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

Ok drama queen, enough already. Would you please get over yourself?

Have you ever had one of those days where you just can’t stand yourself? I don’t really mean the whole self-loathing jump off a bridge to escape the insanity kind. Just the relatively minor thing where absolutely nothing makes you happy for no explicable reason. Breathing is somehow an insult to your ego. Anyone who says hello or smiles at you has earned your undying hatred for ever and ever, amen. And God forbid anyone wish you a good day. I mean really, who do they think they are?

I am in the middle of one of those days today and I just can’t figure out why. I have reviewed the mental ‘what is your problem this time Lisa’ checklist and come up with nothing. Nada. Nichts. PMS – nope. Not enough/too much sleep – nope again. Hungry – just ate, didn’t help. Chocolate deprivation – had some primo stuff, still bitchy.

So what exactly is bugging me? Well, I am afraid that one of my very bestest friends in the world just might possibly be pissed off at me. Or else she is making a joke and I am way too dense to figure it out. Overly literal person that I am, I miss a lot of things like that. Have I bothered to ask her? Nope – I am busy playing chicken. But is that enough to freak me out to this extent? Hmmm, I don’t think so.

Boyfriend issues? Always. That is status quo, so no dice there. I am a firm believer that the more you love someone, the more issues you have. When the issues stop, THEN I will begin freaking out.

How’s the family? As crazy and in need of serious medication, counseling, and intervention (not necessarily in that order) as ever.

Money? Well, duh. I mean, even guys making billions of dollars every year never seem to have enough. Why should I be content with my few thousands? Nope, I don’t think that is my beef.

What about the job? Well, it is the most excruciatingly boring thing I have ever been paid to do, but it definitely beats the alternative, which I experienced first hand in Technicolor misery last summer. No, the job is definitely not a problem.

Maybe I am going about this all wrong. Perhaps, instead of obsessing about whatever it is that is making me so damn unhappy, I should think happy thoughts instead. That is easy, I can think of many: I am madly in love with my new sofa. I am going to the Kentucky Derby in a few weeks to bet on horses, two things I have never done before in a place I have never been to. Spring is here in all its rainy glory and I am surrounded by happy little plants waking up from their semi-hibernation – that always makes me smile. I got my favorite pair of boots resoled and they are like new – fabulous.

Ok, it is several hours later and I have spent a chunk of time meditating on my happy thoughts and all I feel is boredom. And irritation. Still. Ugh.

So what am I supposed to do with myself? If anyone else was going through this, I would say they needed to just chill out. We all have bad days, cut yourself some slack, blah, blah, BLAH. It isn’t anyone else going through this, it is ME. And I am stuck with me in my head, continually re-pissing myself off in a vicious cycle. Does anyone have an ice pick I can borrow for a homemade lobotomy? I will have to thank you in advance because I suspect that while I will probably be in a better mood afterwards, I will also be a drooling, non-communicative mess. Excuse me while I accidentally slobber on your shoes – it isn’t intentional.

I have no idea what my problem is and I guess it doesn’t matter. In general, I try to hide my high maintenance nature from the world and I think I am having a Mt. St. Helens moment – too much unexpressed drama is building up. I just hope I get home before my top blows off. Heehee. No, not my shirt, although that could be funny I guess.

So what is this whole silly blog posting about? It mainly consists of me complaining about being a dissatisfied whiner. Obviously, a fascinating topic. I am still irritated, but I think I have come to accept that I am just going to be that way today. I just need to finish out my work day, go home, watch some mind-numbing tv, go to bed, and start all over tomorrow.

Why does that plan irritate me so? Who knows. Not me, that’s for sure.

So is this actually friendship or just abuse?

I am coming to understand that I am sometimes an idiot when it comes to friends. In general, I think of myself as a very difficult person to be a friend to: I am moody, opinionated, and prefer to be by myself most of the time. Because of this, I try very hard to also be completely loyal and willing to listen to whatever it is that needs to be said no matter how boring, ridiculous, crass, or pee-my-pants-laughing funny it may be (that last one has been in short supply lately). I feel guilty that no matter how much I may adore my friends, sometimes I don't actually want to see or talk to them very much. That is when all the trouble starts - guilt is terrible thing that makes me do things I later regret and then feel more guilt over later. Unless it is eating lots of chocolate. But that is another story.

