Evening. June 24th, 2004. I was waiting for the 45 bus at Union and Hyde. That’s at the top of Russian Hill. From there it’s possible to see a long way west. The bus was not yet in sight, so I turned and stepped over to the Okoze sushi restaurant and looked in the window. It’s a dark place and, from what I could tell, fairly elegant inside. Not much of a crowd, but it was not quite six-thirty. A long favorable review, blown up to 14 point type, was pasted in the window. The writer raved about the unusual fare. To the best of my recall it was things like Pickerel Hearts stuffed with fermented Sea Cucumber and Waxed Bering Straits Tadpole and Degaussed Lamprey shins on a bed of Faux Roe.

I went back to the curb and leaned forward in a classic where’s-the-bus pose. Then I heard the restaurant door squeak open and the rapid clatter of high heels, coming to a stop just behind me. I spun around and saw the top of a woman’s head bent over the sidewalk. Then retching and the splash of, presumably, some mixture of the aforementioned menu items. The woman held her long shiny black hair to the side so as not to soil it. I moved well away as she jetted another stream onto the concrete.

She stood, looked at me momentarily, found kleenex in her pocket, then she wiped her mouth and the collar of her shiny blue blouse. She was Japanese.

Not good advertising for a sushi place.

That memory lay dormant, deep in my consciousness, until this season of negative advertising. Then it screened in my mind. Over those images, I heard an inner voice — not my own, but an ominous baritone announcer speaking over a low electronic horror-movie string tone:

“Okoze Sushi chefs would like you to believe they had your dining enjoyment in mind when they created Toy Whale Blowhole Sphincters and Stingray Teats in Bathwater Sauce. But they were merely indulging their untested theories of cuisine. Don’t be hoodwinked by mysterious ingredients and arrogant sushi chefs. This message has been approved by Ebisu Sushi Restaurant.”

Why doesn’t everybody go this route? Shouldn’t foods and services and manufactured goods enjoy the same advertising effectiveness as politicians? Maybe they could start small. Wouldn’t a restaurant be better off posting a negative review of the restaurant next door?

I think Fidelity should employ a falcon to torture the miserable truth about Geico from its famous lizard. I’d like to see Letterman’s list of the ten best reasons to not watch Leno. That shouldn’t be too difficult.

The reason I remembered the date of the Okoze barfomercial is that it was my sister’s birthday. Her daughter was competing in a horse jumping event in Santa Barbara. I thought the sushi scene was pretty funny, so as soon as I got home, I called to tell her the story.

“Happy birthday, MJ.”

“Oh, hi Fred.”

In the background I could hear the clinking of glasses and the hubbub of a crowd.

“Where are you?”

“Just some sushi place.”

I saved the story for later.