So...what DO you think?

I am usually just self-absorbed enough not to care what other people think. At least, in most areas of life that is how I feel. I have to care what my boss thinks - she pays my salary. I need to be wary of what the TSA dudes at the airport think if I want to make my flight on time and without a cavity search. I care what my sisters think because they are (usually) the least crazy of all my insane family members.

And I care what you think. If you exist. By 'you', I mean anybody who may actually be reading my sporadic postings.

When I first started this blog last year, it seemed like lots of people were commenting on what I wrote and I loved it, good or bad. I hit a dry patch at the end of the year when I was finally employed again and working like mad to get my life back on track, but I have been pretty good lately about posting at least a few times a month. The comments section, however, is a complete wasteland.

Did everyone lose interest? Am I just so ridiculous that you can't even be bothered to tell me what a waste of time it is for you to read what I write? Or am I (haha) such a brilliant writer that you feel anything you say wouldn't even come close to expressing how you feel about my stuff.

Do tell. Please. My inquiring mind would like to know what you think.

Defective girl?

A good (male) friend of mine recently observed that I am not like most women. This has been mentioned many times throughout my life, so it didn’t really make much of an impact. I have always taken it as a compliment because for most of my life, I didn’t actually LIKE the female half of the species. I liked being a girl and I love being a woman, but I have never really understood other ovary endowed people.

More and more often, however, I have started to wonder exactly what it is people mean when they tell me I am not like other women. Am I unfeminine? What does that even mean? Do I act like I have a pair of gonads hidden under my pinstriped skirt? Do I lack the requisite ability to play head games? Perhaps I am not enough of a social butterfly. Maybe my pout isn’t sexy enough.

I have to admit, the concept of femininity is probably lost on me. The first things to pop into my head are pink and ruffles – ugh. I have never really been a fan of the color pink. It brings to mind sticky super sweet candies and vapid anorexic blonds shedding angora everywhere. And ruffles – oh man, don’t get me started. I think ruffles were designed as a survival of the fittest test for girls. Whoever isn’t suffocated by them lives to play with their Barbies another day.

So what does it really mean to be feminine? Is it only pastel and ruffly things? What does that mean for someone like me who is more attracted to simple lines and graphic colors? I think Audrey Hepburn was one of the most feminine women in the world, yet when you look at what she wore, you would see there was rarely a ruffle or pink anything in sight. Even Givenchy designed beautiful but simple clothes for her. Watch the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s sometime – she owned the idea of the little black cocktail dress.

What about the gonad thing? Basic biology will tell you that gonads are just ovaries that fell out and made a boy. Well, maybe it isn’t quite that simple. But you get the idea. Mine are still in place as far as I can tell. But I will admit to being the type of woman who isn’t afraid to play with the boys. I like to stand up for myself and know that I can hold my own, even when I am the only woman in a room full of competitive, testosterone laden males. I like that the life I have built for myself is one that is solid and simple and all MINE. I don’t mind sharing it with people that I love and respect, but I don’t need them to do anything for me. I will admit to one area where a nice strong male is a help – I hate not being able to get the lid off a kosher pickle jar. My hands are too small to get a good grip and it is highly annoying.

As for head games, I was truly traumatized by those nasty things when I was a child. Maybe it was just the inevitable inbred cliquishness that occurs while growing up in a very small town, but the girls I was raised with were downright MEAN. Cruella de Ville could take lessons from them. These harpies could befriend you one minute and then publicly humiliate you the next. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t always the victim. I did learn how to avoid the banshee coalition and sometimes even manage to get a little revenge. What the mean girls did for me was give me the ability to cut through the bullshit of every day life and just say what I mean or don’t say anything at all. If that is a non-girly trait, then hooray.

Most of the women I know like to get together for girls’ night type things. They want to go out and be around and among people. They are social. I am different. I wouldn’t say that I am anti-social, it is more that I sort of hang back. I like people. I like to be around people. I just don’t always want to interact with them. I am perfectly happy and comfortable being at a party in the corner with a nice drink, watching the action unfold before me. It is like being on the set of a Mexican novella, minus the cameras, copious tears (hopefully) and hysterical women screaming ‘porque?!’ at the top of their lungs. Well, usually none of that happens.

As for adult women with pouty lips being sexy, I have to disagree. When I was a child, my mother warned me that if I pouted too much a rooster would sit on my lip and peck on my nose. Logic would dictate that cannot possibly happen, but why tempt fate?

I guess after all of this reflection I have to agree that I am not like other women. Or what I THINK other women are like. The truth is, I don’t really know what they are like – everything I have mentioned could be seen as unflattering stereotypes. I don’t like being stereotyped, so where do I get off doing this to a faceless group of people I admittedly don’t know?

Throughout most of my life, I have always identified more with the male half of humanity. It started in first grade when I played Superman every day at recess with Galen Lang and hasn’t stopped since. I love everything about them (the toilet seat issue can be annoying at 2am when I am half awake and in danger of falling in) and they seem infinitely easier to decode. Men can be messy, too preoccupied with the latest gadget or car, stinky farters, and chew like cows with a major wad of cud. They can also be straight shooters when it comes to what they think – I WANT to know if my butt looks too big in those jeans. I like that with most of my guy friends, what I see really is what I get. I don’t want to sit around talking about how I feel all the time and neither do they. Men are somehow less complicated than women. Not boring, just not aggravating.

However. Yet even so. BUT. The older I get, the more I meet women that I truly like and admire. They are real people – not just a gender, bra size, or shade of toenail polish. These are women of varying levels of education who think about things beyond that cute pair of shoes in the window at Paolo’s. They have opinions on culture, food, politics as well as the best manufacturer of luxury lingerie, what type of jeans looks best with their figure, and whose salon provides a better mani/pedi. These women are well rounded in more ways than one and they are INTERESTING. I actually want to talk with them. I want to go out with them on a girls’ night and I know I will have fun, that I will have something to contribute.

