Sam Barry's Blog, page 5

A Challenge to San Francisco's Other Mayoral Candidates

I am a big-picture guy. I say big-picture guy because "big-picture man" sounds like a job description:

The Pope: We need someone to clean the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

The Pope's Secretary: I know a guy who knows a big-picture man. You want me to send up a smoke signal?

Anyhow, when I say I am a big-picture guy, I mean it metaphorically—which is not to say that I am not a can-do guy. I am both a can-do guy and a take-charge fellow.

This is why I think I am the humanoid biped to lead San Francisco into the future. I'd also be perfectly willing to lead it into the past, or just keep it right here in the present. I think the voters should decide about that, and everything else. You see, I know that a politician's job is to say exactly what the majority of the people want to hear, regardless of what he or she actually does.

To that end, when I am elected, I promise I will meet you in your local restaurants and bars and listen to your views over meals and drinks. For ethical reasons I won't be able to pick up the check. Because I am a steward of public funds—your money—such behavior would be wrong. And thank you in advance for a delightful evening.

And speaking of delightful evenings—this coming Tuesday, September 13 my official campaign band, Los Train Wreck, will be conducting its monthly fund raising campaign at San Francisco's #1 dive bar, El Rio. The Los Train Jam and fundraiser is held on the second Tuesday of the month regardless of whether I am running for office or not, since we always need the money.

The news from the campaign trail is good. I handed out dozens Sam Barry for Mayor bumper stickers in our sister city of Tecate, Mexico. My campaign manager Shahram Shirazi assures me that the election is a lock. "All the polling indicates you will get 150% of the vote!" says Shahram, who, I hasten to add, graduated from both Stanford and MIT, and so knows his numbers.

When he heard about my mayoral campaign, the noted scholar Dave Peller asked me "Is it really going to be a race?" Of course it's never that simple in politics, Dave. You have to define your terms. What do you mean by "really," "to be," or "race"?

I'll let the big picture guys handle the metaphysics. My feet are right here on the ground, or at this moment, on the bed. And my concern is for you, San Francisco. So far this mayoral election is one big yawn (not to be confused with a big picture). Oh sure, the frontrunner, Ed Lee, who is backed by our former mayor Willie Brown, and the other 83 candidates know about stuff like government and budgets and when the election is being held. But do they have my passion? Do any of them have a monthly jam at El Rio? Do they even have a band?

I challenge any one of the other candidates to meet me at El Rio next Tuesday. Bring your harmonicas, Ed Lee, Dennis Herrera, Leland Yee, Michela Alioto, Jeff Adachi, or any of the other numbered candidates. Let's just see who can play better. I am pretty confident that I will kick all your asses, but if I'm wrong—if you play a meaner harpoon—then I'll step aside and let you be mayor. I promise. Much as Ed Lee promised he wouldn't run for mayor.

Everything Changes

Today my 18-year-old daughter Laura left for New York City to begin college, where she joins my 22-year-old son, who is also working and attending a university there.

I am very proud of my children, but, perhaps not surprisingly, I feel sad. I have had other changes in my life of late; most notably my time working at HarperCollins is coming to a close. It's too much change. But there is always too much change.

Change is ongoing, ever present, and perhaps constant, but at this particular moment in my life it is crystal clear that one chapter is ending and another beginning—a realization that is exhilarating, daunting, energizing, and exhausting, all at once. Failure and the possibility of losing much that we have worked so hard for are very real prospects, especially in a time fraught with so much hazard and difficulty. These days the costs of health insurance or of not having health insurance are enough to cause a person to despair. Therefore I have determined that failure is unacceptable. I just hope I'm right about that.

Change and decay in all around I see, says the old hymn. That poet found hope in a God who transcends change, while others find it in an eternal cycle of death and renewal, destruction and creation.

Perhaps there is something eternal to be garnered from our lives, but with or without meaning, we all know there are only so many chapters. Caught up, as I am, in the change, I don't find it so easy to pivot away from what is being lost. My heart aches for that which is decaying, that which is dying. Yes, the promise of the future is exhilarating; yes, I am grateful for the gift of each day. The excitement of my children embarking on their adult lives is one of my greatest joys.

But I am afraid, too: afraid of the possibility that there may be more bad news tomorrow, and even more that there is no good news to come.

