Muir Woods, is probably one of the coolest places in the entire Bay Area. It’s one of those spots you take out-of-town friends when you want to impress them with how awesome you’ve become since up and leaving whatever shithole town they’re still rotting in. It’s exclusive, hidden, and stunningly beautiful. Plus, there’s beer!

The only thing is, the place has been closed for the past six months and it doesn’t look like it’s opening anytime soon. It’s sad, really. I mean think of all the hipsters who’ve made the mile-long hike this Spring only to discover the club’s rude sign: Closed To The Public Until Further Notice. Think of all the disappointment. Think of all the cool points suddenly turned lame. But there’s hope.

Word on the street (and on The Tourist Club’s new website -- exclusively for site members) is that the German’s will be opening their doors for a one-time bash, called Maifest, on May 18th. Maifest is an annual celebration of German heritage, beer, and sausage. Just like Oktoberfest. But in May! Awesome.

$20-$25
The Tourist Club (AKA The Hidden German Beer Garden AKA The Nature Friends Club)
30 Ridge Ave, Mill Valley.
(415) 388-9987
www.touristclubsf.org

The third annual Maker Faire in San Mateo brought out some of the country's most innovative inventions, ranging from lounge wheelchairs and mind machines to human-sized mousetraps and better crocheting.

Really yummy ...

During this wonderful heat wave, on the day before the increasingly popular Bike to Work Day, it hardly seems surprising that Forbes Magazine has named San Francisco as the best city in the country for the outdoors.
The top three cities (us, San Diego, San Jose) are all in California, so apparently our state's picture perfect weather was a big plus in their rating system. But San Francisco was also singled out for our good air quality, abundant recreational opportunities, and the facts that almost 20 percent of city land is devoted to parks, which we spend $252 per citizen to promote and maintain.
Yay us!

The California Supreme Court has announced that it will issue its long-awaited same sex marriage ruling tomorrow morning at 10 a.m., deciding whether the current ban is unconstitutional. City Attorney Dennis Herrera, whose office has been fighting for the right of LGBT couples to get hitched and whose website has extensive links to documents on the case, will host a press conference at noon to react to the ruling.
So far, nobody knows what to expect except the fact that whatever the ruling, it will be big, big, big news for San Francisco and the rest of the state. Stay tuned.

As a ginormous, idealistic faggotta, I of course can't help tearing up at the news that the California Supreme Court overturned the ban on same-sex marriage. As someone who's been with the love of their life for more than three years now, though, I'm suddenly terrified. How the hell am I gonna pull off a fuschia wedding dress in this heat? Thank goddess for Secret antiperspirant, ladies.

Of course, there's still a big fight ahead -- in California, with a heinous, probable November ballot initiative that wants to amend the constitution against love, and the inevitable "why can't I marry this tree?" panicky bullshit from the right. (Well, why can't you, treehugger?). And this is, alas, just a mere blip in changing this weird country's attitude as a whole. But, despite my queer anarchist misgivings about legalized emotional contracts and human property, I'm ecstatic for all the brave lovers who went full in to win this one. Hey, I'm a sucker for romance.

SFBG will have more coverage coming this afternoon.

PS -- yes, Florida: Rainbows ARE sexually suggestive.

Because there’s NOTHING BETTER TO DO in the Mission at 7 a.m. on a Tuesday, I got pulled over by a cop for rolling through a stop sign at 17th and Harrison. Yeah, happy Bike to Work Week to you, too.

Two other cyclists blew through the intersection at the same time, but the cops picked on me, with a $166.96 fine for violating vehicle code 22450(a). Why? Because I was “the closest to getting hit,” Officer McBride told me.

At this point I just had to mention that the only time I’ve ever been struck by a vehicle it was by a cop on a motorcycle who failed to use his blinker before he plowed me down in a crosswalk.

But Officer McBride didn’t feel like chatting about that, so I asked him and his partner, whose name I didn’t catch, how many cyclists they’d pulled over that morning. I was the second. I asked how often they did stings on cyclists and McBride’s partner said they never did that.

He quickly corrected himself, adding, “to my knowledge.” (Is this true? I’ve never seen a bike trap, but I’ve heard rumors about the Wiggle. Anyone out there have some deets on that?)

I also asked about their protocol for Critical Mass, when thousands of bikers just flow through the lights and stop signs. They both said they didn’t work Critical Mass, so they don’t know how or why the law is magically suspended then.

But it wasn’t magically suspended for me, and I’m pissed. In effect, I’ve been punished for riding my bike.

San Franciscans love to make shit and they love weird spectacles. And the The Power Tool Drag Races is the perfect combination of both. The name says it all: drag racing between custom vehicles made from belt sanders, skillsaws, grinders or other power tools. This quirky event has garnered national recognition and was even briefly a television show, but there's nothing like just spending the day in the beautiful sunshine out at Ace's Junkyard, drinking too much beer, watching the weirdness, and flirting with the gearheads behind these strange Frankenmachines.
PTDR put on a good show at the Maker's Faire a couple weeks ago, but that was sanitized for families and prudes. This weekend's show is the one to attend if you want racing sex toys and other adult thrills. Check it out this Saturday and/or Sunday.