So what is the difference between these women and the demon girls I grew up with? The obvious answer is time – they have had time to experience the world and become strong enough to escape the pack, to become themselves. But I also believe that I myself have changed. I have a serious Peter Pan complex – I don’t really want to grow up because I have always thought that adults lose the ability to just enjoy life. They spend too much time worrying about mortgages, car payments, 401Ks, etc. It is as if they feel that they are somehow failures if they take an afternoon to act like a child – even jumping on the bed is a foreign concept. Maybe in my quest to keep my Calvin & Hobbes lifestyle, in my refusal to grow up, I have continued to act more like a 14 year old boy rather than a woman. But perhaps my ability to connect with other women and form true friendships with them means I am finally maturing myself.

I still feel that the idea that I am not like other women is a compliment. I like to be myself – the truth is that I have never really identified myself as a gender. I am a person. I happen to have mammary glands and a happy hoohoo, and maybe you don’t, but so what? Is being a woman something that is so easily quantified by clothing choices, social activities, and blatant sex appeal? Man, I really hope not. I am enjoying the idea that just like in the Army, I can be all I can be without having to conform to odd ideas that I have never understood. My fingers (and toes) are crossed in the superstitious hope that I have figured this whole girl thing out – finally.

I don't get it...but I hope someday I will

While I was typing up this post, I wasn’t completely sure I would post it. It is very different from what I usually blog about. Rather than being amusing, it is more my musing on something that has been churning in the background of my brain, taking up space. I guess I hope that if I lay it all out in an organized fashion, I can let it go and let something else take up residence. Let’s call it a little experiment and go from there.

All my life, I have been fed the standard party line of how humans are the top of the food chain. We are the best this planet has to offer, we are in control, all the world bows down to us. Hmm. I’m not so sure I agree..

I think it is definitely true that humanity has a huge impact on its surroundings, but does that make us the ultimate organism on this planet? Just because we make a big mess and don’t clean up after ourselves doesn’t mean we rule the world, the same way a messy kid doesn’t rule the house for not picking up toys. In my experience, that same kid usually gets some grief from a higher being, namely the parents.

So if we are the top of the food chain, then who disciplines us for being naughty? God? The Master/Mistress of the Universe? The watchful aliens hiding out on the other side of the Milky Way? I haven’t seen evidence to suggest any sort of beings exist, let alone that they are a) interested in us, b) care what we do and c) have any plans to stop us from being complete morons.

That’s the problem when you are at the very tippy top – there is nothing or no one to help keep you in balance.

My basic understanding of worldly physiology is that our planet is composed of ecosystems. Within those ecosystems, everything has a place. It has a function, a purpose. A point. Not being fluent in the languages of flora and fauna (and therefore admittedly potentially mistaken), I assume that these ecosystem members don’t spend a lot of time searching for deeper meanings or higher powers or plotting to take over their domains. They just grow, reproduce, and die in an unending cycle that I find beautiful.

What, no tv? No music, gourmet food or talk radio? What kind of life is that? It is a simple one with no personal or social confusion that leads to all the crap that humanity dumps on itself and everything else on this planet.

But what about all the wonderful things that humanity has created over the millennia? What about all the distinct cultures, the languages, literature and art? No other organisms on this planet can do what we do – that must mean we are something pretty spectacular.

I agree. I think humanity IS a pretty wonderful thing – when we live humanely. We don’t seem to be able to do that very often. All those distinct cultures? Well they often lead to an ‘us or them’ mentality. They are exclusionary by nature. Language? There is no quicker way to wound another person than by lashing out verbally. Sometimes the mental scars go much deeper and last much longer than physical scars. Well what about literature and art? Sure, these can be wonderful things. They can also incite disgust, hatred, and intolerance in people. Religion – another human creation – uses literature and art to promote messages of redemption, but also (and more often) damnation.

I think the most wonderful and insanely terrifying aspect of humanity is its capacity to think abstractly. This ability is what truly sets us apart from any other living thing on our little planet. It is also what leads us to our greatest downfalls. Who ever decided that gold had value? Why is it more valuable than a clamshell? Somewhere, a long time ago, someone decided it was beautiful (and what is beauty if not an abstract idea) and therefore had value. Someone else decided there must be a deeper meaning to our existence and tried to explain the unexplainable and poof! Unseen religious beings spring into existence. Ideas of social organization are abstract – our country is itself just a big experiment in what humanity should be able to expect out of life. And look what we have done in the name of our number one abstract ideal – democracy must be spread everywhere, like it or not.

Ok, so what exactly is my problem? Why am I so down on people and what they do? Why am I ruining everyone’s day by being so damn depressing? The truth is, I’m not sure I can tell you that. I feel as though I have been living under a Charlie Brown rain cloud that follows me around, dripping one slow steady drop of harsh reality at a time. I guess I look around me and see how in my own relatively wealthy city there are thousands of homeless people on the streets, thousands of unemployed, too many people going hungry. And then there is the social intolerance – who really cares who marries who? Is your idea of marriage really so narrow that you can’t accept how other people find happiness? If my city, a supposed beacon of social reform and tolerance can’t get it right, then how can anyone else?

In my lifetime, I have watched news reporting become less and less informative and more gossipy. And as everyone knows, gossip is only good when it is about someone else’s tragedy. This means that just following the news tunes me in to how messed up this whole planet is, all due to humanity.

I don’t think of myself as a depressive person. I am by no means a bouncy cheerleader, but I like to think I am able to keep a clear head about most things. But it becomes a difficult grind when I begin to feel inundated by all the truly rotten things taking place every damn day. Why is Haiti still a big pile of rubble? Why did 28 American soldiers die in 24 hours in Afghanistan? Why is BP still polluting the Gulf? Why is France, a so-called democracy, trying to ban the burqa? I can understand making it illegal to force a woman to wear one, but what if she herself, in her devout way, really believes that she SHOULD wear one? Have any of those enlightened men thought of that?

I think you get my point – we, humanity, are pretty F’d up. We do horrible things. And no amount of self-congratulatory speeches about all the truly wonderful things we are capable of doing can really counter balance that. So now what – should I just roll over and curl up like an old dead bug, legs stuck up in the air, ready to crumble to dust at the slightest breeze?

