mmdccxcii

I CAN BE MY OWN BOLINAS
 (Walking from ‘home’ to the intersection

                  of Klonopin & Malice Cooper)

I’m stepping over a mint-green pill
on the sidewalk on the way to my
doctor’s office (located on Capp
Street around a block from the 16th
Street BART Station).  My appoint-
ment is with Dr. Sheran, the doctor
I had for the year (that ended 7
months ago) in which I was on
Medi-Cal.  I have visited regularly,
especially since medical benefits
are about the best possible thing
that can come from homelessness,

at least as far as I can tell.  It’s called

Mission Neighborhood Resource Center 

and is a free clinic for folks such as my

self (who are generally free from

finances for such things as residences

and medical visits)....  I’m on one of the 

three or four versions of Medi-Cal that 

can be assigned to folks with the freedom 

aforementioned here in San Francisco.  Con-
fusing, but nevertheless the absolute best
part about being jobless and homeless 

here, covering most medical issues I’ve
encountered since being ‘free’
enough to get this perquisite.  The 

bias and condescension by many 

medical staff who have helped me 

to be on my healthy, happy way has
been free, as well, but these things 

are mostly from emergency room visits, 

in particular to St. Francis, a few blocks 

from where I lived for 16 years before 

being evicted from my lovely home;

things like severe panic attacks, or
the bout with pneumonia I slammed
into last October, during which time
I was sunk into my shelter cot (#13,
top bunk, middle of room that holds
nearly a hundred men at night), 

stuck for nearly a month, barely
crawling down to even eat.  During
that time someone stole my wallet
and my phone from the very bed in
which I slept; a common occurence,
and one of a few common occurences
which have kept me from obtaining
solid employment.  These are things
that pass swiftly and cinematically
through my head as I head to my
check-up, which, I can happily report, led

to my very first dental exam and cleaning

in nearly a decade.  And, along with
that, purportedly to be coming soon, 
my first eye exam.  It has been years.

Which could mean a new pair of
glasses for me (exciting!), and
I have not worn, new or old, any
glasses, at least with real lenses,
in several years.  A pair looks 
appropriate for interviews, in my
opinion, which I hope that I will be
participating in again soon (I need a 

job-search worthy smartphone, which,

thanks to a few gracious folks, should 

also be arriving in short measure).  I

could use anything that might possibly 

give me a bit of added panache, because 

my recent experiences at trying to imp-

ress have been less than impressive,
and I must impress, need intensely
to impress.  So it would appear that 

a thing such as a pair of glasses, at
least in my world now, has become
even more important than it used
to be, at least as concerns my thus

far nearly three decades-long career.
So, I shall have my eyes tested at
Zuckerberg San Francisco General
Medical and Trauma Center, a name
which, sounds oddly like home to
me.  Most folks around here still call
it, simply, “General” — like the few
holdouts who go to Pac-Bell Park
to see their Giants play - a park
that has had new names for
over a decade now.  All this is

on my mind now as, on the corner 

of Mission and Duboce, I step over 

a blister-packed Klonopin, a drug

I’ve never been prescribed.  So

how do I feel sure about what
it is over which I step?  I catch
myself mumbling an answer of
sorts, something about how it’s
simply one of those odd and mostly
unnecessary things one picks up in
my particular world, I suppose.  Dur-
ing those moments when I find myself
more curious than depressed or anxious.
As I step over the pill, briefly considering
picking it up (which I do, but then quickly

trash it), I notice that across Mission, at the 

Brick & Mortar (a venue at which I have 

seen a performance or two, eons ago (with 

long ago friends who now only exist in my 

head, present-day ghosts about whom I often

wonder but from whom I never get an unsolicited

word).  The marquee reads “Malice Cooper” and it 

gets me to wondering what kind of performance

this Malice Cooper might present to the probably 

now absurdly to me young San Francisco nightclub 

fare.  A mix of yuppies and Alice Cooper fans seems

improbable to me, but I’m quite likely incorrect 

about such assumptions.  Is it a cover band 

who only performs songs originally Alice 

Cooper’s?  That’s my first thought.

I can’t recall a single Alice Cooper
song, to be honest.  Would one

even ring a bell?  Nevertheless,

Alice Cooper now for me has 

enlarged significance.  I imagine 

a successful band biopic, bringing

them into even more of a present-

day relevance?  Perhaps it’s just 

how, these days, for me, I go

about gathering tidbits of import 

from looking back at just about anything,

be it heavy metal band, a small shared

moment in time that has been recorded for 

posterity, like a mini-film of people dancing 

goofily on a large stage or of a recital performance, 

of a family gathering, finding a stack of books

you had read when a mere child,

these are x-rays from which the

past might be examined, in which

tiny seeds of present predicaments 

might be seen, assessed, diagnosed. 

Maybe this Malice Cooper in no way has 

any real relation to its less malicious 

namesake.  Perhaps it’s a means to gather 

attention, to simply get someone, anyone, 

to show up.  Maybe one or two of those

who come may listen, wondering about

the band’s name, were fans of Alice 

Cooper, and find they absolutely LOVE 

this Malice.  On the other hand there is

the possibility that fans of
the band whose first name
was that of the maid on 

Brady Bunch, and whose last 

is the name of a currently

popular actor enjoying heightened 

celebrity who stars in and directs

a remake of a film made
famous by a talented young
lady whose popularity sky-
rocketed during the time period
it premiered, around when

Alice Cooper came together

for the first time and began to

go about making a name for 

themselves.  It is possible an

original member of the band might arrive 

at  the venue this evening, order a beer 

while awaiting the night’s perfomance, 

only to be completely mortified by what 

they encounter.  Perhaps there will be a 

woman in attendance who keeps

her distance from the rest of the 

crowd, seemingly lost, with a 

cocktail in her hand,
whose name is Barbra
Cooper, a woman who
revels in sadness at
local concerts of all kinds.
We might imagine (as I
do) the horror, or sheer
adventure, of such a new
and unexpected discovery.
Or, if one of the concert
attendees failed to see the
‘M’ in front the rest of the 

headliner’s name on the 

marquee at the Brick & Mortar 

at the northwest corner of Duboce 

and Mission Streets one recent 

afternoon and, still obvlivious, 

has decided to attend. 

These were just a few

of the things I was thinking, 

perhaps embellished a bit
for flare, at just that one in-
tersection during my pleasant
walk to my doctor’s office one

morning a few months ago as I 

stepped over a blister-packed singular
pill of what was (I believe) Klonopin.