Feather Forces
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One of San Francisco’s endearing aspects is its unregulated goofiness. Just have a look at our Board of Supervisors.
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Ignoring such institutionalized imbeciles, The City is rife with good natured fun. Granted, much of it involves naked people doing very personal things to one another, but often San Francisco silliness borders on Middle American. Such is the case with our annual mass pillow fight, or as we locals like to call it, the San Francisco Valentine’s Day Massacres.
As the Ferry Building clock strikes six chimes, a thousand or so strangers armed with feather pillows from their own beds commence to flail upon one another in post-adolescent adolescence. There is no practical age barrier for this battle. Children who can barley lift their bedding box octogenarians (granted, they only hit the geezers in the knee caps, but it is the sport that counts). Cushion armed prototypical middle-incomers pummel punks while teenage girls scream, which as best as I can tell is the one unifying tribal trait of teenage girls around the globe.
The rules of engagement are pretty simple: Feather pillows only, no loading your pillow case with anything but pillow, unarmed people or those with cameras are considered non-combatants and are to be left unscathed.
This year an ample number of unusual looking San Francisco denizens participated, but perhaps the best of the breed was an elderly fellow dressed in rather splendid pajamas and a quilted smoking jacket. Looking like a badly aged Hugh Hefner (is that redundant?) he was a favorite with the smaller set. Without being in the least creepy, he would let a kid wallop him, then say “I love you” before returning fire. Kids exploded … figuratively … with joy and returned both the assault and the exclamation.
For all its seamier sides, San Francisco keeps one thing always in focus: having fun, even if only reviving and grossly amplifying a childhood staple.
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