I don’t think so. Because, as sappy as this sounds, there is one last truly unique aspect of humanity that no other organism appears to have. Hope. The one thing released from Pandora’s box that can be more powerful than any of the harshest ills this planet suffers from. Everyday I have a little hope. I hope the sun will shine and burn off the fog – I need the vitamin D. I hope my day at work won’t be either too boring or too hectic, but just right, Goldilocks. I hope that my loved ones will be ok. I hope my city will stop running around like a headless chicken and start setting an example of how utopia could be. I hope the citizens of my country will stop pointing fingers AT politicians and start working WITH them to take our overweight, slothful, brain dead, couch potato republic into a brighter era. I hope those same politicians will pull their collective head out of their ass and start showing the world a better side of our country. I hope people on this planet can someday, somehow find a way to maintain individuality without destroying each other to prove superiority. And, most of all, I hope that we can stop taking our planet for granted. I really don’t want to be responsible for the end of the world, thank you very much.

Too gooey mushy slobbery sappy for you? Yeah, me too. But true, none the less. Thanks for letting me vent.

Lemonade, kosher dogs, and a little muzak

I don’t know if you guys noticed, but last Saturday was a beautiful day. Gorgeous. Big blue skies and sunshine like you wouldn’t believe. After a solid week of cold, rainy, foggy weather, the kind that makes me sleepy for days on end, the sun had finally fought its way through and the city was warming up. It is almost a cliché for the arrival of summer – birds are chirping, flowers are blooming, and people are opening windows to let in fresh air. Well, at least the kind of fresh air you find in a city.

My sister gives me the head’s up that the Union Street fair was happening that day and her two youngest kids would be having their annual ‘start of summer’ lemonade stand. I have been invited to hang out, eat hotdogs and chocolate chip cookies, drink lemonade made from scratch, and watch two of the cutest kids on the planet part nice San Franciscans from their money. Don’t get me wrong – these kids aren’t money grubbing mercenaries. A cup of ice cold, fresh lemonade is only $0.25. It is just that most of the time their customers are so impressed with two young hard working super cute children that they practically throw $5 and $10 bills at them. My nephew even made the cookie dough all by himself this year.

I stuff my feet into my favorite Havaianas, (the ones with the Brazil flag on the strap) grab some money, ID, my phone, and my ipod and head out. About half way down the stairs, I run back up and inside my apartment and open all the windows. It will probably be freezing in my apartment by the time I get home, but what the hell. Sunny fresh air has been in short supply here lately. I need to get it while I can.

When I get down my three flights of stairs to the street, I push the earbuds to my ipod into my ears and hit play. The perfect song comes on: San Francisco Bay Blues sung by Eric Clapton. So what if he can’t play and sing at the same time. I am listening to him, not looking at him. The music has a perfect beat to walk to and the song is about one of my favorite cities. This is a good omen.

I walk up Fell Street one block and stop on the corner at Fillmore Street. There really isn’t any truly direct way to get to the house where the kids are set up; it is a matter of preference. I will be munching on chocolate chip cookies and drinking sugary lemonade all afternoon. Do I want to attempt to burn a bunch of calories in advance? It seems sort of like going to confession before doing anything wrong – backwards. As I stand on the corner looking up Fell Street trying to remember how many hills I have to go up before I can go down again, and down Fillmore Street thinking about all the cool shops to look at on the way, the #22 Fillmore bus stops next to me. I could be really lazy and take it and get there on time or I could walk and get there when I get there.

As I stand there thinking too much, the decision is made for me. The bus driver slams the doors shut and blows through a yellow light, roaring away from me. Ok, no bus. I look up Fell Street again. The hills would be great exercise because they are very tall - very tall.

Tip #1 – How to walk up hills in San Francisco:

*Don’t speed walk. You will get half way up the hill and pass out from lack of oxygen, then roll back down and end up where you started.

*Don’t look all the way up to the top of the hill while you are walking. It is too intimidating and will stop you in your tracks before you even get started. Just look about 8-10 feet in front of you as you steadily walk up the hill.

*Don’t lean forward so far that your nose is about 4 inches away from the pavement. Not only does it look really weird, but also it throws off your balance. The odds of you falling forward and breaking your nose increase greatly when doing this.

Ok, let’s skip Fell Street. I will get my exercise on Fillmore instead. D’ya Mak’er covered by Sheryl Crow comes on. I am not a big fan of covers, especially not when the song was originally done perfectly by Led Zeppelin, but there is something about Sheryl Crow’s voice that is so perfect for this song. As I wait for the light to change so I can cross the street without becoming a red smear on the pavement, it is hard not to sing along with her. Of course, since no one else can hear what is playing in my headphones, it would just be me singing it. Badly. I will try not to torture my fellow citizens today.

As the light changes, I rock my way across the street and continue on under the fresh green leaves that all the trees on the next block have sprouted. They have that lovely pale yellow-green color that is so bright against the dark branches. I have no idea what kind of trees they are, but I love the contrasts. Life is good.

Ouch, gotta turn down the volume. The trumpet played by Maynard Ferguson in The Fox Hunt is loud in my left ear. I love this piece, but I can feel my heart rate increasing dramatically trying to keep up with the song. How the hell can that guy create that many notes so fast? Maybe I am not even hearing all of them. I mean, it must be possible that my brain can’t even keep up with Maynard Ferguson’s brilliance. Didn’t one of the Holy Roman Emperor’s esteemed advisors say something about the ear only being able to hear a certain number of notes in the movie Amadeus? I laughed when I heard that while watching the movie, but maybe the guy had a point.

Ok Maynard, I love your music but you are about to give me a heart attack. Next song, please. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You). James Taylor is a little corny but today, I love this song. I have hit the drug rehab half-way house on Grove Street. It is located in this immense San Francisco style mansion with lots of wrought iron and the original carved mahogany doors. I bet whoever the tycoon was that built it a hundred odd years ago never thought it would one day be filled with people he never would have associated with let alone invite into his house. I love the dichotomy of it: exclusivity and privilege transformed into charity and a fresh start.

Another corny song, Sea of Love. This gets stuck in my head sometimes. I think I will skip it today, as much as I love it. Put Your Records On. I absolutely adore this song. I can feel the stupid smile on my face as I crank up the volume as high as my ears can take it.

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song

You go ahead, let your hair down

Sapphire and faded jeans

I hope you get your dreams

Just go ahead, let your hair down

You’re gonna find yourself someway, somehow

I love the way Corinne Bailey Rae cracks her voice like a yodeler when she hits the higher notes.

