Here I am, awash in Marina District meandering mujeres, with a purple post-Dada necktie swinging on my neck in the sunlight like an errant noose. Who do I think I'm kidding? The white non-fat froth left in the cover of my Starbucks cup suddenly reminds me of the original version of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." You know, the one with Kevin McCarthy and Dana Wynter. You remember. When the eerie foam evaporated from the bodies hatched from seed pods, new but soulless alien replicas emerged to take the place of the original persons who were once family and friends.
Decades later, in 1978, they remade the picture and filmed much of it up the street in Pacific Heights. I used to see the star, Donald Sutherland, walking his wee bit of a doggie in the early morning mist of Alta Plaza Park. That image was alien enough. Here was a very tall man walking what looked like the world's smallest dog.
The oddities did not end there.
I surmise that many of these extra-terrestrially-bred copy cat creatures from the movie, the ones with the vacant look in the eyes and no signs of emotion, secretly settled into the neighborhood long after the cast and crew packed up and went home to Hollywood. The newcomers fit in well.
(C'mon, Bruce, they're not newcomers anymore. Who do you think you're kidding?)
"Invasion of the Body Snatchers" remains a powerful parable for this landscape that constantly, but sometimes furtively, shifts underneath our feet. The changes are imperceptible, then they hit us like a ton of bricks. Meanwhile our hungry ghosts are looking for Eggs Benedict at the Balboa Cafe.
What could be more terrifying than a story about your loved ones suddenly, without warning, turning into murderous strangers with no feelings whatsoever?
Wait a minute. I think they call that divorce.
BB
San Francisco
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