How I Came to be Known as BYS

Any excuse for a party was a good excuse in Bolinas, and a party could erupt any time, without warning or provocation. Many a day would begin quietly enough with two guitars, a six-pack, and three locals singing favorites on the sidewalk in front of Snarley's, and end with a full blown wingding in the streets. Cheap wine in gallon jugs and sweet, green home-grown would circulate like a mean rumor, as bleary eyed locals banged on beer cans and stomped out down-home rhythms with vibram soled clod-hoppers.

Often these outbreaks would splinter into factional parties, as cliques of poets or hippies or yuppies would leave the street festivities and regroup in shire-like homes tucked into the town's outer residential areas of the Mesa , The Little Mesa,Dogpatch, Paradise Valley or The Flats.

So it was that with such enthusiasm as would be found in the happenings of unplanned hoedowns, it need almost not be mentioned that planned events were met with even greater exuberance. Thus, when Scowley's posted the sign on the front door announcing the first screening of Piero Resta's new movie, (filmed entirely on location in Bolinas in the tradition of cinema verite, and using only local talent) the town began to buzz.

This was to be a gala with a full course meal, and reserved seating only, the sign advised; and so the names began to fill up the pages of notebook paper on the clipboard by Scowley's decrepit old cash register with amazing rapidity.

In that by this time I had established myself as head bottle washer and front-line gopher for the restaurant, my name was automatically placed on the list - as protocol dictated that even staff must reserve a place at one of Scowleys' heavy wooden tables for this most cultured of affairs. Wishing more to be among the glitterati than the crew for this event, I asked to be given the evening off in order that I might be free to fully enjoy the festivities.

Finally arrived the evening of the screening. Bolinians were decked out in the newest jeans and the crispest flannel, or for the more flashy elements the most gilded brocades, Guatemalan weaves, silks and turquoise. The line formed down the sidewalk, stretching past the general store, all the way to the service station at the corner of Wharf and Brighton roads.

At last the doors opened, and as each name was confirmed on the crumpled and coffee stained list, that person was admitted into the seriously overbooked cabaret-for-a-night.

As I took my place at the threshold, a fateful moment came to pass. Not knowing my actual surname, and in keeping with my current place of residence, the Fontans had recorded my name on the list as simply 'Backyard Steve', and so this was the name which was loudly confirmed before a significant portion of the town population. The name was blurted out for all to pick up and pass around with pure delight.

"BACKYARD STEVE!...How perfect!...HAHAHAHAHA!". It rolled off the tongue and passed from mouth to mouth like a chain kiss. Much to my dismay, a nickname was born. In a single stroke, my name and address had become the same.

The party was a smashing success of course, and soon after (or was it during?) dinner the booze was broken out of many multiples of brown bags, so that by the time of the screening one could have gotten rave approval for the showing of Grandma's Autopsy. The crowd was primed for a grand time. Following the screening - in which Piero revealed the graphic lovemaking of Richie and Ebo, as well as a Chaplain-esque vignette of me in cowboy getup hamming it up in fast-silent motion around scowley's pool room - all proceeded to get roundly drunk.

I dimly recall playing a 10 minute drum solo on a trap set which appeared at some point during the evening, along with saxophones, tubas, accordions and many empty wine jugs, all of which became tools of musical mayhem as revelers tooted, banged and screeched into the rowdy night. Beyond this point my memory of the evening begins to dim, but above all I remember this night as that of my dubious christening.