The demise of the Native Sons would be a shame, not just because a bunch of octogenarian homophobic retired cops would no longer have a place to drink cheap red wine and eat leathery roast beef. The group actually does a lot of good.
In 1953, a member's wife who was a nurse at UCSF's cranial and facial anomalies clinic told her husband he and his "brothers" ought to start giving money to kids with a painful and socially crippling disorder called cleft palate syndrome. (The syndrome includes everything from children with severe harelips to some kids whose faces are split wide open.)
Until then, the group's charitable foundation had given its money willy-nilly. This year, the organization donated $175,000 to three hospitals to help disfigured kids get a chance at a normal life.
It's this kind of work that Kevin Wade says is the "refreshing" thing about belonging to the Native Sons. Wade's father is a Native Son, and his mother is a Native Daughter. Still, the 27-year-old sprinkler fitter joined the organization almost by mistake. He was on a softball team and decided to have the Native Sons as a sponsor rather than some bar. "We wanted someone who did something good," he says.
He likes associating with people who actually know the history of the city firsthand. In a town where the demographics churn constantly, and many think history begins the day they receive their first piece of mail in San Francisco, Wade likes getting the straight poop about the city. "You hear real stories about the history of the city that you wouldn't hear anywhere else," he says.
Tonight, though, Wade and his younger cohorts also echo a common observa-tion and frustration of the more youthful members. In a stage whisper, Wade lays it out with more than a little tinge of embarrassment.
"It's a lot of old-boy action," he says. "We are trying to bring in some diversity."
He scans the room.
"We definitely need some brothers."
The retired police sergeant (1948-1970) wants to know who I work for. "Oh, that paper with all the gay crap in it," he says, making a face. I tell him that gay crap pays my salary.
An old Irish-Hispanic couple is discussing the Spanish land-grants of a great-great-grandfather and how he used to own the entire city of Ukiah back in the day.
Peter Economo, the stone-deaf fellow in the Santa hat, is screaming something in his Jimmy Durante voice about a parlor in the Central Valley that almost had its charter pulled for lack of membership. His date sits placidly by his side, giving hope to all men with bad habits.
The retired cop has moved on to complaining about the women encroaching on the group.
I learn that Alexa Smith, the daughter of former San Francisco District Attorney Arlo Smith, sued the group in 1993. The Native Sons, lacking the resources to battle the litigation, settled, letting Smith -- and any other woman who wants to -- join the group.
The sergeant says he heard the suit hurt Arlo Smith in the 1995 election, when he lost his office after 16 years.
"I don't know how a woman can be a Native Son," one member of my table mutters over and over, as he stabs his roast beef with increasing force.
Jimmy is trying to get through to his brethren on his liberal frequency. "I believe women are the superior beings of the planet," he says.
Simultaneously, he keeps nudging me to sign the application form he has filled out for me. I keep telling him I'll think about it.
I'm saved when the raffle begins and Jimmy, the lover of screwdrivers, scores big: a gallon of vodka.
After an evening of giving Frank a hard time, referring to him in front of our table guests as a CIA/KGB double agent, Frank has warmed up to me and, since he doesn't see too well anymore, has me read his raffle ticket numbers.
The proceedings move on, and state-wide officers inform the group that the two Harrys are honest and diligent bookkeepers and that Parlor No. 214 is in fine financial shape.
One of the officers talks about membership slide and says any parlor can call him anytime and he will explain tricks for increasing membership.
A crab cioppino dinner is announced and a very audible Ooooh! runs through the group.
And then the denouement of the evening: the belt-buckle and key-chain prize for the Native Son who has recruited the most new members.
And the winner is ... John Sampior, a 32-year-old Filipino.
I look over at Jimmy, who's smiling from ear to ear. Somehow, I don't think it's because of the vodka.
George Cothran (gcothran@sfweekly.com) can be reached at SF Weekly, 185 Berry, Suite 3800, San Francisco,
