Mamagotcha's journal

There's been a series of memories coming back these last few weeks, ignited by the anniversaries of the Jonestown disaster and the Moscone/Milk murders. Last night, Clay and I watched "The U.S. vs. John Lennon," and it really reawakened the feeling of growing up in San Francisco in the 70s. I was a clueless kid, but even a kid remembers things like the Kent State and the Zodiac murders. Watching DiFi pick up the pieces made a huge impression on me.

Those years, the 70s and 80s, greatly influenced my desire to work in journalism. The atmosphere allowed some fabulous writers to flourish. I remember the Point Reyes Light's Pulitzer for their series on Synanon (and later got to work with Cathy Mitchell, one of the Light's publishers, at Santa Rosa Junior College). I remember reading the San Francisco Chronicle religiously every morning, saving Herb Caen's column for dessert... he always had some lovely wordplay among the three-dot items. And there were others I sought out, too: Adair Lara, CW Nevius, Art Hoppe, Jon Carroll, Phil Frank, LM Boyd, Armistead Maupin, Steve Rubenstein, Alice Kahn, Gerald Nachman, Randy Shilts... dang, until now, I didn't know I'd remembered all those writers. Only a few are still on staff. Half a dozen of them are dead.

I don't think I overly romanticize San Francisco, or discount the effect of the incredible amount of social change that's occurred since I lived there. I certainly don't harbor any fantasies of the paper returning to its heyday. I know it's not the same place it was. But I think it would still be an amazing place to live and work.

I think I'm homesick.