I check the time – oh boy, I am really moving slow. All the cookies will be sold by the time I get there. I am being a bad, slow poke auntie today. Where is my rocket booster backpack when I need it?

It is my lucky day – two Corinne Bailey Rae songs in a row! Breathless always makes me think about one very specific person. I could listen to this song all day long.

A loud cracking noise is coming from somewhere around me. For the next few blocks, things sometimes get a little dicey on this stretch of Fillmore. The McDonalds at Golden Gate always seems to have great big shiny black cars with lots of drug dealer types in the parking lot. Everyone has some sort of bass-heavy music thumping out of the speakers. The sound rolls out of the cars’ open windows and interferes with the last bit of Breathless. Dammit. Oh well, I will listen to it again later. I hear the cracking noise again and it is making me nervous.

Gitana by Los Fabulosos Cadillacs comes on. I hurry up and walk past the McDonalds, half afraid my sundress will get blown off by the noisy speakers like something out of a bad movie. On the benches in front of the little tiny park next to the McDonalds several old men sit in the sun, soaking up the heat and trying to warm their bones as they watch life go by. I say hello to them as I zoom past – they are all accomplished flirts and I could get stuck there for a good long while if I slow down. Every girl likes flirting but I have goodies and children waiting for me. Gotta keep my priorities straight.

Crack! That one was right next to me. What the heck is that noise? I look over into the park and see two men balancing a board between them on a bench. One of them lifts his arm up really high and smacks a black domino down on the board as hard as he can. Crack! Ha, so that is what the noise is. I wonder if you win by making the most noise? Having the most dramatic smack down? Exactly what is involved in a game of dominoes?

America, West Side Story soundtrack. This couldn’t have come on in a more perfect part of the neighborhood. These few blocks are like a mini U.N. for immigrants from all over the world. I don’t know if they agree that everything’s good in America, everything’s fine in America, but I love the accidentally perfect timing of it.

Who is playing at Yoshi’s tonight? The sun is shining so brightly, I can’t read the neon text running across the reader board. Skylark, k.d. lang. I love this city – only in San Francisco are you going to find a brand new, extremely expensive building full of high-priced condos with no parking built into a lower middle-class neighborhood that is also the historic Jazz district. Said building also happens to have Yoshi’s, a very high end Japanese restaurant that justifies its location and prices by bringing in some of the best Jazz performers out there. The circular logic is interesting.

Bill Cosby, A Nut In Every Car. If I had taken the bus, this would have been perfect. Instead, how about a little Velvet Underground? I’m Sticking With You suits me just fine.

I hate trying to get across Geary Street. Walking past the bus shelters in the middle of it all is even worse. All the busy, crazy, pissed off people pushing and shoving to get onto the bus always makes me worry that someone is going to end up in the middle of the street squashed flat one of these days. Yeehaw, hooray for the Squirrel Nut Zippers. The weirdness of Trou Macacq clears my mind of the bad Geary Street thoughts and lets me get on with the process of window shopping.

At Sutter Street, I come to a screeching halt. The most beautifully sexy red shoes are in the window of Paolo’s Shoes. I can feel myself beginning to drool. I am vaguely aware of the fact that The Kinks singing A Well Respected Man has started to play in my ear, a groovy song that I totally love but I am too busy trying to guess how much it would cost me to buy those shoes. I covet them in the most greedy little way possible. My brain screams STOP! as my hand reaches for the door handle. Don’t do it! Those shoes probably cost more than my rent. As much as I like eating ramen noodles, that is a choice, not a lifestyle. If I buy those shoes, I will be lucky to live on the corner in a cardboard box eating raw ramen noodles. In my lovely new red shoes. Ok, that picture is scary enough to break the Svengali spell of the shoes. Time to move on while I still can.

Clap For The Wolfman …”he’s gonna rate your records high…” uh oh. Did I sing that out loud? Oops, sorry people. I’m really not crazy, I just love this song. I know my singing is bad but is it really necessary for you to let your poodle attack me? Time to boogie faster down the street.

Ok, I have hit California Street. Things are going to slow down even more from here. Time for the some hill climbing. Maybe I should have taken the bus after all. Knowing the sales skills and cuteness levels of my sister’s children, there is a very good chance everything will be gone by the time I get there. That is a sad thought. Fiesta, by Dave Grusin. This is a cute little song that is over too soon, but I love it. See? It is over already. Too bad – it always makes me think of Ferdinand the Bull dancing the tarantella with my niece Rachel.

You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth. Uh oh, here comes the original Mr. Pirate Shirt. Eat your heart out, Seinfeld. Meatloaf had this look down and done long before you ever did.

Ugh. I am just not up for anthem rock today. Sorry Meatloaf, time for you to go. I have always wondered if he liked the ketchup sauce that too many bad cooks smear all over meatloaf. I hope not. Maybe if he did, he could have made it part of his act. There’s a scary thought.

Here we go, this is much better – El Matador. Los Fabulosos Cadillacs’ huge kettle drums and referee whistles make a hip swinging beat that is great. The music makes me forget my own rules about not hauling ass up hills in San Francisco. Oh well. If I pass out from lack of oxygen, I will do it with a smile on my face.

Clay Street, almost to the top of the hill. The shuffle on my ipod is acting odd. Two LFC songs in a row? Hoy Llore Cancion is a great song, but I am not in the mood to listen to a song about a sad song. Wow, I was able to make a sentence with the word ‘song’ in it three times. That’s talent, baby. It is too beautiful outside and I am a woman on a mission – I can’t let a sad song slow me down.

American Music? Yes, I think I do like American music, thanks for asking me. The Violent Femmes are the perfect soundtrack to get me up to Broadway Street so I can stop and take a look at the best view in a city full of them.

I stand in the middle of Fillmore Street at Broadway gawking like a tourist at the view that is spread out below. As I look down the steep street, I see all the white sailboats skimming across the waves in the bay with the Golden Gate Bridge off to my left holding back an immense bank of fog. It is as if the bridge is doing whatever it can to let all the scurrying little people enjoy the sunshine just a little bit longer. Alcatraz squats on its rock off to my right and I can see a tiny ferry fully of people either coming from or going to the rusty old prison.

Nino Diamante begins to play in my headphones, a strange song for Los Fabulosos Cadillacs to perform. There is no cool funkiness or screaming in Spanish in this song, just a smooth jazziness that is perfect while I stand there watching the bay.

