Winter Sun was unloading its guitars, the Fender keyboard, PA speakers, and microphones into my Andover Street garage. It was about 3 a.m. and we had just done a free gig to benefit the Dore Street Garage, a woman’s auto repair collective.
This all happened in San Francisco when feminism’s second wave was rising strong, fast, and high. The Dore Street Garage offered to teach women how to control their own transport and rid themselves of male mechanical domination by showing their sisters how to adjust the timing, change their own oil, brakes, transmissions, or tires. There was even a class on rebuilding the VW engine.
Dore Street was a cool place and — at times — our sisters’ feminism became a bit zealous. It had to; they wore moving a mountain. So before Winter Sun played the gig, I got called upstairs to answer a few questions by one of the younger Dore Street sisters.
The sister wanted to know what songs we planned to play. She wouldn’t tell me why, but I knew. The Dore Street women didn’t want any chauvinist pig lyrics rocked or rolled into their benefit.
As usual, I had no idea what we were going to play. Winter Sun rarely put together a set list. We just felt our way through the gigs. Usually worked.
But I rattled off the names of a few tunes I was sure we’d play… “Right Place, Wrong Time” by Dr. John, “Nothin’ from Nothin’” by Billy Preston, Dave Mason’s “Feelin’ All Right,” that kinda thing. Then I came up with “I’m a Hog for You Baby,” the R&B flip side of “Poison Ivy” by the Coasters, already an oldie.
“You can’t play that,” my Dore Street sister proclaimed.
Well, jeez, we were doing the gig for free, so I just had to ask why.
“Because of that part in the song about ‘nibbling on your sweet lips.’ ”
I must admit I was confused. “But, but,” I began.
“You don’t just go around comparing women to pizzas you want to chew, or potato chips you want to crunch. It’s sexist and male-dominant.”
Jeez, man, it was the Coasters, but, given the nature of the battle, I conceded that those lines might qualify as objectifying the female body. “Okay,” I conceded. “No Hog for You Baby.”
She smiled, nodded her head and gave Winter Sun the green light to rock out that night.
And rock we did.
The beer was free, the half-exposed VWs and dissembled Ford and Chevy beaters were festooned with garlands of bright paper and lanterns from Chinatown and everybody got into the family affair.
After the gig, still fairly loaded on beer and weed, we were humping Winter Sun’s amps off the truck when Nick, the drummer looked out across the street and said, “Uh oh.”
Well, an ‘uh oh’ at 3 am in a poor neighborhood does alert a body, so we stopped and watched the object of Nick’s muttered warning.
It was trouble, but not the gang kind. Nobody was crossing to street to grab guitars. No, sir, nothing like that.
Trouble was my longtime girlfriend, knifing her long legs out of a silver BMW. A BMW! That was a pig car, driven only by stock brokers and wealthy hip capitalists with pony tails, our sworn foes. It was clear: my girlfriend was sleeping with the enemy. I tingled all over from anger and fear, the pot and alcohol turning toxic in my system.
She crossed the street, climbed the stairs above us to the house. The door closed, the Beamer took off, and we small-talked the rest of the equipment off the truck. The Winter Sun guys all gave me inarticulate, sympathetic hugs and took off, leaving me to climb those stairs alone.
I walked into the kitchen feeling heavy, exhausted and shaky. There she was, sitting at the big, round kitchen table facing me, a pack of Camels and a pint bottle of Korbel beside her. I pulled a jelly glass out of the cabinet, sat down, and poured the evil, brown liquid into my glass. My voice quivered. “So you sleeping with that guy?”
“That’s Larry. He’s one of my law professors,” she said, and lit another Camel with the still-smoking end of the previous butt.
One of her law professors. As if that explained everything. For her, I guess it did.
Another one of our long arguments ensued, repetitive, forceful; we fought a lot in those days. We’d been together too long, I was spending most my time with a new theater company including one significantly amazing woman writer actress, and my girlfriend was obviously very much “into” law school.
When the brandy was shot and the argument had begun its third repetition, I rose, climbed to our bedroom, swept a couple of blankets (it was a San Francisco autumn) and a pillow off our bed, and stomped out to the studio I had built for her in the back yard. I didn’t know what I was going to do, she had been my lifeline through some rough times, but I knew I hadn’t slept with anybody else and she had… and was. I fell asleep.
Sometime toward dawn, my father came to me in a dream. He was decked out in his dress whites. He’d been a sea-going radio operator on everything from Japanese tuna boats to wartime convoys to the flagship liner for American President Lines. He greeted me and said, “I’m okay.” He smiled. “It was okay, what happened.” He sat down beside me on the porch of some imaginary California foothills cabin. “And everything is going to be all right for you.” He placed a warm, dry hand on my shoulder. “You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see.”
It was the first time I’d dreamt about my father since his death, thirteen years earlier. I woke up and began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably. I was inconsolable. I kept crying. My girlfriend even shouted “shut up, you asshole,” from the house. She wasn’t necessarily an intolerant woman but I had been crying for eons.
