It was a surreal scene. The smoke cloud cut a wide swath in the sky, completely dividing the city into light and dark. From my porch, I saw Downtown, which was still enjoying a nice, sunny morning. A little over a mile north, the rest of the city, starting from Middletown, as far up to La Jolla, was blanketed in a heavy red darkness. Ash was neatly piling up in the gutter next to my porch. The odd thing was that there was no smell of smoke. I knew something was burning, and from the looks of it was big. I called my folks to find out if there was a fire in Mission Hills. My mother had been watching the news, and told me that the fire had been burning since last night, up near Ramona, but had rapidly spread down to Lakeside and Santee.

The speed of this fire was phenomenal. By the time I showered, dressed and went to my folks’ place, an hour had passed. Within that hour, the fire had jumped a major freeway, Interstate 15, and made its way west, devouring almost everything in its path. The 60mph winds made it possible for the flames to dart across the width of the Interstate, igniting brush in seconds and turning it into a wall of flame within minutes. The Santa Ana winds were upon the city, helping the fire to spread.

The year had been a dry one so far. 177 days without rain, according to a local weatherman. The city hasn’t had a really wet year for a while now, causing brush to dry out and making conditions ripe for fire. The county has had its share of brush fires, especially in East County, but none were as big as this. The Normal Heights fire was the last really big blaze in San Diego proper, and happened in 1985.

After some time, I decided to venture out, going to Mass down in the old neighborhood. By noon, the smoke was so thick in the atmosphere that the sun’s brilliance was muted. It hung there in the dull red sky, sunspots exposed. The mood at church was somber. During the service, a number of families filed out in a hurry. Father Luigi later explained that their homes were in danger. The situation was quickly getting worse.

I wandered into the Princess Pub afterwards to check the news. The fire was as close as it would get that Sunday, but no one knew what was really going on. As far as anybody knew, the entire city was in danger. I couldn’t imagine my folks’ place burning down, let alone mine, but the possibility was so tangible that my stomach began to knot up. People were being evacuated left and right, the streets and sidewalks were empty, and the folks that did venture out were all worried, walking about like zombies. By 1pm, the fire was still gaining speed and energy, and was completely out of control. Local news announced that our firemen were spread thin. I had scanned the major news networks for anything about the situation, but found nothing. Nobody seemed to know that San Diego was on fire, besides San Diegans.

When help finally did come, the fire had done most of its damage. The gravity of the situation was tremendous. It has been named the worst fire disaster in California history, even beating out the San Francisco Earthquake fire. It burned for ten days, consumed over 280,000 acres, 2,232 homes and took 15 lives.

On the second day of the fires, I saw a photograph of my boss in the newspaper. Her home had been lost in the Scripps ranch area, where the fire had taken its toll. The entire neighborhood was wiped out, except for one home, left intact. It was her next-door neighbor. It’s a horrible feeling to see someone you know standing next to the ruins of her home, just next door to where the fire decided to stop. Other friends of our family lost their home in the same neighborhood.

She later spoke to me of the horrors of fleeing, seeing the flames and smoke advance rapidly. She had minutes to save whatever she could and run. Other folks said that they could feel the intense heat of the flames from afar. The pictures I saw of her home’s remains were hard to look at. I could only think of something my father had said during the week, that one spends a lifetime building a home, and it disappears in moments. Within the rubble and ash, one could see the porcelain of a coffee mug, or a picture frame. In the background, the only things recognizable were the naked chimneys, curving away into the distance.

The entire week was bizarre, and tough to handle. San Diego became a ghost town of sorts. The mayor had told citizens to stay home in order to avoid breathing the smoke-filled atmosphere, and especially to leave roads open for firefighters, police, and evacuees. It was eerily quiet. Interstate 5, a stone’s throw from my window, was nearly deserted. I’d driven to work, expecting the school to be open. Nope. Not one car in the parking lot, which was blanketed in ash and soot. We were closed due to air quality, as were most businesses. I drove down to Little Italy. Businesses open, but not a soul outside. Those that were outside had white masks on.

The way people rallied in the face of it was really something to behold. Everyone seemed to go into emergency mode and help out. Qualcomm Stadium became a way station for fire victims and families. Strangers were driving out there and lending their cell phones to victims. The firefighters really had a rough time of it in the beginning, but managed to finally kill the blaze. My neighbor, a firefighter, had told me how he’d gotten his gear together and gone down to his station, only to find that there was no transport to take him out there. The engines at his station had been called out hours earlier. The eerie silence in the city finally made sense: there were no sirens wailing in the city. They were all away, battling the blazes. There was even a shortage of heavy equipment that even the airport crash trucks were sent out to extinguish the flames. There were civilians climbing onto roofs with garden hoses and spraying down hot spots. Qualcomm stadium became an evacuation point for endangered neighborhoods. The entire parking lot was filled within hours. Folks were out in the streets distributing free masks. These are images that I remember well, during that smoke filled week.

In the year and a half or two years since, some progress has been made. Fire victims are rebuilding, or attempting to rebuild. The guy who started the blaze admitted his guilt and as a result, faces some jail time and fines. Surprisingly, folks seem to be pretty forgiving, and when polled in the local paper, some said that a long jail sentence would be too harsh a punishment. Others, certainly, were really angry, despite his admission, and want the stiff penalty. I think overall, myself included, that the citizens of the county are directing their anger towards the city council and the local Dept. of Forestry.

The fire had started just before sundown, had been reported, and a chopper sent out. The department made a decision to call back the chopper as it was about drop water on the fire in its infancy, due to lack of sunlight or night approaching. The DoF stands by its decision, but the masses are pissed off. According to some, that decision gave the fire plenty of time to grow to the size it did.