I always tell my friends they can speak to me about whatever it is they want, whenever they want and I really, honestly mean that. Most of my friends are true friends - they put up with my crazy anti-social behavior and will listen to what I have to say as much as I try to do the same for them. I am learning, however, that there is a difference between friends who talk to me about all the things going in their lives and the ones who only tell me about the bad things. I don't know why I have been so slow to figure this out. Maybe it is because I myself will drop off everyone's radar from time to time, so it is taking me forever to realize that a few people do the same to me when their lives are good, then only look me up when disaster has struck again.

For example, one person that I have considered a friend for almost two years now is having a difficult time in life. He recently lost his girlfriend and his job and is suing his former employer over something (he told me why but it didn't make any sense). As he was telling me all of this, I started thinking about all the conversations I have had with him over the last year or so and they have only occurred when his life is falling down around him. If that is true, then why am I still friends with this guy? I guess the answer to that is when I first met him, he seemed on top of things. And even though very quickly he started having issues, it took me a while to figure out that his life is one big issue and that forever after that is all I would see about his life. As I look back on my conversations with this guy, I realized that all the signs were there and I only have myself to blame for spending time listening to this person.

I think I will call this guy Niemann, just to make it easier for you guys to follow along - believe me, it is kooky so you will have a hard enough time. The first time I met Niemann in person, I remember thinking that he didn't look as annoying as I knew he could be - warning sign number one that I was oblivious to. He was coming to the account I worked on and had been emailing me for weeks asking the same questions over and over and generally making me loco. When he finally showed up, he wouldn't even make eye contact when talking to me, something that really drives me crazy. I start freaking out that I have grown a big wart on my nose or have something stuck to my teeth and it is so hideously ugly people can't stand to look at me. And when I say he wouldn't make eye contact, I should say he wouldn't actually look at me at all - he wasn't even staring at my boobs. He was just sort of focused on his own shoes.

After getting past day one, Niemann didn't seem so bad. I thought he was just a little shy, which I understand. Just because I have a big mouth and will talk to anyone doesn't mean that I am not quivering with fear on the inside - I am terribly shy but I force myself to get past it so I can function in life. I made a point to say hello to Niemann if I saw him and ask how he was getting on with his new team and eventually he started talking to me more easily, which was good. We were working in an unusual situation with a very small group of people and it was essential that we could all get along.

After about a week or so, Niemann and I had lunch together, not an uncommon thing in our group. He started opening up to me more about himself - talking about work and asking me for background on the team. Over the next week, he started talking to me more and telling me how difficult he found working with this team and for this company to be. I didn't mind listening to what he had to say and maybe I thought that by saying how he felt out loud, it would help him - it works for me sometimes. The gist of what Niemann had to say was that he was very unsatisfied with his job and that it wasn't what he thought it would be when he began working with us. I told him that he only has one life and if he isn't happy with what is going on right now, then he should do something to change it - he should actively go after what he wants.

A few days later I was out with some friends after work and my cell phone started freaking out. Niemann had emailed a text message to my phone that was so long, it came as 12 chunks of data. At first, I thought it was a joke and that he was just messing around with my phone. But as I read the pieces of the message, I started really worrying that he meant every word he wrote. Basically, Niemann decided to take me at my word and go for what he really wanted in life, which somehow had become me. I guess he thought that I was flirting with him or sending him a coded come-hither message when I told him to go after what he wants. I thought I was just talking to him. Silly me. His message basically said he was totally gaga over me and was too afraid to tell me in person so he was texting me. Have you ever heard of anything more romantic? Me either.