Three weeks later, I moved from our Andover Street house on Bernal Hill to my friend Kent’s place on Connecticut, on Potrero Hill.
Three weeks after that, on November 18, 1978, Pastor Jim Jones made his entire congregation drink poison Kool-Aid to commit mass suicide on his fetid green commune in Guyana.
Nine days after that, on November 27, 1978, San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk were murdered by a colleague who claimed he’d eaten too much junk food in San Francisco City Hall. That night, police cars burnt in the fog.
I, along with millions of others, struggled to understand and move on with their lives, sharing turning points under a winter sun.
# # #
Charles DegelmanWriter, editor, and educator based in Los Angeles. He's also played a lot of music. Degelman teaches writing at California State University, Los Angeles.
Degelman lives in the hills of Hollywood with his companion on the road of life, four cats, assorted dogs, and a coterie of communard brothers and sisters.
Wow! I love this story for so many reasons. The Dore Street Garage giving auto mechanics classes for women, like the one I took in Cambridge (which I wrote about in My First Car). Your band’s gig for them and having your lyrics checked for sexism. Your law student girlfriend getting out of a BMW at 3 am, which meant she was sleeping with the enemy. And your own painful turning point segueing into Jonestown and the Milk-Moscone assassination. Reading your story totally made my day!
Jeez, Suzy, I’m so glad Winter Sun connected with your own life like that. I began writing Winter Sun about the breakup of the relationship, then realized just how apocalyptic that time was for me personally and for so many others. Definitely a turning point. Thanks for your kind words.
Stunning, Charles. The juxtaposition of feminist outrage over seemingly harmless song lyrics with your girlfriend sleeping with her law professor is classic. It did seem that the world was going crazy in 1978—and that’s even before you consider disco.
John, it’s easy for you to say “seemingly harmless song lyrics.” At least Chas was willing to concede the point. The verse does compare her lips to pizza and potato chips. Not as bad as a lot of songs, but still not the right tone for a feminist fundraiser.
Ah, an interesting point raised here! First john, thanks for your comments on “Winter Sun” but I’m going with Suzy’s observation here. Those were incredibly sensitive times and — as I said in the story — women were moving mountains. Every word counted and — although at times, the real crusaders could go over the top — I, and many of my brothers worked hard to understand these new positions. We had seen the Vietnamese women hold up half the sky in their struggle, shouldn’t we stand beside the women in our world as well? In this case, I respected her, and defended her right to ask. We were all working hard on this issue back then, and by gawd, women did move mountains that remain moved today!
As regards the girlfriend and the lawyer, at least she had the ‘balls’ to make a move and break the logjam of our relationship, which, by that time, could hardly be judged by what was fair or what was not. At least I began to get back in touch with my father.
Chas, thanks for those comments. You really did get it, and I appreciate that. Might I suggest, however, that you not use the word “balls” even in quotes in regard to the girlfriend, and consider saying chutzpah, or, if you prefer, nerve, instead. Balls is about as sexist as it gets, and undercuts the image you otherwise project.
Used it on purpose ;-)!
I assumed you used it on purpose. You are the consummate wordsmith and would never use a word carelessly. What I can’t figure out is why.
Because life is full of contradictions, anarchy, and ragged edges.
Yes it is, and it’s those ragged edges that get me every time!
As a privileged, estrogen-deprived member of the male gender, I freely admit that I am not well qualified to judge whether a song lyric objectifies women. Apologies.
Ha ha ha! Good one, John. Above all, comes humor, que no? Bravo!
Charles, I don’t know how you put so many diverse strings into one story and make them fit gloriously together, to write about life with a light touch, and yet make your overall impression profound and pulled together.
Thank you, Rosie. The short answer is that I simply try to tell the story. The long answer is that I haven’t the foggiest idea!
Wow! Charles, don’t know how I missed this the first time around, but what an epic piece of writing. I sure am going to miss anything you write on this site. The picture you paint of your lady friend “knifing her long legs” out of the Beamer; waking up crying from a dream about your father, then going on a crying jag while she yells at you to shut up. The events that follow (from which we derive the term “they drank the Kool-Aid”) and the Harvey Milk murder, all point you in the direction of your own turning point, which you’ve shared with us in such an exquisite fever dream.
I certainly will miss this, Chas. Please stay in touch.
Thanks, Betsy! I’m glad you caught up with Winter Sun before the house of Retro folded. Yes, it will be important to stay together, in touch. Community is at a premium!
Charles, this story scored the winning touchdown as time ran out on the clock. Enjoyed reading your stuff.
Take care,
Dave L
Thank you, Dave. Hopefully, we’ll find a way to stay in touch. I have plans to assemble all these stories and see what comes of it. I believe many of us have accumulated a stack of well-written and memorable tales. I urge us all to take a look at our assembled labors. Write on!
Chas D
This is still my favorite story of yours, out of all the ones you’ve written!
Thanks, Suzy! Given how supportive you’ve been to so many Retro authors, I’d say you’ve probably read most of these recollections. That’s impressive, given that support is so critical to anyone with the foolhardiness to write things down. Happy New Year!