San Francisco has many unique problems.
An overabundance of inhibition is not one of them.
For instance: We might be the only town in America that has a naked people problem.
Although mostly misty, frequently foggy and/or depressingly drizzly, there are many days that appear out of nowhere where the climate is downright Mediterranean and conducive to the shedding of various pieces of clothing. Hence, our inimitable layered look.
Going to the Sunset District? Better bring a sweatshirt. Visiting the Mission or Noe Valley? Make sure you’re wearing a t-shirt you can strip down to.
Naked people could often be glimpsed on the fringes of the Bay to Breakers, certain concerts and street festivals (spinning to the left, twirling to the right).
But the trend has recently accelerated. Now free-range naked people litter our streets like mushroom spores after a spring rain in Iowa. Many of these exhibitionists are proud of the shape in which they have maintained their bodies and many others have not been as diligent but that does not keep them from strutting and swaggering smugly.
A group of naked bicyclists has famously joined the Critical Mass for their ride on the last Friday of every month. And of course everyone knows the north side of Baker Beach is reserved for the clothes-less.
Recently, a group of naked people have commandeered one of the parklets at the corner of Castro and Market. Which spurs the question: What do you call a group of naked people? A gaggle seems wrong; perhaps a dangle?
My most memorable naked person encounter came at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I was on my way to a radio interview near the Embarcadero, and after parking my car to walk to the station, there he was in all his glory.
About 50, with long grey hair on roller skates, naked as a jay bird. (Never understood that expression—aren’t all birds naked? Jay and otherwise?)
I was the only other human in the vicinity, so he presented to me three tight pirouettes and a quick stop, throwing his arms out in a “ta-da!” gesture.
As he was on roller skates, centrifugal forces were called upon along with slapping noises.
“Ewwwww.”
I know.
Same reaction I had. “Dude, it’s not even 8 a.m. That is not the image I want seared onto my retina for the foreseeable future.”
He nodded and we went our separate ways.
So, with good weather flirting with the 415, watch out, and if you run into a modicum of nakedness in the wild, remember:
They are just as frightened of you.
Will Durst is a local comedian whose newest one-man show, “He Who Shall Not Be Named” will open soon in San Francisco.