It was hard not to let that unasked for text message ruin my evening, but I couldn't help quietly freaking out about it instead of paying attention to my friends. I knew that I was going to have to deal with it somehow, but I had no clue what to say. I should have been flattered that he was interested in me, but for some reason all I felt was angst. I don't think that was exactly the feeling he was trying to inspire in me.

I am not the most aware individual when it comes to my personal life. I am always the last one to know when a guy is interested in me. It never occurs to me that a man I have been hanging out with might be looking for more than friendship and when he finally gets my attention, I am so surprised that I don't always handle it well. It takes a very patient guy to put up with that. I wouldn't call Niemann a patient guy - more of the adult temper tantrum sort.

The next day, I still hadn't decided what to do about the issue - I knew for certain that I was definitely not interested in this guy for a variety of reasons, but how was I supposed to tell him that and still be able to work with him? I felt guilty that I had somehow led him into thinking I was open for a relationship beyond that of just a usual workplace friendship. Eventually, the whole issue of how to address the problem was taken out of my hands - Niemann called me and like a dork, I answered the phone. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? This had to be dealt with at some time so why not get it over with as soon as possible?

Right from the start Niemann was not a happy man. I guess he had spent the whole night essentially sleepless waiting for me to respond. That made me feel awful. I should have at least said I would talk to him about it the next day rather than not saying anything at all. When he heard that I was completely caught off guard and didn't feel the same way about him, he hung up on me. Ok, I thought. That wasn't good but it wasn't horrible either. Now I just have to see what happens on Monday. Silly Lisa, easy outs are for kids. About 5 minutes later, Niemann called me back and then the fun really started. I don't think I said more than 10 words in the whole hour or so that he ranted in my ear. Looking back on it now, I can't really understand why I tolerated that behavior. I mean, I didn't ASK him to decide he was lusting after me. I didn't tell him to please, please choose me to be the ever so grateful recipient of his affection. The only thing I can think of is that I felt guilty that he had poured his heart out in a text message to me and I rejected him. It takes real guts to spew your feelings out in an electronically sent love note to a person who you work with that has never encouraged you romantically.

About half way through the call, I realized that Niemann wasn't ranting at me about me anymore. He was just ranting about life in general. In his view, his life was a big mess and I was just the latest thing to go wrong. Looking back on it now, I realized THAT is where I made my big mistake. I stopped feeling bad that I didn't want to jump into the sack with him and instead started feeling sympathetic that his life was so messed up. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to. I can be a good listener, so that's what I did. I listened. And listened. By the end of it, my ear was numb and my cell battery was dying, so I was given a reprieve. What I didn't know at the time is that the conversation was an example of how my friendship with Niemann would be going forward - painful and energy sapping.

It wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be going back into the office and working with Niemann, mostly because he was in the process of pissing off everyone on the team and would eventually be moved to another account. When he did have time to talk to me, it was to complain about how he was being targeted and all the BS was career maneuvering being done by unscrupulous people. As naive as I can be about my personal life, I am completely aware of office politics and did not have the same impression about what was going on. However, I still felt bad for Niemann because he was just so AWKWARD. And I think I was also just so happy he wasn't chasing after me or making my life difficult at work. Another lady love had entered the picture.

Niemann doesn't live in San Francisco. Lots of the people I work with don't live here. Instead, they fly all over the place, going wherever the job takes them, living their lives mostly in hotels instead of the homes they pay mortgages on. Niemann had a favorite hotel in SF, like most of these vagabond co-workers do, and one thing he particularly loved about it was the wine bar. And one very lovely waitress who worked at the wine bar. One day, Niemann walked into the office and he seemed different - lighter or brighter or something. I commented that he seemed to be having a good day and he proceeded to tell me all about this waitress that he was in love with. He had spent every night over the last week or so sitting at the wine bar talking to her and she was perfect. Wonderful. Magnificent. And, she was going out on a date with him that night. Cool, I thought. I am happy that he is finding something good in life. For some dumb reason, I never questioned at the time that he could go from being (supposedly) madly in love with me to madly in love with another woman all in about two weeks. Or maybe I was just relieved to know I was off the hot seat. Sometimes, I am a complete chicken. Cluck cluck.