Such fears have to be tamed. Fear is a second class motivator and does not lend itself to reasoned action. But fear of change that threatens our way of life, our livelihood, the well being of our loved ones, or our health is not so easily tamed. It comes on like a storm—wind howling, waters rising, the electricity out, the bridge impassable—and steals away our confidence. If you haven't been in that storm—if you haven't been broke, hungry, sick, or felt the cold breath of death on your neck—then it is easy to say that change is rebirth, a second chance. Not always. Change is not inherently good or bad, and a person who claims that it is always leads to something better is being naïve or self-serving. Sometimes change is bad. Sometimes it is simply the end.

Change is inevitable and we must always expect it and do our best to be prepared for its disruptions. Whether these are beneficial, neutral, or destructive, we must live through them, and help those around us to as we do. We are, after all, in this together. Enjoy what we have, for soon it will be gone. As change comes, may the good be transcendent, and may we find in moments of doubt the seed of our revitalization.

The Political Crisis

The United States: The Blue and Red Period

We are facing a political crisis. My campaign for mayor of San Francisco is not getting enough attention, and frankly, attention is half the reason I got into politics. (The other half is the pleasant camaraderie.)

Like other Americans, I've been watching the wrangling over the debt crisis in Washington with great concern, and I have drawn some important conclusions:

When mentioning politicians from the opposing party, I have to behave as though saying their names is so vile to me that I must immediately get a blood transfusion.
I'll probably have to start paying more than $20 for a haircut.
I need to get a snappy suit and dozens of red and blue silk ties.

My guess is that politicians don't wear white ties because they're afraid of looking like cheap entertainers. I, for one, see nothing wrong with looking like a cheap entertainer, but then, I am a cheap entertainer.

Wanting to better understand why our political leaders so often wear red and blue ties, I went to the source: the Internet. There I discovered a really cool web site (well, cool if you are a complete wonk) that displays maps of the Congressional elections of 2010 by red and blue voting patterns. You may remember that the blue team scored a big win in 2008, but the red team regained momentum in 2010.

What I found interesting about the map was what a complete mess it was. Let's say the blue and the red teams agreed to divide the country up and go their separate ways; they'd have one hell of a hard time accomplishing the job. It wouldn't be a question of fair's fair—it would be chaos. I suppose they could agree that Wyoming, Nebraska, and Kansas are red, while Hawaii, Delaware, and Vermont are blue, but after that you'd be carving up states willy-nilly.

And then there are independent voters. Independents feel very strongly that it is their right as citizens to change sides at any time, often several times in the same conversation; and anyhow, they are not on anyone's side but their own. That's what makes them independent. Independent voters are very important because journalists like to talk to them whenever they get really tired of talking to members of the red and blue teams.

Perhaps this is why our leaders sometimes wear red ties and other times wear blue ties, regardless of whether they are members of the red or blue team. They are saying to voters, "Hey, I am a reasonable person! I can wear either a red or a blue tie! Vote for me!"

Voters of San Francisco, let me know what color tie you want me to wear—red, blue, or even white. And what should I wear these ties with? A tux? Sweats? A pink sharkskin suit? A tutu? Elect me your next mayor and I promise it won't be politics as usual.

Sam Barry for mayor. How bad could he be?

New Tricks

On Saturday night Kathi and I attended a fundraiser for Muttville, an organization dedicated to senior dog rescue. Although we don't own a dog, some of our best friends are dogs. But we were really there for our friends David and Emily Pottruck—huge supporters of this good cause—and animal advocate and rescue worker Sherri Franklin, the founder of Muttville. In addition to being a friend, Sherri is Kathi's consiglieri (i.e. her hairdresser).

I can be something of a cynic. I know this may surprise you, but it's true. "Why dogs?" I asked, as we entered the event. "Why old dogs? Why not concentrate our efforts on the many needy young ones? What about neglected and abused elderly people? Or children? What about all the animals we are crowding and killing into extinction? What about trees and other fauna? Why are old dogs in San Francisco so special? Who am I talking to? And why am I quoting myself in my own blog?"

These are valid questions. How do we prioritize who we help? Should we help the folks starving in Africa, or should we concentrate on the people nearer to home, in Haiti, or right here at home?

