By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Ken, Ken, Ken
Sometimes readers write to us to complain that we haven't been mocking some local media figure as frequently as they would like. Look, we always want to answer, if we keep doing that, how will we ever get another job in this business? But while sheer self-interest is often enough to keep us from attacking, for instance, the frighteningly well-connected Jon Carroll, we do occasionally feel our responsibility to cull the weak from the herd must supersede our own petty career concerns -- though come to think of it, we probably won't feel that way a few years from now, when we're working in PR or something.
Anyway, our feelings for Ken Garcia are genuine. Because quite frankly, we've been a little worried about the Chronicle's Native Son (of Orange County, we keep thinking, though we knowthat's wrong), whose ongoing identity crisis (is he mean-spirited? is he statesmanlike? is he satirical?) recently manifested itself as a bewildering series of changes in the photo that runs at the top of his column.
Original Ken's manically grinning countenance, making its usual thrice-weekly appearance on the first page of the paper's Bay Area and California section, was, while perhaps frightening to some younger readers, at least consistent. But last week a new, glum, rumpled Ken replaced him, prompting Ken-linologists to begin calling us to report the change and ask whether the new photo might mean Ken had been thrown into a depression by rumors he will be replaced by the Examiner's cheery Rob Morse when the Fangs finally finish scratching out that check for $100 and the Ex's staff flees to the Chron.
Glum Ken ran for a few issues -- even once in color, in a paper Dog Bites is now saving in hopes we can one day produce it with a flourish for our open-mouthed descendants -- before inexplicably disappearing in favor of Self-Actualized Ken, fresh-faced and civic-minded as an Eagle Scout, and once again looking well-groomed in a tie.
Finally, tipped by Dog Bites' repeated anxious phone calls to the Chronicle's photo department, Garcia wrote a column Saturday explaining his series of transformations, ruminating on the fact that "being a columnist unfortunately involves image" -- Oh, God, does it ever! -- and fretting about his troubles with his "rather abundant mass of hair," among other things. We read it over a cup of tea at the laundromat, interrupted only once by the dot-commer at the next table, who suavely leaned over and asked if we could watch his stuff (laptop and Palm V) for a minute while he went up to the counter for another tall double nonfat, or whatever. Unfortunately, right around that point Ken made a sort of compositional leap in which he seemed to be comparing himself with Herb Caen, and his problems with his "feeble photo" with Caen's FBI file.
After the man at the adjacent table returned and we had settled with ourselves whether or not he was cute (eh), we went back to the column and read over the transitional sentences several times, trying to figure out where we'd lost the cable car, as it were, of Ken's thoughts. Sure, he'd managed to work in a manly usage of the term "G-men," but we felt we were missing something. Ken went on to mention J. Edgar Hoover's cross-dressing habits and finally concluded, speaking of Caen: "Who needs pictures, when you can string together those kinds of words."
Actually, we rather enjoyed the column, though it did bring to mind what Samuel Johnson famously said -- "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel" -- because these days certain columnists (not actually scoundrels) who are perhaps struggling with their material do seem to fall back on invoking the ghost of Caen, which over at the Chron is more or less the equivalent of wrapping yourself in the flag. But we're glad Ken likes his new picture, and would like to join our voice to what is no doubt a general chorus of congratulations on his having finally met the right person and settled down.
Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Boring Clothes Have Got to Go!
Whites folded, we ventured out into the usual sunny, freezing weather to run some errands at Laurel Village and found the tony shopping strip the site of a demonstration. "Hey shoppers! Beware! The Gap is unfair!" chanted a motherly looking woman with a bullhorn outside the Baby Gap store, while a man dressed as a tree attempted to pass out tracts to tots, and the drivers of Mercedes SUVs circled carefully around the whole scene, as though worried someone might ask them for money. Good Lord! we imagined them thinking. What's next -- anti-IMF protests in the doorway of the Charles Schwab?
"Save the Redwoods! Boycott the Gap!" read the pamphlets, and Dog Bites was forced to approve. We think everyone should boycott the Gap, and Banana Republic too, though it must be said our objections are less on ecological than aesthetic grounds. First of all, Banana's pants are cut with the butts way too big, and the photographs in the company's catalogs are, like, really pretentious.