A horn honks very loudly and I hear a guy yell at me to get out of the road, stupid. Oh yeah, I am standing in the middle of the street, aren’t I? Yep, I sure am. I wave my hand in apology and scoot across to the other side of Fillmore Street and start down the hill. FYI, steep hills like this are great for any chubby chunk you might be carrying around in your trunk.

Tip#2 – How to walk down hills in San Francisco:

*Lean back. Unlike going up a hill where if you lean forward and then trip you will land on your face and probably break your nose, you do want to lean back just a bit when walking down a steep hill. This changes your balance so you don’t have that urge to just fall forward and roll your way down the hill.

*Depending on the kind of shoes you are wearing, you might want to shuffle your feet a little. Slippery-bottomed shoes are not a good idea, but if you have them on, try not to pick up your feet too much.

*Many steep streets have little built in steps or areas of deeply ridged sidewalks. USE THEM. They aren’t just a design aesthetic created by a manic and slightly drunk city planner, they can actually help, especially with the slippery shoes problem.

*Go slow. Take your time; you will eventually get there. Remember that gravity is your friend, but would it love to watch you roll down the hill and splash into the bay, too.

Tricky starts singing Children’s Story, which has a surprisingly upbeat sound for such a sad song. As I listen to the story about a boy who starts robbing old people to make some easy cash, the heavy bass beat has me snapping my fingers in time with it. Time to start zigzagging my way over to Broderick Street. At Vallejo, I turn left and boogie my way past some of the Pacific Heights mansions.

I walk up Vallejo a few blocks until I get to Pierce. Ugh, another giant hill going up. Ok, don’t forget the rules and just start climbing. Blondie begins rapping about a man from Mars who eats up cars and people in bars and then wait – now he only eats guitars, isn’t that nice of him? Only Debbie Harry could get away with being a skinny blond girl rapping about something that doesn’t have a single gun or cop killing in it or say the word booty even once. I love it.

Ok, I made it. I am at the top of the hill. I am earning that damn lemonade and chocolate chip cookie, that is for sure. And I am getting hungry for hot dogs. Good thing I am almost there. Massive Attack singing Karmacoma comes up next. “You say you want to be with me, I’ve nothing to give..” I turn off Vallejo onto Scott for a block. It is relatively flat here and my knees thank me for it. Almost there.

Uh oh, Ruby Baby is playing. Gotta change it fast or otherwise I will have Donald Fagan singing, “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby Baby” stuck in my head until it causes some serious brain damage.

More Massive Attack, this time Any Love. Perfect, this is a nice happy song about a guy going out at night to pick up a chicks. Any chick. Please, chick, let me pick you up. Please?

AAAAAAAAHHHHH! Somebody save me, I think I am bleeding from my ears. Taking Over Me is torturing my poor body the same way a high pitched-whistle will turn nice friendly dogs into slobbering man-eaters. Evanescence-girl (whatever her name is) has the kind of whiny, nasally voice that makes me want to poke an ice pick through my ear drums just to end the misery. That girl never has a nice thing to say about life. I think I have just enough strength left push the skip button on my ipod.

Praise be to the music gods, the Black Eyed Peas singing about ba-bumping in nightclubs comes to my rescue. I will survive after all.

Finally, Broderick Street! Nice cold glass of lemonade, here I come. As I walk toward the busy lemonade stand, another Led Zeppelin song comes on. Fool in the Rain, covered by Maná. Which, oddly enough, seems to be appropriate. Just as I reach the table, I discover everything is sold out. Not a drop of lemonade or a single cookie to be found. Maybe I should have taken the bus after all – I feel so deprived. My sister consoles me with the offer of a delicious Hebrew National hot dog, which almost makes me drool, I am that hungry. Nothing like processed kosher mystery meat to rid you of temporary depression, right?

In the end, the kids raked in lots of dough to be saved in their respective piggy banks (Avram’s is an old cigar box, Rachel’s money will probably be stashed in one of her bazillion purses) for whatever goodies they are dreaming of lately. Maybe it will be spent on lots of salt water taffy from the best candy store in the universe when they go up to Oregon later this summer. Or maybe new comic books, hair clips, Buzz Lightyear blinky shoes (Rachel’s favorite this year), and video games. The possibilities are endless when you are little and don’t have to pay income taxes.

As for me, I am chilling with a bun-wrapped hotdog in each hand, trying not to drip mustard all over myself as I pig out. Absolutely wunderbar.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T - A little goes a long way when a homicidal maniac is behind the wheel

I live in a crazy busy city. At any given moment, any day of the week, something is happening somewhere. People are moving around from place to place, all lost in their own little worlds until they crash into each other. There is a lot of traffic from cars, trucks, buses, trolleys, trams, pedestrians, and - more and more often - bicycles. All of this can make it an interesting and potentially hair-raising process to get from point A to B.

In 2008, this city passed a law requiring police officers to pull over and ticket any drivers caught talking or texting (the ultimate in brainless stupidity) while operating a vehicle. To me, that law should be unnecessary, but that is because I am a big believer in common sense. Duh, if you are too distracted to pay attention to the red light and not run over the pedestrian who has right of way in the cross walk (that was me walking there, thank you very much), then you should pay the fine for being a moron. People who drive cars can be very stupid, it is a fact.

Bicyclists these days seem to be the yuppie version of the Hell's Angels, in an eco-friendly way, of course. They travel in packs, have their own codes of ethics that are incomprehensible to anyone not in their group, and seem to have a complete lack of regard for anyone not riding around on two self propelled wheels. They can come across as complete jerks and can be as dangerous as automobiles when it comes to their ability to hurt people.

Pedestrians don't get off either - I myself have been very guilty of standing in the crosswalk waiting for the light to turn green, effectively blocking a driver from making a legal right hand turn on a red light. All the lovely people walking down - or in - the street are just as guilty of contracting the asshole flu as anyone else.

I love cars in general. I think they can be beautiful pieces of engineering, design, style, speed, and sometimes are like looking at sex personified. The right car can be an absolute thrill to drive, but they are also expensive and can kill on so many levels.