The DoF stands by its decision, but the masses are pissed off. According to some, that decision gave the fire plenty of time to grow to the size it did.

Just before the fire, the city council had denied funding to keep a fire-fighting helicopter for the County, because it was based out in East County and not in San Diego City. The city also has black eyes from two of its council leaders involved in a scandal, a bad credit rating in the nation, a pension crisis that has us over a billion dollars in the red, and a mayoral race that ended up being decided by the courts. Are they asleep at the wheel, or what? We are a small city with big city problems, as a friend recently told me. And as fire season approaches, people are getting nervous. I hope that the city council grows up and starts taking care of business. We’re losing faith here, you know?

Ulysses S. Grant Elementary didn’t know it yet, but in the fall of 1983, it would lose a gaggle of young students to St. Charles Borromeo Catholic School. That year, my parents decided to yank us out of “evil” public school and send my sisters and I to get “a better education”. It was a sign of the times. Also, if all the Italian families in the neighborhood were doing it, then our family was going along for the ride, too.

If Zeppelin was in with my folks, since the songs on that album were mostly acoustic, then Ozzy was out of the question. It was about that time that he had bitten the head off the bat, and there was a myth/rumor that if you listened to Ozzy and looked in the mirror, the devil would ‘pop out’. No way, man. I was a God-fearing Catholic kid that believed in ghosts, zombies and Michael Myers (Halloween). I was terrified that the rumor was true, so I avoided that music (and the bathroom mirror) like the plague. So, being the daydreamer that I was, I kind of tripped out when I first tried on the St. Charles uniform. That’s when it hit home that I wouldn’t be at Grant the next year. I was bummed.

The uniform was basic. For us boys, it was brown corduroy jeans and a white shirt. The girls had to wear brown plaid skirts with white shirts. The spiffier students wore a brown v-neck sweater or cardigan over the shirt. On one hand, the uniform was good, because it allowed my folks to save money on wardrobe for three kids, but I can tell you that Mervyn’s had some steady business, especially from families with boys. Those corduroys lasted 3 months at best. I tore holes in the knees within days, which prompted protests from my mom, who had a stack of brown iron-on patches just to make the jeans last.

I started St. Charles in the fifth grade, and left after the eighth. The first days were weird and full of anxiety, having never really left my neighborhood for one, and then having to be the new kid at a new school where most everything was different, except for the bullies. They were worse. There were about 25-30 kids to a grade, which meant that the same group progressed through each grade together. My class never changed, except for a few new kids here and there. So if anyone went missing, we knew and the rumors would swirl.

That first year was rough. My teacher, Mrs. Catano, was really cool, or started out that way. She made us kids laugh, always goofing around while teaching. The goofing around stopped after Christmas break, when we were introduced to sex for the first time. Things got really serious, because in Catholic school, sex was no laughing matter. She’d get really pissed if we giggled and snickered, which we did, every time the word ‘penis’ or ‘vagina’ came up. Names were written on the board, and hundred of rules were written after school.

The most mortifying aspect of sex education was the improvised diagram of the vagina that Mrs. Catano drew on the board. My fellow pre-pubescent classmates and I sat silently, anticipating (what for some would be the only accurate view of a vagina for years) the ‘sexy’ drawing. My mind conjured up images of centerfolds that I had seen before the fifth grade. Our next-door neighbor at the time had thrown out a stack of Playboys from the seventies, which the boys in the neighborhood swooped down on and stole away to their bedrooms and other places to enjoy. I had caught a glimpse of a few fully nude centerfolds, one complete with a plaid blazer, before my dad caught me and smacked me upside the head. Too late, the image had already tattooed itself on my young brain. But, I kept wondering about something. Let’s just say it has to do with popularity of hair in the seventies.

And so I sat there, anticipating something like the Playboy centerfold. What we got instead was something that looked like a cartoon cow’s head. Think Gary Larson, and there you go. Instead of giggles, this time there was puzzlement. Most of boys sat there, probably with a confused look on our faces. I think it’s fair to say that we all felt gypped and disappointed. Sex education sucked.

Well, as the fifth grade year progressed, Mrs. Catano got bitchier. She assigned unrealistic amounts of homework. Each day, I’d drag home all the textbooks from my desk, which barely fit into my backpack. I looked like a damn pack-mule. At one point, as I walked to the station wagon to go home, my pack ripped open, spraying books, papers and pencils all over the asphalt. I was so frustrated that I flipped out and started kicking my books around. Then, I cried as I picked it all up.

My other teachers were bearable and better as I continued in my “spiritual” education. There were a few good ones in there. Mr. Campbell was from Long Island and had the accent, too. He was a great teacher, very positive and didn’t take shit from anyone, especially snotty rich kids and pushy nuns. Mr. Ward was from “Dooblin”, Ireland. He was the soccer coach and taught classes, too. He was definitely a teacher you didn’t want to piss off. His voice boomed, and if he yelled, the whole school would hear him! If you were screwing around, he’d stare at you with steel blue eyes and yell, “DOHN’T MESS!” It was enough to make you pee your pants.

to be continued...

I had reached my car, and turned my back to them. As I opened my hatchback, one of them spoke, in a soft southern drawl. "Excuse me?", he asked, half-jokingly. I kept whistling, as ignored him.

From behind me came the question again. I heard it, and again ignored the voices. I was busy getting the car door open.

And then, "Hey man, gimmie five dollars!"

I finally reacted, waving them off with my left hand as I opened the door with the other. It set the scrubs off. Uh-oh, shouldn't have done that, I thought.

