AFTER THE NOVELTY of a very late summer wears off, San Franciscans get cranky in what we flatter ourselves is a heat wave -- which, in fairness, would be known in most parts of the country as a warm couple of weeks. Still, we just aren't cut out for airless nights and baking sidewalks; we slump, disconsolate, over iced coffees and secretly wish for fog.
Even inspiration had dwindled, and all that came to mind was a new acronym: BSK. It's short for Blue Shirt and Khakis, and can be used as an adjective -- as in, "He's kind of BSK," or, in instances of proposed Union Street bar outings: "Let's go somewhere less BSK."
Well, it seemed clever at the time; the unrelenting 78-degree heat was getting to me.
In the Mission a terrible stench of rotting fish and caramel assailed me as I opened my car door on the last night of Indian summer. Still, when I reached the friendly, slightly threadbare Victoria Theatre, the Viva Variety show was just about to begin and everyone was in a festive mood -- indeed, the crowd began whooping as soon as the opening act, Lumin Essence, took the stage in white and silver Barbarella-ish outfits featuring platinum wigs, tight pants and bikini tops; exotic lighting effects that cast geometric patterns over the dancers warranted further cheering.
THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT a variety show that's just distracting enough to be soothing, but not so distracting that your own thoughts can't run along underneath the action, and at some point I noticed that sudden cool inside the air that always means the fog is coming.
Onstage, Lunatique Fantastique finished its foam-rubber-based puppetry act and was succeeded by trick roper Karen Quest, who introduced herself as a cowgirl from the cowgirl capital of the world, San Francisco, "where the men are men and the women are lonesome."
Polite laughter.
"That line works real good out there on the road."
Howls. Everyone, it turns out, wants to play Viva Variety, because the audiences are so enthusiastic. Quest, after instructing a volunteer not to make jokes because he had to be the "straight guy" -- with a hammy wink to the crowd -- left the poor guy hog-tied beside the stage while she earned a standing ovation for a finale in which she spun a 50-foot rope in a giant lasso.
The I Love Lezzie comedy troupe performed a surfing song and a lewd dance routine to "Johnny B. Goode," Ron Coulter did a ventriloquist act, Scott Capurro did stand-up and the evening ended with cabaret singer Coley Grundman somehow reducing the crowd to hysterics with his psychedelic song stylings on "MacArthur Park," which culminated in a spontaneous audience sing-along for the final chorus of "Someone left the cake out in the rain."
Then the houselights came up and everyone poured back out onto the urine- reeking sidewalk of 16th Street, which, after all these dry months, is as sticky as a bar floor at 2 a.m.
OVER TWIN PEAKS, the fog -- amber colored in the reflected glow of streetlights -- floated inland. Police tape surrounded the corner of 16th and Castro, and cruisers were pulled up everywhere, their lights flashing. A somber crowd stood on the sidewalk and an officer was interviewing witnesses: Police had shot a man who'd been brandishing a butcher knife.
On Fell there were more police lights and a tow truck. An accident? Bits of paper pinwheeled across the road; the street trees were tossing; and even though the city had cooled off abruptly, the night felt restless.
By early morning beads of moisture were dripping off the fire escape, and the sky was gray. Two blocks away there's a Monterey pine; when it's barely visible the fog is especially thick. This morning it had vanished entirely, and I knew autumn was finally here.
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