By Ariel Soto

I am a born and raised, homegrown San Franciscan, and it's events like this weekend's Bay to Breakers fun run that make me so proud to be from this crazy town. Although some jumped up this morning and forgot to put their clothes on, others took the time to make amazing costumes and even some friendly "traffic control" folks came out to make sure everyone got across the city in a somewhat organized fashion. (All my friends got too drunk to run and took cabs -- Ed.)

By A.J. Hayes

It may seem overly dramatic to call Giants rookie shortstop Emmanuel Burriss a member of baseball's "lost generation" -- but if you have any doubts just look at the numbers.

The fact that Burriss is young, African-American and playing professional baseball makes him a rarity in today's game. It's no different in college baseball.

Emmanuel Burriss

Sixty-one years after Jackie Robinson broke baseball's color line, the influx of new black in the sport's elite ranks has all but dried up.

"It's sad," Burriss, 23, said. "I don't think many young African-Americans kids would even know who Willie McCovey or Reggie Jackson is today."

Born and raised in Washington, D.C. before playing three seasons at Kent State University, Burriss is the first product of the District's public school system to be drafted by a major league baseball club since 1989.

A "sandwich" pick (33rd overall) by San Francisco in the 2006 amateur draft, the speedy Burriss batted .360 and led the nation with 42 stolen bases in his final collegiate season.

Now, less than two seasons later, Burriss has already graduated to the major leagues. In 22 games, the middle infielder has batted .255, and has demonstrated a sturdy glove and strong arm.

"I didn't even know they had baseball in D.C.," said the former African-American big league infielder and current Giants cable television commentator Bip Roberts, with a sadness tinged sigh. "When I watch Manny the thing I notice is that he has good baseball instincts. He has ability that a manager likes. He's a switch hitter, has great speed and instincts to play shortstop at a high level. I can see why they kept him up here."

Burriss also has a sense of social consciousness to match his high baseball I.Q. If Major League Baseball is really about making baseball attractive again to inner city kids, Commissioner Bud Selig should make it a point to pick Burriss' brain ASAP.

For a number of reasons, including the skyrocketing costs of playing organized youth baseball, lousy promotion of the game's top black stars and competition from other sports, baseball's popularity in the inner city has dropped off the charts over the past 20 years in the inner city.

The Giants currently have four African-American players on their active roster. Across the bay, Oakland has three.

Burriss said it was so rare to run into an African American player in college his first two seasons of minor league ball, that he immediately forms a bond with them.

"I always thought it was exciting whenever I've run into another African-American on the field. It's like 'Wow there's someone else. I'm not alone in this," Burriss said. "I always make it a point to meet them and talk about the fact that we are African-Americans and that we have to work hard to keep the population up in baseball."

By Ariel Soto

San Francisco's Japan Town came alive this Saturday, May 17, to celebrate the 4th Annual Asian Heritage Street Celebration. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, people grooving to Emcee T (a.k.a. Chinese King of the Bay), jade charms and everyone present seemed to be enjoying themselves while soaking in all the culture. There was also a Hepatitis B clinic on site giving free screenings, boxing matches and an excellent reggae band that got people dancing in peace plaza.

By Justin Juul

Naked dudes, drunk chicks, tortilla wielding madmen, Vikings, athletes, and homophobic Christian zealots. What a party! I came in 2,760th. Who says alcoholic chainsmokers can't run?

Editor's note: Though it went uncaptured in our photos, did anyone else notice how it looked like an American Apparel bomb exploded at Bay to Breakers this year? Weird.

For more Guardian pics of the fun run, click here.

Bonus Photos: Heatwave in the Park

By Justin Juul

Freelancing comes with a shitload of perks – autonomy, loving your work, self-scheduling, etc. -- but it’s not all great. The common myth is that freelancers live in heaven; that they just hang around their spacious lofts all day drinking beer, napping in the afternoon, and writing or painting whenever their bank accounts get low. Well, take it from me; freelancing may be better than office work, but it comes with a lot of bullshit too. For starters, there’s the money issue. Unless you’ve been doing it for over five years, the odds of making rent with your freelance income alone are extremely slim, which means a shitty side-job is a necessity. That basically means you never get a day off. Ever. Another drawback to this line of work is loneliness. Chilling out at home all day may sound nice, but it turns into a soul-crushing nightmare after about a month.

Still, for all the discipline, suffering, and sacrifice freelancing requires, it beats working for the man any day. At least, that’s what I thought before the city started building a goddamn school (or something) right across the street from my apartment. Now, not only am I lonely, distracted, and riddled with anxiety about meeting my deadlines, but I have to pump out journalistic brilliance with a chorus of drilling, welding, cement-mixing, and shouting right outside my window. Which hasn’t been working out so well. The construction site has been so loud lately that I’ve had to move my little operation down to the closest hipster café. Which also sucks because the music is loud, I can’t wear my jammies, and everyone talks constantly.