"Fuck you, you greedy motherfucker! Fuckin' piece of shit rich motherfucker! I'll kick your ass!"

The barrage of expletives continued , drowning out my whistling, cars, and the rest of the world. Their verbal tirade bounced all over that damn car garage, those concrete walls. They continued, muffled by the barrier of my car door. I put the key in the ignition, fired up the car, and put it in reverse. I began to get nervous now, knowing that I had to back up close to them to get out of my spot. I went for it, eyes glued to the rear view mirror, watching for anybody behind me. They were pretty irritated, and I expected anything to happen. But nothing did.

I put the car into first and took off.

As I got some distance between me and my verbal assailants, I finally got a good look at them in the side mirror. Their middle fingers were raised at me, their mouths still shouting profanities. I started to get angry as drove out of the garage and away from mall.

"What the hell just happened?", I thought aloud.

I began yelling my own stream of profanities inside the car, drowning out the stereo. People must have thought I was some crazy guy singing to himself in his car. Heavy metal, for sure. I was pissed at myself for not reacting, but at the same time glad. What irritated me the most was being called a greedy motherfucker, because I didn't want to give money to complete strangers, strangers who really didn't need it. Go get a fuckin' job, you losers, I thought at them. Dammit...there wasn't any security around, and I didn't even think of calling them until hours later.

Looking back, it could have been much worse, but it went the way it was supposed to, I suppose. What might have attributed to those guys acting that way? Bad economy, broken homes, bad attitudes? Who knows? But their viciousness really got to me. In Italian, they say, "Con occhi aperti". It means, "Keep your eyes open." I guess these days, it's a necessity.

I order a couple of slices for myself, watching a girl mouth the words “Pepperoni” and “Mushroom” to her boyfriend, who stands behind me. The line is out the door. Loud conversations die off at the roar of the clerk, “Slices! Two! Ricotta!” The ‘Girl from Ipanema’ is playing on the radio, and the guy in the kitchen sings along as he shoves another pizza in. The fans are on full blast, because of the heat from the ovens. I notice how the cheese melts on the pies in the display case.

I grab my slices and snag a table. I’m lucky, because it’s usually a zoo in there. I scan the walls, which are decorated with pictures of boxers and Italian-American actors. DeNiro, Pacino, Marciano…it reminds me a bit of the pizzeria in Do the Right Thing. You know, the whole Wall of Fame thing. It’s funny, I feel like I’m in the Bronx, and I’ve never been there. The sign in the window says, “Let us box you a pizza”, with two boxing gloves hanging underneath the letters. The owner is an ex-boxer. He came out to San Diego and opened up Bronx about five years ago.

I remember watching as they moved in and set up shop. I was a bank teller at the Wells Fargo drive-thru office that used to occupy a corner of First Ave. and Washington St. It used to be a little Asian place that never really took off. Then again, it was kind of a funky area to open a restaurant back then. Washington Street is an old artery between Mission Hills and Hillcrest. For a historical street, it’s had its share of freaks and shows. From my perch at the branch, it was almost like looking into a large aquarium.

I grab the slices and head over to the table. As we work on our slices, I continue my ‘shortened’ life story to the girl across from me. I have to watch myself because I tend to go off on tangents, making a short story a very long one. What can I say? I like to talk. I think that I talk too much, especially when the other person listens quietly. I hope that I’m not boring her. Oh well, I tell myself. I try to relax. I enjoy her company. She’s very cool.

I met her down at City. We’re in a class together, called Packaging and Design. You see, I got this idea in my head that I needed to go back to school and ‘really learn’ about graphic design. She was there, doing the same. While I do it mostly to kill time and meet people—you know, networking—she’s really there for the education. It’s a hell of a graphic design program, for thirteen bucks a unit, with some good instruction. But six weeks into the semester, I learn that the design scene in San Diego is one big clique, and you have to pass an initiation to get in. Not really, but if they had a secret handshake, I wouldn’t be surprised.

We talk design and get to know each other. We find out that we have friends in common. It turns out that I’ve secretly had a crush on one of her good friends for years, whom I met while working in the bank. This friend was a customer of mine. This friend has her own business. She also had this long-haired boyfriend that tagged along with her. I was inwardly scoffing at him while eyeing her…quietly, of course. You know, if a guy likes a girl, he always likes to think he should be the one with her instead of the boyfriend. It's a competition that's already lost, so what had I to lose?

She had long, brown hair that came just past her shoulders, brown eyes and her face...she was beautiful.

The day I first saw her was like any other day. All she did was walk into the bank one day and stand in line. There was just a way about her that struck me. The way she stood there, kind of lost in her thoughts. She had long, brown hair that came just past her shoulders, brown eyes and her face...she was beautiful.

And that was it.

Apart from helping her a few times, I just enjoyed whenever she came in. Eventually, I quit the bank and never really saw her after that, but somehow always remembered her.

I've been rambling. I try to change the subject, but too late. The slices are nearly devoured, and she glances at the clock on the wall. We finish up our slices and head home. We don't ever really hang out again afterwards, but we see each other at school and say "hello" whenever we bump into each other. I left City shortly thereafter, and began working again.

Some time later, I finally run into my old crush at the Casbah, during Jivewire. In the sea of dancing bodies, she appears. She looks beautiful, as always. This time, no boyfriend is present. They’ve broken up, it seems. She sees me and smiles. I smile back. The music is suddenly a dull, muted thump, as she speaks to me.

She says, “Hi.”

“Hey”, I reply.

Then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a tall blonde grabs my crush by the arm and pulls her back into the sea of people, disappearing forever. I haven’t seen her since, but I suppose that I'll see her again someday.