Bicycles are fun. I love the feeling of freedom I get when I slow poke pedal my way down a quiet street on a sunny day. I paid a high price learning to ride my bike as a small child - I lost the bottom row of my baby teeth all in one painful crash into a telephone pole because I tried not to run over the neighbor's dumb cat who had a hairball in place of a brain. Riding a bicycle is an immense feeling of accomplishment that a clumsy person like me doesn't get very often.

Going for a walk down any street in San Francisco is always a visual treat, even in the dirtiest and poorest places in town. There is never a lack of architecture to ogle and all the mini-dramas taking place all around are better than any reality tv show could dream of filming. It also exposes pedestrians to potential crimes, filthy streets (so bad if you dropped a $20 on the ground you would think twice about picking it up), and lots of smog/pollution/exhaust.

The problem is this - not only do I live in a weird busy city where odd things happen every second, I also live in the world's most opinionated place. There truly cannot be any other metropolis on the planet where perfect strangers constantly bombard you with their idea of how to live. This applies to everything from how to live your private life to bagging your groceries and driving/biking/walking. People driving cars have opinions about bicyclists and pedestrians, bicyclists have opinions about cars and pedestrians, and pedestrians just hate anyone with wheels, including mother's with strollers who are moving too slowly. These issues create a sort of social powder keg that is always on the verge of exploding.

Like most things in life, my problem with cars and bikes are the people who operate them. As with 99.999999999% of everything that is wrong on this planet, humanity is to blame. I have seen perfectly rational, caring people turn into raging homicidal maniacs behind the wheel of a car and those same people become stupid, anti-social, rule breaking idiots as soon as they get their butts planted on a bicycle seat. Why is that? Normally pleasant, law abiding citizens suddenly become foul mouthed Rambos when they go for a nice walk to their local cafe for a cup of soy-only, free range not cage fed hormone-less loved to death shot of joe. What is it about traffic that sets people off?

This week, that question became a more immediate, potentially deadly one. Some psychotic loco (redundant, I know) in a blue Nissan Rogue who appears to be from Berkeley but hasn't been arrested for some reason went on the rampage on Wednesday night and mowed down four bicyclists. If the guy really is from Berkeley, why did he come all the way across the Bay to San Francisco to run people over? There are just as many annoying bicyclists in his town to pick on - why travel for his kind of sicko fun?

I understand the urge to just lash out at someone who is in your way, making it difficult to get where you need to go. One reason I don't enjoy driving in cities is that someone is ALWAYS in your way and it is frustrating. I get why bicyclists run lights, hop up on sidewalks, and weave in and out of traffic - they do it because they can and it means they get where they are going faster. As a pedestrian, I am totally guilty of weaving in and out of people, zooming along. I can't stand having someone walking right in front of me. I understand, I get it, roger that over and out.

What I don't understand are drivers who endanger other people with their vehicles in their frustration or complete obliviousness to the world around them. I don't get bicyclists who zoom up on people and scream obscenities when the lady with a stroller and two meandering children can't get out of his way fast enough. Pedestrians who walk against lights or insist on crossing busy streets where there is no crosswalk leave me dumbfounded.

I don't know the man (the driver was described as a white male - a very comprehensive, helpful description, obviously) who ran over those bicyclists. I don't know what his beef was. I do know that he wove in and out of traffic, often zooming along on the wrong side of the street, and he put three people in the hospital, one in critical condition. I don't know anything about this guy but it doesn't matter. What he did was wrong. Who cares why?

There has been a lot of chatter in the last few days about the possible motivation behind this driver, but to me there isn't an acceptable one. I don't care if the driver had a bad day for any number of reasons. So what if a bicyclist cut him off earlier. Who gives a flying fudge what made this guy try to hurt other people? There is no explanation in the world that can excuse or explain what he did. What won't surprise me about this will be that in the end we learn he was a nice man with or without a family, who was quiet or not, who was friendly to his neighbors or kept to himself. He will be an average person just like you and me.

How can a guy who at the very least wanted to seriously hurt some people and maybe even wanted to kill someone be like you or me? Because I believe that all of us have been guilty of the urge to just lash out at whoever or whatever is pushing our last button at any given moment. The only difference between him and us is that he acted. He hit the accelerator and zoomed up that street and did what he wanted. I wonder if he felt good after it was over. I am afraid he felt great when it was happening.

I am not a hearts and flowers kind of person. I don't preach peace and love and unicorns to anyone. My only mantra in life is respect, something I am guilty of NOT always giving to people. This whole weird thing with the mad as a hatter driver taking out the bicyclists really got to me because I believe that respect is at the heart of the whole incident. I believe that every one of us has been guilty at some point of breaking a rule that allows us as a society to bump along together. It may have been a traffic rule or simply a customary rule of politeness, but we have done it. And we have all been the (un)lucky recipients of that same lack of respect. After a while, it gets to you. Suddenly, you are the raving lunatic foaming at the mouth and targeting people with your wrath.

Perhaps this crazy, wonderful city earns part of the blame. It is always rushing along and we are sucked into the tidal wave along with everyone else. Except, of course, that tidal wave is made up of us - all of us ordinary, busy, potential homicidal maniacs. Maybe biting our tongues and practicing the trite but true mantras of do unto others and if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all could help bring some social peace for a while, making it safe for everyone to travel on their way in their own fashion. A sappy thought, I know, but that doesn't make it wrong.

Luck be a lady? No thanks - how about luck be a sexy guy who wins me MONEY!

I am not a gambler. I know exactly what I can buy with the money in my pocket. And I can dream about all the things I would do if I won the lottery or won big in any number of casinos. But I rarely can get past the idea of losing – that isn’t fun to me. Most of the time, I opt to hang on to what I have and watch someone else lose their money to the odds.

This spring, a friend talked me into kicking in my $10 for a suicide pool during March Madness. With a little help from my younger sister, I managed to pick enough winning teams to tie with one other person and split the final pot. My $10 bet earned me $150 – not bad.

This weekend, I am going to the Kentucky Derby. The same friend who got me into the NCAA pool invited me to attend the race with his family – I am suspicious that he is hoping to get his money back or is determined to turn me into a gambling addict, but maybe he is just trying to make my life a little more interesting. I know I will have a great time and plan on using my March Madness winnings to bet on the ponies, so it isn’t like I am really investing anything. The problem is I have no idea how to bet on a horse.