It’s been bugging me so much lately that I actually started looking into renting a “creative space,” which I knew would probably be impossible, given my financial situation. But, lo and behold, I found a company that offers exactly what I need. Dystopic Horizon Realty specializes in “near loft-like artist housing designed to cultivate creative thinking for those with exceptional lifestyles.” Each of DHR’s highly-affordable units is “hand-crafted and capable of magnificent views.” They’re well-ventilated, customizable, and built by a group of “unreal estate unprofessionals with over 40 years of experience.” Plus, they’re green!

Goodbye trendy café and hot noisy room. Hello good livin’.

Intern Phil Eil checks out his neighborhood diner - without nearly kissing his mother.

Does your license plate read, “MCFLY”? Have you been scanning Craig’s List for a Flux Capacitor? Well, while you’re waiting for that “Your DeLorean is ready,” phone call (the waiting list is eight months last time I checked), head over to Al’s Good Food Cafe at Mission and 29th Street. The place is a time machine, itself -- definitely where Doc Brown dines when he’s in the Bay Area.

Al’s opened in 1947 and it hasn’t changed much since. From the original Cattle Queen of Montana poster signed by Ronald Reagan to the menu descriptions (“Maiden Christina’s Special: A breakfast feast for the delicate lady with the big appetite…”), the place is steeped in old-school American allure. As “Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu” played over the speakers, I ate a Jo’s Special — three extra large eggs scrambled with ground chuck, fresh spinach, green onions and mushrooms — and tried to named the movie stars pictured on the walls. Jimmy Dean. Audrey Hepburn. That other guy from Rebel Without a Cause.

But while the décor of Al’s is the real deal (as opposed to, say, Chili’s), the reason to eat there is not the Bing Crosby champagne bottle (“He only gave them to his closest friends,” Jean, my waitress, told me) or the Thank-You note from Florence Henderson. It’s the hospitality. Al's daughters Jean and Joann have been working there since the restaurant opened, and they keep it grounded in its original principles. “Everyone here aims to please,” Joann told me. Jean added, “My father always said, ‘Soup and coffee is like saying, ‘Hello.’”

Leaving the restaurant, I put on my sunglasses, popped in a lollipop (it came free with the bill), and headed back out to Mission St.—back to the future.

Al’s Good Food Café
3286½ Mission, SF
(415) 641 – 8445

When this thing hits 88 miles per hour, you’re gonna see some serious…scrambled eggs.

By Johnny Ray Huston

When the French Open kicks off this Sunday, there will be a major void in one of its two main events. Earlier this month, three-time women's defending champion Justine Henin announced her retirement at the age of 25, a move that caught even some of the sport's main journalistic voices by surprise. Once Henin's goodbye sunk in, it all began to make a strange sort of sense. Her fantastic game if not personality is respected by all fans -- male and female -- of the sport, even if she's remained obscure to casual observers who only recognize the names Federer, Sharapova, and Williams. But because of her short stature and relatively small physique, that same well-respected game was built on a level of effort and commitment that even some of Henin's greatest opponents might not understand.

Justine Henin reaches

Henin regularly faced and beat players four to nine inches taller and twenty to forty pounds heavier (if not always stronger). A fierce one-handed backhand was her chief weapon, at a time when that shot seems endangered amongst top professionals. In an insightful reaction piece for ESPN, Stephen Tignor of Tennis magazine (a rock journalist cohort at Puncture in the '90s) wrote about watching Henin in-person at Roland Garros last year. According to Tignor, instead of grunting like so many players or squealing Sharapova-style when she hit the ball, Henin made a different, less audible noise: she gasped. With her fretful, almost panic-stricken looks to coach Carlos Rodriguez between every point of a match, Henin long seemed on the verge of bolting. That's precisely what she did in the second set of a notorious 2006 Australian Open final against Amelie Mauresmo, when her mid-match forfeit due to stomach pains (which Henin attributed to anti-inflammatories) permanently soured many people's opinions of her. A few years later, a somewhat more personable Henin's retirement from tennis while ranked #1 in the world -- though amid a string of notable losses -- is almost an inverse of that notorious match. She'll decide when to stop, and how to write her own story.

On the men's side, Roland Garros is hosting a very different kind of three-time defending champ, the never-say-die 21-year-old Rafael Nadal, who has yet to lose a match at the tournament. Nadal goes into this year's French Open as the favorite, having won 108 out of his last 110 matches on clay. That status hasn't been so easy to attain in 2008, though. Nadal entered this spring's clay season facing perhaps the longest title drought of his young career, as if he'd never quite shook the hangover of his loss to Roger Federer in last year's painfully-close Wimbledon final. (Since that match, Nadal's near-peerless record in tournament finals noticeably nosedived.) He's since won three events, but has had to do so within a compressed time frame that left his feet blistered. His most recent victory at a tournament in Hamburg required him to vanquish the top men's player of the year so far, Novak Djokovic, in a nearly three-hour three-set mara