- S.F. 2003

After school was out, I’d usually go home and play outside until dinnertime or until the sun went down. This one afternoon, I was sitting out on the front porch with my dad, when I heard a low rumble come from up Juniper Street. The red fire truck rolled down the hill slowly, coming to a stop in front of our house. Two blasts of that really loud fire horn sounded. I sat there, a bit dumbstruck, probably wondering what a fire truck was doing in front of our porch, until one of the doors opened and a fireman stepped out. It was uncle Frankie!

I ran out to meet him as fast as I could and gave him a big old hug. I was happy enough just to see him, but when I heard him say, “Wanna go for a ride?”, I almost blew a gasket. Boy, a ride in a real fire truck!

Climbing in was impossible. Uncle Frankie gave me boost. The guys put me right up front, next to the steering wheel, and slapped those big ole fireman headphones on my small head. We began our trip around the block, and then I started busting their chops about sounding the horn. They relented, and I went for it. I laid into it, as hard as I could. The neighbors were coming out of their houses! I let go, scared, and the firemen laughed. Uncle Frankie egged me on, “Honk the horn! Honk the horn!” I hit it again. Another burst of laughter came form the firemen. I was giggling like crazy. Being a fireman was fun…

Years passed, but my interest in being a fireman metamorphosed into being a baseball player, once I started playing little league. The ride always stayed with me though. I really loved my Uncle. He was the hub of the family, even though I, or we (the whole Filippone clan) didn’t realize it.

Every time there was a family gathering, Frank was the organizer, or the headquarters for the party. New Years, Easter, 4th of July, Super Bowl, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthday parties -- all were at Uncle Frank’s house. Anywhere from 25 to 40 relatives were all gathered to celebrate, catch up, and have a good time. For six more years, the gatherings went on, until Frank got sick with cancer.

I was thirteen years old -- old enough to know that cancer was bad. How bad? It was 1985, and both my grandfather and dearest uncle were deteriorating in front of me. I would see my grandfather go from near 200 lbs. to 85lbs. in a few months. I had seen Uncle Frankie for the last time in the winter of that year. He still looked good, except that he was tired and worn out. I went with my dad, who was doing a bad job of hiding his hurt. We went upstairs to the living room, where he lay on the sofa. He was in pajamas. He struggled a bit to lay up and turned around to sit.

“No, cugino, please lay down.”, said my father, in Sicilian. They always spoke in dialect.

“It’s okay, Vince, it’s okay…”, he replied.

Then they made small talk, which was unusual. Even though death was never mentioned, it was exactly what they were talking about. I could feel the heaviness in the conversation, and it made me awful sad, but I didn’t know exactly why. I got a chance to talk to him briefly, and I remember he managed to crack a smile when I told him about school and other stuff. He got tired all of a sudden, and then we left. It was the last time I saw him.

A couple of months later, while visiting my grandpa, the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Who is this?”, a voice asked me in Sicilian dialect. It was female.

“It’s Sal. Who’s this?”, I asked back, irritated. Porticellese have a bad habit of asking you first, even though they’re the ones calling.

“It’s you parrina(godmother). Hey, did-a you know thatchoo Uncle Frankie, he’s-a dead?”

And that was how I found out. This rude, shrill voice delivered the message to my ear, reverberating as I gave the phone to my mother and walked into the bedroom. I sat on the bed, still trying to process the phone call, and wept for my dead uncle. My grief slowly turned into anger. It was the cancer that killed him, but I was pissed at my godmother, as if she were the one responsible. The way she told me was so matter-of-fact, as if the weather had changed or something.

I was an altar boy at the time, and I served for his Mass. I took extra care to make sure everything was in order up on the altar, so that Father Marconi would say a great Mass. I was so preoccupied with all the stuff to do, that my grief took a back seat. The church was packed. It seemed like all of San Diego came. It was the first time I understood exactly what kind of impact this man made. I couldn’t believe how many people knew him. Above the weeping, a colleague of his delivered the eulogy, remembering the practical joker named Frank. I remember that the guy put on a pair of Groucho glasses, the ones with the fake nose and moustache, at the end of it. The church erupted into laughter briefly, and then the grieving resumed.

At the end of the Mass, I changed out of my smock, and went to join my family. I was allowed to go up to the coffin briefly and say my goodbyes. As soon as I got within a few steps, I let loose. It felt good to let it all go.

The pallbearers removed the coffin and brought it outside. Nearly one hundred firemen were lined up outside, seemingly all the way down State Street. They were in full dress uniform, in a line behind a big engine, saluting. The white gloves, the hats, the shiny buttons and shoes along with the blue uniforms were amazing to see. I recognized a few of them from family barbecues. They escorted the coffin away to the cremation. And that was it.

The family kind of drifted apart afterwards. We had parties, reunions and barbecues, but the difference was obvious. I could sense it in the faces of my relatives, especially in that of my Aunt JoAnn, his wife. The family makes the effort, but not as before. In recent years, it’s been like old times. I guess we’re all getting old. When we are together, we occasionally talk about him.

I stopped to talk with an old friend Gilbert a while ago, in front of Caffe Italia. He was seated outside with his colleagues, having coffee. He’s a fireman today, over at the Little Italy Fire Station, my uncle’s old station. When he told me that, I mentioned that I had an uncle who used to be a captain.

His boss interrupted us, and asked me, “What was your uncle’s name?”

“Frank Filippone”, I replied.

“Frank Filippone…I was a probie under Frank.”

He told me about how his early days as a firefighter and having worked together with my uncle until he got sick. He told me that they had a nickname for him – Four-fingered Frank. I forgot that my uncle had lost one of his fingers.