How does anyone pick a horse to win a race? I have scoped out some sites on the web and tried to understand odds and how they are determined, but I am more confused than ever. I mean, think about it. How does anyone bet on an animal that has surely been trained and has a jockey trying to control it, but in the end is a thinking, feeling life form that could just decide to do whatever it wants? I might as well bet on racing cockroaches.

I have asked a few people for tips on picking horses and have heard some interesting things. Pick a horse with intelligent eyes. Choose one that is frisky. How about opting for the prettiest one? Or the one with the cutest jockey, best racing silk colors, or silliest name? Apparently, despite the numerous websites figuring odds for each Derby entry, choosing whom to bet on is as arbitrary as throwing darts at a list of names. Essentially, not very specific or helpful.

Another interesting tidbit (which I may have heard entirely wrong or else warped the information all out of sense in my crazy brain) is that all the horses entered into the Derby are 3 year old animals without a lot of racing experience. I am really hoping that is wrong because if so, how the heck can anyone lay odds on an animal that is essentially a teenager and then wager money? Are people crazy? Don’t these people know that teenagers are fascinating, fun, and completely unpredictable? And these particular teenagers can get away with biting, kicking, and bucking you off into the mud because how exactly do you ground a horse? Take away its car keys and allowance? HA!

As yet, I have no idea who I will bet on. The good thing is, I don’t have to make up my mind until a little while before the race, so I will have plenty of time to become even more confused by the decision making tactics of other race-goers. I am hoping that a little of my NCAA beginner’s luck will carry over to the Derby, but the truth is my sports fanatic younger sister obsessively watched college sports when we were growing up and some of her insane factual knowledge appears to have penetrated my skull. And a good college program tends to last for years and can become predictable and an easy pick to bet on. Unlike frisky teenage horses with fur, sharp teeth and hooves who could just decide to do their own thing that day.

I am supposed to go to a bourbon tasting in Louisville on Thursday, so maybe some well-aged alcohol will help. I don’t anticipate it helping me make a good decision. I just hope it will help me make any decision at all. And maybe keep me from building pipe-dreams about what I could do with a lot of money I haven’t won yet.

Anyone for a bedtime story?

I like to entertain my closest family and friends. Usually, this happens just by opening my mouth and telling them whatever idiotic thing I have been thinking about lately. (Sometimes they laugh and inch away from me, worried about my insanity level that day). These are the people who know me best and are least likely to be offended by what I say or do, offense being something I seem to be able to inspire in the rest of the world a little too easily.

I have what could politely be called an irreverent sense of humor – to me most things in life have an ironic side and should be laughed at. (This of course does not apply to anything that causes only suffering, of which tragedies there are far too many to list here.) Often, what makes me laugh is something I sort of glimpsed or overheard a snatch of while on the bus, walking down the street, spacing out on a park bench, or whatever and then my crazy little pea brain made up its own story, randomly filling in the blanks. Just like the Mad Libs I used to play with my sisters on long car rides in my parents’ horrible mustard yellow Ford Pinto.

The usual response I get when I tell my friends and family some of my crazy ideas is that I should write them down. Why would I do that? Writing things down fixes them in a permanent state and my brain functions in a more fluid way. It also provides a lot of concrete proof that I am a little kookoo and might benefit from some mind altering medication. I also have a serious problem with fleshing ideas out – I can usually come up with the initial premise, but the details are beyond me. If I tried to write them down, it would just be a list of things, what-ifs, thoughts that go nowhere.

However, I do sometimes like a challenge. I am up trying to note down my favorite loco thoughts and see what happens. The attic in my noggin is getting a little full and perhaps if I write them down, I can let them go and make room for new thoughts. So please enjoy the craziness with one caveat – take everything with a ginormous grain of salt. I mean no disrespect to anyone, any belief system, any gender, orientation, identity of self, etc, etc.

“In the beginning…Irreverent Bible Stories for Lapsed Catholics”

**WARNING** Any devout Christians are likely to want to burn me at the stake after this, including some of my own family members…I am seriously not joking. I just want to make it clear that these ideas are not meant to insult anyone or debase any faith they may have. For the few of you who have heard these ideas before and found them hilarious, I hope you enjoy them again.

*What if Jesus was a vampire? No seriously, I am not the only person in the world to think of this. I mean, if you are not a believer in God, don’t see Jesus as the Messiah, and think it is extremely odd for an institution to condone and promote transubstantiation (the magical turning of bread and wine into flesh and blood), how else do you explain the miracle of Christ? The rite of communion is all about ingesting the flesh and blood of a human being – surely this is cannibalism at the very least but there is definitely a vampire connection there too. Jesus was a man who was dead and yet rose again, not-dead (undead)? Vampire lore is also full of all kinds of interesting items that can be attributed to Jesus – the ability to walk on water is one. What if instead of walking on water, he was just floating above it? At the marriage celebration in Cana, he supposedly turned water into wine. Vampires are famous for being able to hypnotize prey – what if all he did was plant the suggestion in the guests’ minds that the water had become wine and they all believed it? I could go on, but I think you get my point. I think it is outrageously funny to contemplate the idea that a religious figure who supposedly preached peace but inspired so much bloodshed is actually a blood drinker himself.

*Peter, Peter, woman hater. To me, Peter is the biggest misogynist in the last 2000 years. He helped turn the only other important female character (Mary Magdalene) in the New Testament (Mary, Jesus’ mother being the first) into an anathema, a social pariah, a whore. The man obviously had a vagina problem – why else would he help create an institution that has completely denigrated women? Wouldn’t it be funny, though, if every night when holy man St. Peter went home, he had a few dominatrix women waiting for him? What if the rock of the church was spanked like a little boy by his mommy every night before bed and he LIKED it? I laugh just thinking about it.