It's good to ask tough questions, but it's better to just do something good. One day Sherri watched as an old German Shepherd was literally dragged into a shelter by its owner, who had decided it was time to dispose of the dog. The story brought tears to my eyes. But Sherri didn't just cry or get angry—she did something to help other aging dogs. Because of Sherri and the Pottrucks and many other volunteers, a time came when Sherri could say about a dog that was being left at a shelter to be euthanized, "Muttville will take that dog." To date, Muttville has saved more than a thousand senior dogs, providing them with shelter, veterinary care, love, and in many cases a new home.

The question is not, "Why help old dogs?" Our world need not be a zero-sum game where one living being's gain is another's loss. We should help old dogs and we should help old people and the old and young and hungry and care for our environment because it is our responsibility—because we are all in this together. How best to help may sometimes be a complicated question, but it should never stop us from doing something good for another. Sherri saw a need—an injustice—and she did something about it. Did Sherri do the right thing? Ask the 1,000 dogs that got to live on in dignity. Ask the people who adopted the dogs.

We don't ever need to lie in bed at night tossing and turning, wondering why we are here (not that this ever happens to me). We are here for others and they are here for us: dogs, trees, geese, children, the elderly—the whole of creation—all for one, and one for all. Find a way to help and lend a hand. Or a paw.

Sam Barry: A Different Kind of Politician

Because I am running for mayor of San Francisco, I think it is important that we clarify a few important facts:

According to Wikipedia, the 2011 San Francisco mayoral election will be held on Tuesday, November 8, 2011, to elect the 44th mayor for San Francisco. Who knew? I'm glad I checked—I'll need to make sure I'm in town for my victory party.

According to the June 30 New York Times article "San Francisco Is Awash with Mayoral Candidates," there are "anywhere from 9 to 37 people running to become mayor of San Francisco." I thought the New York Times was supposed to be a quality newspaper, and yet there was no mention of my candidacy. Just type "Sam Barry for mayor" into Google and it will become manifestly evident that I am a serious candidate. That should be 9 to 38, Mr. Jesse McKinley reporter person.

By the way, if you do that Google search you'll also come across some references to Marion Barry, former mayor of Washington DC. Let me put the rumors to rest—Mr. Barry was not my father. Nor did we ever party together, though it sounds like I missed out on some good times. Marion Barry was, in fact, my mother, but the Marion Barry who was my mother was an entirely different person from the former mayor Marion Barry.

Now, for a status update on my campaign. Here's what we've done so far:

Printed 1,000 bumper stickers, designed by artist and model Jennifer Jensen
Put the bumper sticker on our car
Distributed bumper stickers to the crew and audience of Sedge Thomson's West Coast Live
My wife Kathi, producer of West Coast Live, also bought the votes of the crew with cookies
Distributed bumper stickers to the staff of HarperOne, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
Distributed bumper stickers to my harmonica and piano students
Distributed bumper stickers to people at a party at Kevin Hunsanger and Alia Volz's house
Investor and inventor Larry Gay got one of my bumper stickers into the hands of legendary politician Willie Brown
Announced my candidacy at Los Train Wreck's monthly jam at El Rio (and handed out bumper stickers)

Many candidates would look at this list of accomplishments, pat themselves on the back, and say "Job well done!" But that's not me. I plan to fight tirelessly for the job of mayor, just as I will fight tirelessly for you, Mr. and Ms. San Francisco, as well as your children and pets, once I get the job.

There are some politicians on both sides of the aisle, and some of them right in the aisle, who claim to be working for the greater good when in fact they are only interested in one thing—getting reelected. These nogoodniks stoke the rancor of public debate for their own nefarious purposes, while we, the American people, are left to pick up the check of their sumptuous meals, metaphorically speaking.

I am not that kind of politician. I will not hide behind false promises and phony principles. You won't have to read my lips, because I'll just say it out loud. Also, I will type it in the next sentence. Citizens of San Francisco, you can count on me to be up front about the fact that my only interest is getting elected and reelected; I don't really give a damn about much else. I just want the title.

This weekend the American people will celebrate the nation's birth by taking time off from our busy schedules looking for jobs and playing video games to set off small explosives in celebration of the birth of our nation. Here in San Francisco we will celebrate July 4th with a fireworks demonstration over the bay that no one will see because of dense fog. (Fog on July 4th in San Francisco is guaranteed, just as rain is guaranteed for the Chinese New Years Parade. Any place that is experiencing drought should pay the San Francisco Chinese community to parade there, with Ben Fong-Torres doing the play-by-play, because it will be sure to rain.)

As we celebrate our independence, let us hearken back to the words of one of our great statesman, Willie Brown, who said: "In politics, a lie unanswered becomes truth within 24 hours."