Quite a bit has happened this past year, both in the world and I would assume in our personal lives as well. I referred to last year as a year of transition, but this year was also one of transition, but for the better, I think, despite all the negative things we may have seen and heard of. I'd like to wish happy holidays to everybody, especially those that are far away from family in this time (a few of my students are far, far away and will not be back for a year).

Stay safe and enjoy, and let's make 2004 a great one.

Happy New Year
Merry Christmas
Happy Hanukah

Ciao,
salvatore

That one little pantomime is what sticks with me to this very day, whenever the crash is mentioned. It was probably the only action my five-year old mind could understand. The next day, I remember seeing the picture on the front page of the paper. We had a San Diego Union vending machine on the street corner, which we could see from the front window of the house. It was from there I saw the image of the doomed aircraft on the front page. Finally outside, I was able to study the image up close.

It looks the same today as it did then. The image is too revealing, too sad to look at, yet too powerful to ignore. It’s grainy, in that old, seventies Kodak sort of way. The plane is frozen in time, plunging towards earth, veering to the right, then down. The right wing is on fire, burning intensely. Its blaze emits a glow, casting an eerie orange against the fuselage that makes the letters PSA stand out. The landing gear is extended, as are the flaps and whatever else they could do to try and control that airplane. One could feel that the pilots were doing their best to regain control. Other images are said to exist that reveal frightened passengers looking out the windows.

Various reports about the crash exist that describe a mid-air collision between the Boeing 727 and a Cessna, in broad daylight. All agree that the two aircraft had failed to maintain visual contact. The Cessna was controlled by a student pilot, and was on approach to Lindbergh Field at the same time as PSA 182 was making final preparations to land. The Tower had radioed 182, informing them that the Cessna was ahead of them at a lower altitude. 182’s pilots confirmed visual and continue landing preparations, but somewhere along the way, lost the small plane. In the transcript, the PSA pilot asks if they’ve passed the smaller plane. The co-pilot confirms jokingly, adding, “I hope…” In the next few minutes, the two aircraft would collide. Flight 182 continued its descent as the Cessna ascended. It tore through the right wing, puncturing the fuel tank and fatally disabling the larger plane. The Cessna fell out of the sky, crashing close to the point of impact, while 17 seconds later, the PSA crashed about a mile or two away in a North Park neighborhood, wiping out about 22 homes. In total, 144 lives were lost. None of the people on board survived, and seven people on the ground were killed in the impact and resulting fire. In 1978, it was the worst air disaster to date.

We’d find out later that a friend of the family was on 182. She had swapped seats with a friend who worked for PSA. Mr. Corona was going to leave that morning for home, having worked the night shift at LAX. Desperate to get home to San Diego, Mrs. Vella asked Mr. Corona if she could get on the flight. Don obliged, giving up his seat and opting instead to drive down to San Diego. He’d hear the news report in the car, just 40 minutes later.

An acquaintance of mine lost his sister on that flight. I can’t imagine how rough it must have been their family. I’d later meet and become friends with his nephew Greg, who was but five when his mother died. I met Greg just after the 9/11 attacks, which he’d experienced right in lower Manhattan.

All this stuff mixes and tumbles around in my head as I write this. But I wonder…did the city change at all because of this?

The San Diego of 1978 and 2003 are light years away from each other. The accident gave airport opponents fuel to get the airport moved elsewhere, an argument that has been ongoing for at least 40 years, and is still ongoing. But only a few years after, the airport expanded by adding a new terminal, increasing the number of flights exponentially. As a matter of fact, development around the airport has increased, if anything, and a few landmarks are testament to that. I get nervous every time I see a plane land ‘too close’ to the roof of a certain parking garage on the corner of Kettner and laurel streets. If you were to sand at the highest point of the roof, you could probably tickle the belly of an aircraft with your index finger.

Downtown was a ‘sailor’s paradise’ in ’78: hookers, massage parlors, bookies, pimps, drug dealers, and u-name-it. In its place are hotels, restaurants, clubs, a convention center and a new ballpark. The tourism in the city has gradually increased yearly, thanks to events like the Super Bowl and Comic-Con, and attractions like the San Diego Zoo and Sea World. In the past 10 years, the airport has yet again expanded and begun including flights from Europe, and development in the city keeps going like nobody’s business. The San Diego of 1978 seems like a distant memory compared to today. But it should be remembered at least, as a time when San Diego was an innocent little navy town, when you could walk along the harbor and see 120 fishing boats docked and getting ready to go out for a month’s trip.

The anniversary of the accident passed silently the other day, with a little mention in the paper. The aerospace museum is marking the anniversary with an exhibit on the “Poor Sailor’s Airline” that began here at Lindbergh field so long ago. I’ll be going to pay my respects, to the smilin’ airline I loved so much as a boy.

From the moment he hit play on the CD, all my expectations of what Frank Zappa might have sounded like went out the window. I had him pegged for sixties blues-rock. Nope. The song was called ‘Plastic People’ and it lasted a couple of minutes before my co-workers and I started complaining. 58 minutes later marked the end of the torture that had later been declared, “The time Charlie brought in that crappy music…” I decided that I didn’t like Zappa or the Mothers. No way. That was music? I thought, what the hell was Deep Purple thinking, immortalizing him in ‘Smoke on the Water’? Little did I know, a seed had been planted.

A few years ago, when Napster was helping big e-commerce sites lose precious bandwidth, was when I accidentally revisited planet Zappa. I had been an in-house graphic designer at an Internet startup. Everybody who worked there had a T1 connection and the Napster client. It was a huge downloading party that lasted until the suits pulled the plug, about a year later. It was plenty of time to refamiliarize myself with music I disliked. So here’s how it happened. I had been sifting through a user’s Shared folder, looking for something good, when I came across a file called ‘Montana-FZappa’. I clicked ‘Download’ and never looked back. 15 discs and three years later, I’m writing this story.