*Judas Iscariot – poster child for a broken heart. Sometimes, I can’t understand why Christianity is so against homosexuality. I mean, why does anyone care so much about how another person finds happiness in a relationship? Why is there only one missionary-style road to happiness? One day in a flash of truly inspired depravity, the answer came to me. Christians hate Judas Iscariot as much as they hate homosexuals, right? I mean, Judas IS the man who betrayed Jesus to the Romans, which led to his scourging, painful trudge through the streets of Jerusalem, and finally the agonizing execution by crucifixion. I mean, who WOULDN’T hate such a rat? So where am I going with this? Well, what if the true story is that Judas was a gay man who was madly in love with Jesus and actually had a romantic relationship with him? And then, Jesus dumped him? And Judas felt immense anger and shame when his heart was broken? I don’t know anyone who hasn’t felt that way when told by the object of their desire that they ‘just don’t think of you that way anymore”. I have experienced it myself and can easily understand why in a moment of pure anger Judas would want to make Jesus’ life a little uncomfortable, to teach him a lesson. I have always thought Judas was a tragic figure who regretted what he had done – he hung himself eventually, committing suicide, yet another strike against him. The guy just could not win for losing. The true history behind Christianity’s obsession with the evils of homosexuality has just been revealed by a love affair between Jesus and Judas.

*Dona Maria, Holy Mary Mother of God – the poor preggers girl. Seriously, think about it. Some teenage girl has a glowing alien/angel stalking her, telling her crazy things like she is destined to become the mother of God. God?!? How is that logically even possible? It hurts my head thinking about it. The Thing from Outer Space finally talks her into having the kid, she becomes pregnant (the Bible skips a few details when explaining exactly how THAT happened. But Mom, Dad, it was only one time…) and suddenly for social reasons she needs a husband. So she marries the most famous cuckold in history, Joseph, who by all accounts was a good husband and father, one bright star in this story. From now on, Mary’s life is not her own, if it ever was. She has to give birth in a barn with a bunch of animals and strangers from afar looking on as she is sweating and screaming her way through contractions and delivery. She has to raise this uber-holy child, not having any resources for something like this. I imagine it would be like trying to raise a genius but not being able to read, write, or do basic math yourself – where do you even begin? Then her crazy kid decides to start his own hippy commune, preaching revolution and a serious lack of respect for established authority, an early pre-cursor to the Summer of Love. Eventually, this kid, this man, who changed whatever course her life might have taken, has the gall to get arrested and die a messy, public death, all the while praising God and saying ‘thy will be done.’ What about HER will? This person who was carried in her body, who she cared for and raised to manhood didn’t consider her at all when he ran off to foment revolution. I bet deep inside, Mary wanted nothing more than to just be left alone, in a nice little cottage somewhere with her cats and a rose garden. That’s how I picture her now – a plump little lady with dyed, permed hair wearing a too-small sweatshirt covered in kittens and living in a house with plastic covers on the furniture and velvet paintings of Elvis on the walls, smoking cigarettes like a chimney. When you visit her, she gives you stale store-brand Oreo wannabe cookies and Kool-aid lemonade. It makes me laugh a naughty, disrespectful laugh to think she could have been so normal.

Ok, if you are still reading this blog and want more, the rest is pretty benign in comparison. Boring, even. I promise to try to make you laugh..

*What if you were some drugged out asshole wandering the streets of a bad neighborhood one night and saw a beautiful woman inexplicably sitting in a convertible at a stop light? And what if you jumped into her convertible, stuck a knife to her throat, and told her to drive off, all the while salivating over what you were going to do to her before you stole her jewelry and car and left her for dead? And what if the woman just laughed at you, grabbed you and pulled you in close for a kiss – but wait, she is actually biting your neck and sucking all the blood out of you, down to your toes? And what if she tossed your pathetic, dead body out of the car and drove off licking her lips? That would really suck, right? Get it – suck? I crack myself up. So then the beautiful woman drives back to her high class condo, racing the rising sun, completely satisfied with her midnight snack. Yum. Better than a glass of warm milk to help you sleep.

*One day I was walking down Market Street, enjoying the mixture of sunshine and San Francisco weirdos and listening to Marilyn Manson scream in my ear, “I don’t care if you don’t want me, ‘cause I’m yours, yours, yours, anyhow..” About ten feet in front of me, a cab pulled up in front of the Regis Hotel and just as the passenger opened the door, a bike messenger came zooming down the sidewalk, swerving around pedestrians, and got nailed by the cab door. The messenger, a girl, went flying then skidding down the sidewalk until she finally slid to a stop. She must have been one giant body-sized mass of bruises and road rash – I cringe just thinking about it now. Yowza. So I turned off my headphones and ran over to her with my cell phone out, ready to call 911 because I was positive this chick was seriously hurt, if not actually semi-burnt toast. The guy who hit her with the door got to her first and was talking to her. The girl sat up, took off her helmet, and it was a total sexy-librarian moment. With her helmet on and wearing the usual messenger gear of trashed Carhart jeans, black concert t-shirt and a big bag, she had a total tomboy appearance. But the moment that helmet came off and all this pretty blond hair came tumbling down, it was a totally different story. I am an appreciator of beauty everywhere and even though I was very frightened that this girl was seriously hurt, I admit to staring in awe – she was honestly a very beautiful woman. I noticed that the cab door guy was staring too, but who could blame him? It only took a few seconds to figure out that not only was the girl really ok, but that I wasn’t needed and I could boogie on down Market Street. So I did, listening to the rest of Marilyn Manson’s “I Put A Spell On You”. The song started me thinking – this is a classic stalker ballad. And what happened between those two people had the makings of a perfect stalker story. What if Ms. Messenger decides it was fate that she was nailed by Mr. Cab Door at that very moment? She would be foolish to try and thwart fate and she ain’t no dummy. Mr. Cab Door is a very polite man who truly felt sorry for nailing her, even though she shouldn’t have been riding her bike on the sidewalk. As a way to feel better about it, he gives her his business card and tells her to contact him if she needs anything at all, then continues on his way into the Regis. For him, it is over, although he does enjoy thinking about how beautiful she was. For Ms. Messenger, though, a completely different concept was received. He told her to contact him. He gave her the means to do it. Fate, again, is telling her he is THE ONE. You can probably fill in the blanks – think Single White Female. Although, who knows – maybe they could have a happy ending. After an appropriate amount of bloodshed, creepy behavior, and any other Hollywood-isms you want to throw in, of course.

Is anyone still awake? I hope I haven’t insulted you / bored you to tears / convinced you I need to be legally committed to the nuthouse. I could give you more, but this blog is already getting too long as it is. If you are interested in telling me what you think, I believe this site allows you to comment. I would love it if you did. Ciao