Pride goeth before the fall. Or is that summer? On Thursday, we watched “Love, Simon,” a gay coming-of-age movie. Brian cries at Hallmark commercials, and I’m not much better. Even Buddyboy and Bandit were tearing up, but it was a surprise when my tough 14-year-old, Zane, wept. “Was that what it was like when you came out, Daddy?” “Well, actually it was much worse,” I replied. “I got beaten up on a regular basis.

I was reading the morning paper last week, and it seemed like an opportune time to tell my wife that we were finished. “Our relationship is over,” I announced. “We are no longer friends, let alone lovers.” “That’s nice,” she replied, not even bothering to sound alarmed. “Any particular reason?” “You’re a Canadian, born and raised,” I said, pointing to a story in the paper.

When my twin sons were in utero, they depended on me wholly. “You sucked in your food and your oxygen through the umbilical cord,” I’ve explained. “Like a straw.” After they were born, and for years afterward, they relied on me, my husband and our babysitters entirely, for eating, bathing, getting dressed. We changed their diapers —so many diapers! — and carried them around until they could walk.

“My father didn’t tell me how to live. He lived and let me watch him do it.” — Clarence Budington Kelland One hundred and ten years ago this week, America celebrated the first Father’s Day. Sonora Smart Dodd sat listening to a Mother’s Day sermon and thought of her dad, Henry Smart, who had raised five children without benefit of a mother. A couple of questions come to mind: 1.

I am a weather wimp. Born and raised in San Francisco, I have lived all my life in a moderate climate, not too hot, not too cold. And after spending a torturous (for weather wimps) eight days in the Deep South last week, I appreciate it more than ever. Specifically, I spent four days in Charleston, S.C., and then another four days in Hilton Head. Lovely places, except for hurricanes, tornadoes, thunderstorms, oppressive humidity, and, just to add some excitement, alligators.

The winners and the sufferers, and the aftermath of election day At The Cook and Her Farmer in Swan’s Market on election day, candidate for governor Gavin Newsom, his wife, Jennifer Siebel Newsom, and their “very well-behaved children” stopped by, says Oakland lawyer Tom Miller. “Very relaxed, Gavin chatted with surprised diners at a community table,” said Miller. Oakland Mayor Libby Schaaf was there, too.

For more than 25 years, San Francisco’s American Indian community has fought for the removal of the “Early Days” portion of the Pioneer Monument at Civic Center. The statue, on Fulton Street between the San Francisco Public Library and the Asian Art Museum, shows a swaggering Spanish cowboy gazing out on the horizon, while his religious corollary, a Catholic missionary, berates the barely clothed American Indian man who cowers beneath them.

Beyond outmoded tales about cowboys and manifest destiny, most of the stories we tell about American Indians are misty romances of a bygone people living in harmony with the land. Or they’re all about the destruction of that ideal, the tragic sidelining of a defeated race.

The Warriors’ first game of the NBA Finals was in overtime last Thursday night, but only a handful of patrons inside El Toro nightclub even glanced at the TV above the bar. Most had their eyes trained on the elevated boxing ring set up in the center of the club’s dance floor.

It’s always devastating when a couple breaks up, and it’s even more devastating when it’s completely one-sided. Add the dimension of a third person, and it’s a recipe for disaster. So when my younger 20-something son told my older 20-something son he was moving out of their apartment to live with his girlfriend, all hell broke loose. “The little bastard,” the older son wailed to me when he relayed the news.