I love the guy’s music, what can I say? My friends think I’m crazy. I think they’re crazy, listening to that Drum and Bass stuff. I listen to music (sniff!). I can say a million great things about it, but you’d have to listen to know what I’m talking about, so I’ll move on to another subject – the fact that Frank spent some years in San Diego as a kid. Whether or not he was fond of the city is beyond me, but I do know that his earliest musical epiphany—his discovery of Edgard Varese—happened while living in El Cajon. I’d also read that he once attended Mission Bay High School and shopped for blues singles at a record store on the ground floor of the Maryland Hotel in downtown. This last factoid stuck with me, because I vaguely remembered visiting a record store there once. It was probably not the same one, but I decided to make a trip downtown and check it out anyway.

The Maryland is/was kind of a flophouse, an old San Diego hotel with white antique mosaic floors. I played shows with a ska band on the bottom floor coffeehouse once. The Gashaus, as it was called, was accessible through the hotel, and the bands had to keep their gear in the basement until it was their turn to play. The basement area could have been a set for The Shining. It was horror movie creepy, where your footfalls echoed loudly and one felt that they were being watched! Next door was the record store, which at the time had great old vinyl. I think I bought a Queen album there once.

I had returned, only to find the place emptied out. They’re refurbishing the hotel, upgrading it to fit in with downtown redevelopment. There had been low-income senior citizens living there, all evicted when the new ownership took over. There was nothing to indicate that either Gashaus or the record store had ever been there. What had I expected to find? Nothing. I just thought I’d retrace young Zappa’s steps while there was still a chance. I kicked around a bit and then took off.

Sometime later, I made it downtown to see Mike Keneally play at a jazz club called Dizzy’s. Mike was a local San Diegan who became the guitarist during Zappa’s 1988 tour, and remained a good friend of Frank’s well afterwards. He has also become a legend in his own right. I was able to chat briefly with Mike after the show. I think I said something witty, like, “I love your music…” Oh, brother. I’m not really good at talking to my hero’s. I did, however, avoid questions about Frank. I didn’t want to pester him with stuff people probably ask all the time. We kind of looked at each other knowingly, and then briefly talked guitar. Afterwards, I was contented with a parting handshake.

Walking back to the car, I thought about seeing Mike, being in downtown San Diego, and just the whole six degrees of separation. It’s funny how small the world is sometimes. I was pretty darn happy to be a Zappa fan that night. It’s like being in a secret club (of lunatics, you may think).

“Moving to Montana soon, gonna be a dental floss tycoon….Aaaaaarf!”

First it was Frankie, my next door neighbor, diving off the brick stoop and bellyflopping onto the wet, slippery concrete. Trying to outdo each other, each dive became quicker and more brazen, until my turn came up for the last time.

I had misjudged the edge of the stoop, slipping and falling backward on an invisible banana peel (picture a Warner Bros. cartoon...). Well, my skull didn't misjudge the stoop, made of those red bricks with nice sharp edges.

Wham! Stars, blinding pain, darkness, then me howling. Oh, and blood, lots of it.

Frankie's mom drove me to the hospital with my dad. I had somewhat calmed down until I saw the sign. It said HOSPITAL. Then they said "Doctor." I said, hell no. Howling and bleeding, I locked them out of the car :)

Eventually, I did get those stitches. I still don't remember how they got me out of that car...

I still regard her, this Catholic woman from Sicily, sitting in the kitchen, in the same chair she sat in when I was a child. Her look is far away, as if she is reminiscing. Her brow furrows occasionally, head nodding gently. I wonder what she thinks about, as she clutches her rosary beads and recites the Padre Nostro. In front of her, on the table, sits a small triptych of Saint Anthony and holy cards, alongside the army of pill bottles she draws from daily.

It was from Zia Maria, or Zi’ Zi’ (as in tse-tse fly) in Sicilian dialect, that I got my earliest religious education. She lived with my grandparents and my three uncles (all of them emigrated together). As a child, I was there almost every day. My grandfather would be out in the yard tending to the garden, which yielded milincani, cucuzza, pumaroru, fiche, nespole, and limiuni (eggplant, zucchini, tomato, figs, loquats, and lemons). They even had rabbits out back. While my grandmother cooked the mid-day pasta, my great aunt would be teaching me prayers in Italian. We sat together in the kitchen, huddled around a candle, my little fingers counting the beads of the rosary and praying the Ave Maria, while I gazed at the walls, dotted with holy cards, pictures of Padre Pio, and the standard painting of DaVinci’s Last Supper.

Looking at those illustrations, I was amazed and afraid at the same time. They were powerful. They gave me some early sense of identity; I knew that they somehow were a part of me, even to this day. I think it’s fair to say that if you are born Sicilian, you are pretty much born Catholic, whether you like it or not. No matter where you go, how you adapt, how much you think you’ve changed, even if you convert to another religion…it might as well be part of your DNA. In any case, you’ll get used to it, especially if you have a Sicilian grandmother who is a swell cook!

Zia Maria was born on Christmas Eve, 1899 in the small fishing village of Porticello. She was the oldest daughter of six children, the only one who never married. She was engaged thrice, before deciding to dedicate her life to the church. I assume that it was practice for mothers to bargain over whom their daughters were going to marry. The dowry was a serious matter. For example, her mother would appear with a ring one day and stick it on her daughter Maria’s finger, saying, “You’re marrying so-and-so’s son”, and that was it. Then, some time later, at random, her mother would simply pull the ring off her finger, automatically voiding the engagement.