After telling me all about his new love, I didn't really talk to Niemann for about a month. I saw him at work and we would make office chitchat, but nothing beyond that. Ours was a busy office with plenty of work to do and time could just fly by. One day, Niemann stopped by my desk and mentioned that we hadn't really talked in a long time and invited me out for a coffee. We hadn't even made it to the elevator before he started ranting about his girlfriend and how it was all going to hell. She was too clingy, she wanted too much from him, and she never seemed to want to listen to him when he needed to talk. It seems this woman expected him to talk to her on days when he wasn't in San Francisco. She actually expected him to talk to her almost every day, even if it was just a quick 15 minute phone call. Can you believe the nerve of her? And if it was a short call, she would complain that he never listened to what was going on in her life. He just wanted to talk about himself and his boring job.

I was stuck in the elevator listening to Niemann literally ranting about this woman and all I could think of was escape. Except, I could see he was upset - really upset. And it is hard for me to ignore that. I feel like I just kicked a puppy and then laughed as it cried when I try to ignore someone who just needs to get a bad day off their chest. Yes, I am an idiot and I bring all this pain and suffering on myself.

It took 45 minutes to get the stupid cup of coffee. The rant about his girlfriend turned into a rant about his job and how much he hated it in our office. I suggested that he try to move into another department or that maybe his girlfriend had an actual point - it is hard to have a relationship with someone you don't talk to or who you feel doesn't listen to you. It all rolled off his back like water off a duck. I don't think it even penetrated his ear drums - he literally could not hear me talking. I finally just stood up and started walking out the door of the coffee shop and he followed me, talking non-stop all the way. I felt like he was sucking all the oxygen out of my immediate area and I was going to suffocate. I had to wonder if he would even notice if I turned blue and dropped dead or if he would just continue yakking at my corpse.

I think it comes as no surprise that Niemann didn't last very long in our office. He was clearly not happy there and the management of our team was more than willing to move him off elsewhere in the company. On his last day in our office, Niemann stopped by my desk to thank me for being such a good friend to him and said that he hoped we would stay in contact. He really appreciated and understood that I had put up with a lot from him and he wanted me to know it hadn't gone unnoticed. I had been sort of avoiding him since the whole ranting in the coffee shop thing and I was totally surprised to hear him acknowledge that he spent most of his conversation time with me freaking out. It was nice to know that I am not a complete idiot and that he wasn't as self absorbed as he seemed.

Except of course, I was totally wrong. Niemann does have the capacity to care about other people, but he is so wrapped up in himself and is so hyper-critical of other people that he can't maintain true interest in anyone else for very long. Every little thing in the world that comes into his orbit is sucked in and turned into either a reflection of his ego or an attack on it. Take our 'friendship' for example. After he left the account, I would hear from Niemann every once in a while, usually when he had alienated everyone around him and I was the only person left. He would always ask me how I was doing, but it was only a formality. He would barely let me begin to tell him anything before he would start in on the saga of his life. And none of it was good. He would begin dating another woman who was always 'the one', but then as soon as she started really getting comfortable with the relationship, he would have 101 reasons why it was all wrong and then he would end it. He always seemed to be working with idiots who didn't appreciate him and was moved around a lot within the company. It was getting to the point where I was deliberately ignoring his calls - I just didn't have the energy to listen to him tell me the same things over and over. The only new details were names and places.

Right around Christmas 2009, Niemann called me up and it was the same story: he was under appreciated at work and his latest girlfriend was driving him crazy. She had told him repeatedly that she loved him and wanted him to tell her if he could ever feel the same. A reasonable request, in my opinion. Every girl needs to know if she should just cut her losses or keep on keepin' on. Niemann said he was going to end it with her, but he felt like he should wait until after the holidays because he didn't want to ruin them for her. I don't really have an opinion about that. Is it better to let someone enjoy their holidays but find out later their other half was plotting the end of the relationship? Or should a clean break be made as soon as possible so everyone can move on? That one is a flip of a coin, I think.