Words to live by, San Francisco.

I Did Not Have Sexual Relations with That Jar of Peanut Butter

First of all, let me say that I am not resigning from office.

Secondly, there is a perfectly logical explanation for those photos.

But I am not here to deny things. I am here to deny things, and then come clean and propose a plan for the future.

I want to begin by saying that I have made mistakes. The remorse I feel will always be with me. I should not have kept the incident with the Argentinean stripper and the jar of peanut butter in the Four Seasons Hotel lobby to myself. I should have told my family and my friends about it. But honestly—really, this time, honestly—I wasn't eager to share my lapses with those closest to me, because I didn't want to hurt them. (The total strangers I sent all those texts to are another matter.)

I have let my constituents down, and for that I am deeply sorry. Also, God, I want to be clear that I know I have sinned against you. I owe you big time. Oh yeah, and my wife, too.

I don't want to ever be caught in this position again—not to mention that position the other night in the airport bathroom with the sequined clown costume.

So how do we move forward? Where do we go from here?

Today I am announcing that I have officially hired a doppelganger to handle those little "appetites" of mine that recently become so embarrassingly public. This doppelganger—let's call him Herbert—will act the more frivolous and obsessive desires of my subconscious while I focus on the things that matter most to me: work, faith, family, and charitable acts. So, while Herbert walks into the Opera wearing nothing but a top hat, knee-high white socks, and black patent leather shoes, I will be at home working and reading scripture with Kathi. Kathi is my wife, by the way.

Henceforth, when you see someone who looks like me doing something really absurd, like painting himself bright orange and jogging down Market Street with a toy light saber in his hand, you can assume it's Herbert you are seeing.

"There goes Herbert, again!" we can all say, trusting that I, Sam Barry, the future mayor of San Francisco, am chortling along with you at Herbert's zany escapades. It can even become a saying: "He's pulling a Herbert!" we'll all say, laughing heartily. And rest assured that in the interest of public safety I will make appropriate arrangements with the police: should Herbert's behavior get out of hand or should he seem to be in danger, they will quietly pick him up and drop him at my office, where he can search the Internet for some new friends.

Bay to Breakers

This year is the 100th annual Bay to Breakers run in San Francisco, the oldest consecutively run footrace in the world today.

Founded five years after the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906, the race is named for the fact that the course runs from the Embarcadero, on the bay side of the city, to a bar called "Breakers" about two blocks away.

Along with live bands and a generally festive atmosphere there is a bit of drinking along the 12K course, but Bay to Breakers is best known for the costumes and unusual behavior of the tens of thousands of participants. There are the "centipedes," groups of runners tethered together for the entire course; people running in nighties, a combination of diapers and Revolutionary War uniforms, or simply naked; people running in suits and people dressed as Smurfs; pink gorillas and mastodons; people running dressed as vaginas; and on and on.

One of the most creative groups is the Salmon, an assembly of (in their own words) "fools who run the Breakers-to-Bay race each year, in our annual pilgrimage to spawn! Coincidentally, a bunch of humans run the Bay-to-Breakers race on the same day along the same route, but sadly they run it backwards. You can't spawn downstream kids, only upstream—get with the program!"

But as Glenn Beck has warned so often, today Bay to Breakers is under threat, just like everything else we cherish about America, including our Christian valuables. Upset by the public nudity, drinking, and vomiting, some have argued the race should be ended. Others, who cherish public nudity, drinking, and vomiting, are fighting to preserve Bay to Breakers as is. (As a lover of tradition, my guess is Glenn Beck is on the side of the others.)

San Francisco simply can't afford to lose Bay to Breakers. We have always been that wacky city on the Left Coast—the city of beatniks, hippies, and of course, the world's gay Mecca. But in February Advocate.com released its much-anticipated "Gayest Cities in America" list, and San Francisco did not even make the top 10! To add to our shame, this was widely reported on such venerable news outlets as the Daily Show. How embarrassing.

San Francisco needs to get its mojo back. When I am mayor—and there is no question that I am going to be the mayor of San Francisco, people, so quit asking me if I am serious—my first act, after taking off all my clothes, will be to proclaim Bay to Breakers an official San Francisco event, with all the pomp and ceremony due such an occasion. The pink gorilla can snip the official ribbon and I can get my picture taken with the vaginas, because I need their votes. Maybe I'll invite Glenn Beck to come give a speech at the start of the race. What the hell, Glenn, we're not even that gay a city anymore—nothing to be afraid of here! It'll do you good; maybe loosen you up a little. No Glenn—don't take off your—Glenn, stop!