Well, this happened three more times, in the same fashion. According to Zia Maria, the last fellow to whom she was engaged had desperately, in a last-ditch effort, tried to get her to elope, to go to Milwaukee with him, in spite of their parents’ wishes. He followed her in the street, practically begging, until it the answer was obvious. She refused. Eloping was considered taboo, and frowned upon by the church and family, even though many couples did just that. Some days later, Zia Maria went to speak with the local priest, and had a conversation that would change her life. Padre Salvatore told her marriage wasn’t in her future, but that the church would always be there. And that was that, she never again considered marriage.

She sleeps a lot these days, getting up to only to eat and move around a bit. On visits, I try to talk to her, because she doesn’t say much. It seems as if she’s waiting for something to happen. It makes me think of a proverb I learned from my great-uncle Girolamo (her brother), “Unne si nasci si sape, unne si mori nun si sape” which translates to, “You know where you’re born, but you don’t know where you’ll die”. I suppose she thought she would someday return to Sicily. That is definitely not going to happen. I look up at the walls again, my gaze met by the perpetual stares of the saints on those holy cards.

Zia Maria nudges me. Her grip is still firm, and she looks at me, nodding. I hold her small, wrinkled hand in mine. It’s soft and warm, just like when I was a little runt, praying along side her. In dialect, I say, “Zi Zi, do you remember…?”, and she smiles.

All that hero bullshit that male tellers imagine during teller training goes out the window when the real thing goes down. If the robber does this, then I’ll tackle him. I’ll punch him. Drop kick him. Huh-uh. Not even. During training, they tell you to cooperate, and while the robbery is in progress, also stay calm and make a note of the robber’s features, so we can describe them later. Not me, I couldn’t even look at the dude. I was scared shitless, and didn’t even know it until later, when the shock would finally hit me.

The robber had instructed us to throw the cash up on the counter. I hadn’t heard him say this, but I knew we had to because I saw everybody else doing it. Then, the guy went window to window, sweeping the cash off the counter into a bag and then he went, just as fast as he had come in. The door hadn’t even shut when the bank began moving again.

The doors were locked, yellow tape went up, and the authorities were called. It was amazing. It happened almost as fast as the robbery. Someone could have timed it with a stopwatch. The police arrived within minutes and started questioning witnesses. I couldn’t believe there were folks who remembered minute details. I couldn’t remember what he looked like, because I couldn’t focus on anything in particular, except the gun, which had been shiny. Didn’t hear him, didn’t see him. He might as well have been a ghost. That guy had a quick exit, being that Washington St. runs perpendicular to two freeways. He could have sped off down the hill and disappeared into the traffic. In any case, he probably ended up being caught. Eventually, they do.

I had nightmares afterwards, for a week or so. It was rough, and I just wasn’t interested in the job anymore, so I quit. I figured that $8.25 an hour wasn’t worth the possibility of being hurt by some lunatic. Customers didn’t seem to give a crap. I remember that after the doors were locked, a customer started banging and pulling on them, shouting angrily, “I have a deposit to make!” He hadn’t looked at the large sign in the door, which read “Bank Closed Due to Robbery”. Then the questions came, like, “Did they get my money?”, "Where you scared?". It was frustrating. Some customers however, had been very nice and understanding (thank you, folks).

I ended up getting a job as a bartender, and focusing on my studies. I had just taken my first HTML class at UCSD, and heard that this Internet thing was getting big...

As far back as the 80’s, multiplexes began lay waste to old cinemas the same way tornados devoured trailer parks. I began to notice this when the old drive-in on Midway Drive suddenly disappeared, without a trace. From the backseat of the family Impala, I had caught my first glimpses of cinema off that enormous screen. In particular, I recall a certain hockey-masked killer, and a certain lightsaber duel. My dad came back early from work one day, and took us to see Star Wars (my first-ever movie) at the Mann’s Valley Circle in Mission Valley. The last movie I saw in that theater was Aladdin. It’s foundation now lies below a Gordon Biersch.

The Loma Theater still stands, but as a bookstore. The beautiful marquee, and the interior ceiling illustrations have been “preserved”. However, there is nothing else besides to suggest movies once played there. Creaking seats and a snack bar have given way to rows of books. It had been cavernous to the eight year old me. I had seen “Star Trek, the Search for Spock” there. “E.T.” ran there for over a year. But, with Mann and United Artists just down the street, the Loma was doomed. The multiplexes offered ‘dollar Tuesdays’. Next door was the Sports Arena, and a video arcade. There were other advantages, too. We could pay a buck to see a PG film, but then sneak into the ‘R’ rated features. It was a 13 year-old’s mission to see films like Porky’s. We would have given it an Oscar.

In high school, I rediscovered the old cinemas, because of a growing interest in independent film. I was also learning how to speak Italian, and realized that foreign films actually played in these theaters. Soon I was visiting the Ken, the Park and the Guild, all located in the older neighborhoods of Hillcrest and Kensington. Frequent trips to these cinemas allowed me to get to know these places intimately, as well as enjoy some of the greatest films ever made. The Park had a 60’s vibe to it. Even abandoned, it still has a certain vibe. I had heard that it doubled as a porn theater once. I saw a few films there, but for some reason, the lobby was what stuck with me. They had a fantastic collection of movie posters, foreign ones – the Italian poster for the “Deer Hunter” comes to mind. An illustrated DeNiro would gaze menacingly at patrons lining up at the snack bar.

