I never miss Willie Brown’s column in the Sunday Chronicle, not even because I’m some burnout who gets off on riling myself up that another Getty threw a luau. I read because if I were diagnosed with some deadly disease, my Make-A-Wish would be a magical evening with Willie Brown Inc. complete with single red rose presentation and old man dancing at the Tonga Room.
His column, creatively titled “Willie’s World” (which, quite frankly, sounds like a low-end, family-friendly sea park for that orca from that movie), contains snippets and gems like the following:
“Stopped into Bloomingdale’s off Mission Street the other day and watched several homeless people use the fragrance testers to freshen up.”
I take my earlier statement back. If I were dying of some deadly disease, my Make-A-Wish would be a shopping spree at Bloomingdale’s so I could stumble upon Willie Brown spying on hobos sampling Clinique Happy.
I’d make my way beside him, give a little hair toss and snicker, “Is that a bum or a French tourist?!?!”
Then we’d clasp forearms and chuckle at our charm.
I’d like to think that Bloomingdale’s is a bit too pedestrian for Da Mayor, who should be having his fragrances custom blended in a mahogany paneled shop on Maiden Lane by his dear “friend” Jean-Michele who has some kind of black market scent collection. What the hell is he doing at the mall? Killing time before “17 Again”?
And while I loved this week’s column, it can’t be good news for the fine folks at Bloomingdale’s. Society Willie at one end and Boxcar Willie at the other? What’s the world coming to?