The Grammar Police

The English language is under siege. When I was young there were rules that everyone understood, such as "i" before "e," except after "c," except for February, which has 28 days.

Not anymore. Nowadays anything goes. There is no one accepted grammatical structure. Case in point: the speech patterns of former President George W. Bush. Nouns turn into verbs; new words spring up in the dictionary like weeds; adjectives are everywhere; conjunctions are joining the independent clauses; and worst of all are the prepositions.

Kids today. There used to be a rule that you couldn't end a sentence in a preposition.* Sure, sometimes it would happen, but we knew it was wrong, and we felt really bad when it happened. Now you see prepositions ending sentences with impunity, which is also wrong.

"What does it matter?" you may ask. "Doesn't grammar stifle creativity? What do we need those stupid rules for, anyhow?"

That shows how much you know. Take away the rules of grammar and you take away the English Department's most powerful sanction. If it's okay to speak English any old way, then what's the incentive to read a book like The Mayor of Casterbridge?** If, for example, what George W. Bush is muttering is considered English, then why should anyone ever bother learning the more eloquent version?

By now I've probably convinced you that there is a serious language problem confronting America today, and as a responsible citizen, you are wondering, "What can I do, Sam?"

I'm glad you asked. You can start by voting for me to be the next mayor of San Francisco. Lately there have been rumors going around that I am not eligible to be mayor. Let me put these rumors to rest: I was never convicted of a felony,*** and anyhow, if Donald Trump can run for president, then I can sure as heck run for mayor of San Francisco.

As mayor I would institute a citywide Mayor's Grammar Fitness Program (MGFP), or "mugfip," requiring our youngsters to parse 100 sentences before sunrise every day, like we all did when we were young and lived on farms; back when we treated our parents with respect and played wholesome games like "Red Light, Green Light" after completing our chores; back when we memorized poems, because that's what poems are for. (Is "for" a preposition?)

Okay, I made up the part about memorizing poems. My father, David W. Barry, did memorize poems when he was young—poems such as The Song of Hiawatha by the great American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

By the shores of Gitche Gumee,

By the shining Big-Sea-Water,

Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,

Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.

Dark behind it rose the forest,

Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,

Rose the firs with cones upon them;

Bright before it beat the water,

Beat the clear and sunny water,

Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

I'm not sure that knowing The Song of Hiawatha ever helped my father in any way, but I do know that it was featured in Hiawatha's Rabbit Hunt, a 1941 Warner Brothers cartoon starring Bugs Bunny and Hiawatha.

In closing:

There is a grammar crisis in America
It has something to do with George W. Bush, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and my father
Vote for me to be the next mayor of San Francisco, even if you live in Omaha, Nebraska.

Thank you. And God bless America.

*But is it okay to end a sentence with the word "preposition"?

**There is none.

***The charge was reduced to a misdemeanor in a plea bargain.

How Bad Could He Be?

There have been moments of doubt in my run for mayor of San Francisco. It's a big job. At times I wasn't sure I was the right person for the job. There are others candidates—good candidates—people like Leland Yee, Bevan Dufty, Dennis Herrera, Phil Ting, Jeff Adachi, Kamala Harris, Tim Lincecum, Buster Posey, Brian Wilson, and long shot Sarah Palin.

Herrera is a hero. Lincecum has an amazing fastball and curve, not to mention his underrated changeup. Wilson is brilliant closer—and then there's that beard.

Who am I to run for mayor? I don't even have a knuckleball. And yet—and yet, I sense that this is a calling for me. Just the other day when I was walking down Market Street, someone yelled "Mayor!" at me. I believe that God* was speaking directly to me through that person.

That's how it begins. First one person yells "Mayor!" at you, and then another, and another, and soon hundreds, and then thousands, and tens of thousands, and then hundreds of thousands are yelling "Mayor!" at you and you have to move to San Jose for some peace and quiet.

So far there's only been the one person, but we all know what's coming. Call it destiny; call it fate; call it Sam Barry for Mayor. I even have a motto, given to me today by Citizen William Zimmerman, who, come to think of it, started the conversation by asking me if I was really running for mayor. More than ten people have asked me that same question, which constitutes a movement, as defined by Arlo Guthrie.