The Guild. Inside were old seats with red upholstery, and ornate floral wood decorations painted in gold. Red curtains were draped on either side of the screen. There was even balcony seating. The building was an old southern California Spanish-style. It was beautiful, and a staple of Hillcrest. Seated comfortably in one of those old chairs, I had seen a young Jeremy Davies and Liv Tyler’s make their film debuts. After the closing, the building was razed. They rebuilt it to look like the old Guild, even reattaching the old sign. Under the new marquee sits a furniture store.

The Strand in Ocean Beach closed in the early 90’s, during which you could still catch a double feature for three bucks! I had seen “Jurassic Park”, the brand new THX sound maxing out the theater’s ancient speakers. They had been mounted on the wall, right next to the screen, their grilles torn and hanging. The scene of T-Rex chasing the Jeff Goldblum was comedic, instead of scary. The giant dinosaur’s thudding footsteps bottomed out the speakers, making them vibrate against the walls. T-Rex’s roar was tinny and metallic, like an AM radio. It was so O.B (Ocean Beach).

To me, the Mann Cinema 21 was the last big fish before the Cove. It was San Diego’s largest movie screen at 70mm. Many had the pleasure of seeing films like “The Godfather”, “Mars Attacks” and “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” in that cavern. The building still stands, but was converted to a revival church of some denomination.

It’s just the Park now, over in Kensington, that’s left. Burning the midnight oil, perhaps, but still going. I’m glad. It reminds me of the old San Diego, the town that was once a slowpoke, but is running the race to catch up with the other big cities. That kind of vibe still exists, even with all the construction cranes dotting the skyline. They sit there like ugly giant steel flamingoes, kicking back in a big urban pond. In spite of all this, I believe that someday, these little treasures will live again. I’ve read that The Balboa, the California, and the North Park are scheduled to reopen. Slowly but surely, of course…

It was when I first visited Sicily, as a child, that I discovered the game. A cousin of mine pulled the red box out of the drawer and shook the cards into his palm. As he laid them on the table, I watched, mesmerized. The spades, hearts, clubs and diamonds I was used to were nowhere to be seen, replaced by engraved illustrations of horsemen, kings, pages, swords, and cups. The cards were smaller and thicker, too, and had this strange symbol printed on the back called the trinacria. It reminded me of the logo of this Sicilian bakery back home. Giuseppe explained that they were Sicilian playing cards, and that all the playing cards were the same, except that their illustrations varied from region to region. What he said was true, because folks in the village could tell which region you were from by the cards you played with.

My cousin gave me his deck, which brought back to San Diego. I played whenever I got a chance. On visits to family friends and other immigrants in the old neighborhood, there was always a game going on. I played with some of the old timers. Sometimes, we’d bet, playing for pennies or even better, a dollar! They usually let me win.

I think they enjoyed that I was so interested in such a big part of the old culture. Most of the old folks feared that the younger generation would forget their roots. I didn’t fall into that category. I couldn’t. We spoke in Sicilian dialect at home, in the neighborhood, when we played and in public when we didn’t want others to understand what we were saying. I even studied the cards for hours. The illustrations made me feel as if I was transported back a few centuries. I thought about what I’d seen in Palermo, of the stories I heard of Sicilian royalty and the simpler times and hardships my folks experienced.

This year, while I was packing stuff to move, I found that I’d had three decks of cards in floating around. I stuck one of them in my coat pocket, forgetting it there for a few weeks, when I ran into my friend Frank, who’s also Sicilian. He was bartending on a slow night at the Live Wire. I had ordered a beer and reached into my pocket for some cash, when I felt the box sitting next to my wallet. Like my cousin so many years ago, I opened the box and shook the cards into my palm. Frank gave me a knowing grin and nodded. We played a round, all the while trading taunts and insults.

Since then, I’ve kept a deck on me. I’ve also taught a few friends to play, whom I meet with on the weekends for a few rounds. They seem to have tapped into the energy of it. New relationships and memories are being built around it. I enjoy that, and the fact that other folks seem to have taken an interest in it. The other day, at my neighborhood cafe, this guy referred to me as ‘that guy with the funny-looking cards’. Hmmm. With Pasquale, the cards were even funnier looking. Very cool illustrations. We finished our round over an espresso.

He got the damn settebello.

Of the day, the hours and the minutes and the thousands of seconds, there is measure. Of the moment there is no measure, it is elusive and infinite. It is exquisite.

I sat once as a child in a field of whispering wheat swaying. This, among so many countless, was such a moment. It captured for me the essence of life.

Last year on 9/11 thousands filled eternity with the symphony of their lives. In all of the noise, the arguments and debates, the anger and the fear, the endless cacophony, have we paused to listen?

-cindy
09.11.02

Since that time, I have seen Zeus sporadically, a sighting every few years or so. Until we passed each other on the street the other day while I was walking my dog, I’d practically forgotten. I didn’t recognize him at first. The beard was gone. He was cleaned up. It took a second or two, but the dreadlocks gave him away. He was wearing a pair of clean overalls with a blue shirt. I realized, too, that he was a giant. The name we gave him was a good fit in that respect, if nothing else.

It was good to see him. According to an old acquaintance, he was living in a type of rehabilitation residence a few blocks way from me for the past few years, a kind of halfway house. It’s strange, but the city has this thing about it reintroducing people every few years. In San Diego, you can live a few blocks away from somebody you know and not see them for months or years, but the odds are good that someday your paths will cross again. That’s the small town quality of this city.

From time to time, I drive through the old neighborhood on my way downtown. I look around, wondering if that crown of dreadlocks will appear, because briefly, if only for a second or two, I’ll be that little kid in the back of the station wagon one more time.

See you around, Zeus.

Salvatore Filippone
8-10-02