Anyhow, William Zimmerman gave my campaign a motto: "How bad could he be?"

I'm having bumper stickers made up, because that's what we politicians do. If my campaign manager Shahram Shirazi (who attended Stanford and MIT which proves he's smarter than you) approves, we may do T-shirts to raise money. The bumper stickers will say:

Sam Barry for Mayor

"How bad could he be?"

I'm trying to decide between these three color schemes: red, white, and blue; rainbow; or Day-Glo.

It's a good motto. It sets the right tone—not too optimistic, but not downbeat, either. And it has the ring of truth. I mean, how bad can I be? Certainly not as bad as Sarah Palin.

In the coming weeks there is much for me to do. For one thing, I still don't know when the election is being held, or if there's any paperwork I need to do. Next time I talk to Shahram I'll ask him about these details. Also, I'm wondering about the mayoral dress code. Some of my predecessors were pretty snappy dressers. Willie Brown, Gavin Newsom, and Emperor Norton all come to mind. But when that person yelled "Mayor!" at me on Market Street, I was dressed in jeans and my El Rio sweatshirt. The question is, should I go upscale? Should I wear my Guerra's Deli & Meats sweatshirt? Or does my new role require that I start wearing my suit? And when I say "my suit" I mean the only suit I own, the one I bought for my wedding. I don't think Shahram can answer this question. No, the buck stops here. I will make this decision on my own, the same way I make all my most important decisions: I'll wait for God to yell the answer at me through a total stranger.

*Defined in any way you wish. Some people think the Sutro Tower is God.

A New Direction for San Francisco

Many of San Franciscans have been asking me where I, Sam Barry, future mayor of San Francisco, stand on the budget mess. Perhaps you feel I have been ignoring this looming problem—playing my harmonica, as it were, while Rome burned.

Fellow Romans, I have this to say about that: I am really sorry to hear there is a mess. I hate messes. But since we have one, we must stop squabbling like a bunch of schoolchildren. We must get back to our desks, sharpen our pencils, and memorize our multiplication tables.

Under my leadership San Francisco will once again be the great city that Dirty Harry policed, only maybe without the diabolical serial killer running loose. As your mayor, I will restore San Francisco to its former glory, when Jeanette MacDonald, Clark Gable, and Jerry Garcia bestrode our hills, arm in arm. My first action will be to have our city join together to sing one of San Francisco's great anthems, so beautifully immortalized by Judy Garland:

Rubber Duckie, you're the one,

You make bathtime lots of fun,

Rubber Duckie, I'm awfully fond of you (woh woh, bee doh!)

I know that you, the people, are sick of cowardly political leaders who won't make the difficult, adult decisions because they are afraid the voters will turn on them and throw them out of office. But I know Americans are bigger than that. You want your leaders to make the tough decisions, as long as we blame everything on Washington. When I am your mayor you can rest assured that I will tirelessly blame Washington for every one of our problems. I will blame Washington from the top of Telegraph Hill to the shores of Ocean Beach. If I have to fire someone or cut a program because there's not enough money, I will immediately make a statement blaming Washington.

And I won't stop there: if I have to, I will blame the mayor of Seattle, whatever his or her name is. (Mike McGinn.) And if that doesn't work, I will blame the mayor of San Jose. I will keep blaming someone until it sticks. San Francisco has many sister cities around the globe, including Abidjan, Assisi, Bangalore, Barcelona, Caracas, Cork, Haifa, Ho Chi Minh City, Krakow, Manila, Osaka, Paris, Seoul, Shanghai, Sydney, Taipei, and Zurich. I will be sure to blame all their mayors for our problems, too.

Fellow San Franciscans, as long as I am mayor, you have my word: I will do everything in my power to evade any responsibility for anything bad that happens.

That is real leadership. That is Sam Barry leadership. Leadership for whatever millennium this is. Or as Judy Garland sang it:

Rubber Duckie, joy of joys,

When I squeeze you, you make noise!

Rubber Duckie, you're my very best friend, it's true! (doo doo doo doooo, doo doo)

CHORUS:

Every day when I

Make my way to the tubby

I find a little fella who's

Cute and yellow and chubby

(rub-a-dub-a-dubby!)

This political advertisement has been paid for by the Sam Barry for Mayor of San Francisco Election Committee, which really needs some money, and maybe a better writer.