About a week after New Year's Eve, Niemann called me again, sobbing his little heart out. It seems that his unwanted girlfriend had dumped him. In the time I had known him, this had never happened. Niemann had always called all the shots and did all the wooing and dumping. I was actually seriously concerned about the damage to his ego - I wasn't sure it could stand it. I also was laughing my ass off because it had only been a few weeks ago that he was seriously talking about leaving HER. So what was the problem? I guess as soon as she dumped him, Niemann decided that he really was in love with her and now his heart was well and truly broken. Shattered into teeny tiny irreparable pieces that not even gorilla glue could fix.

Am I a mean friend for laughing at his pain? Probably. I am a bit of a slow one when it comes to things other people seem to instinctively know about life and I was gradually realizing that whatever my relationship was with Niemann, it wasn't a friendship. So that meant I could be guiltlessly mean and get some of my own back. I did feel bad that he was upset, but Niemann was ALWAYS upset. I had become numb to the whole drama of it - his life was like a Mexican soap opera except without all the big hair and women with long nails screaming Nada! at the top of their lungs and crying all the time.

Instead of just telling Niemann that I couldn't talk right then and that we would catch up later (I knew it would be at least a month before I heard from him again), I did something I try never to do with crazy people - I told him what I really thought about the situation. I laid it out the way I saw it: Niemann charmed the dickens out of yet another lady (as a salesy dude, he could be very smooth when he wanted to be), romanced her for a while until she started actually believing the persona he projected, then turned into the wicked warlock of the west when she had the nerve to plan things out long term. But, he sobbed into my poor ear, I LOVED her! No, you didn't. That only happened when she went off script and dumped your tuchas in the gutter. Needless to say, Nieman was very shocked. I had only ever listened to him before. I had never, ever told him what I thought. It was amazing how fast those tears dried up and he started telling me how much I had hurt him and that he thought I was his friend and how could I treat him this way? Oh boo hoo, I thought. I accidentally ( or was it?) laughed at that and he was so mad, he hung up on me. Uh oh - was this the end of our beautiful relationship?

A year ago, even six months ago, treating him like that would have made me feel horribly guilty because I did consider him a friend. Other people (much wiser than me) had pointed out that he never seemed to be around when I needed a friend and only ever called when his life was completely a mess. Maybe it fed my ego in some way to have someone talk to me when his life was so down. I'm not like that - the worse my life gets, the less I talk about it. Or maybe (even worse) I felt somehow better about my life when he would call and I would hear how horrible his was. I hope that isn't true. I want to believe I truly do care about people outside myself.

After my lack of appropriate response to his agony, I really didn't think I would hear from Niemann again. It was a big surprise, then, when about six weeks later he called to 'catch up'. It was like the last conversation had never happened - he didn't mention his latest ex-girlfriend and I didn't ask. He actually even listened to me for about 5 minutes when I told him what was new in my life. Then, the drama started again. Niemann was getting laid off and he was furious with the company. Ok, that is a normal reaction. I was laid off last year and while I wasn't furious with the business decision, I was pretty damn angry that it happened at all. The difference between Niemann and me was that I KNEW that mine was only a business decision while I was fairly certain that with him, it was a way for the company to finally, legitimately get a difficult non-productive employee off the books. Give him a severance package and say auf wiedersehen.

Niemann's angst wasn't only that he was getting laid off. He was also upset with the company for perceived slights during his time there and had decided to sue over it. More drama to tell me all about. What he didn't know, though, is that I had reached my breaking point. I did it pretty quietly, but it still happened. I literally wanted to scream into the phone that he just needed to shut up. Just SHUT UP! That would have been fun and made me feel better for a time, but just like ice cream and sexy shoes, I had this stupid idea that I needed to deny myself the pleasure. Instead, I lied and told him I had a meeting to go to and I would get back to him later. Which I haven't done. Because in a past life, I was a cowering, belly groveling organism who hated to tell people they aren't wanted around. And I really don't want Niemann around because whatever else our relationship is, it sure isn't a friendship.

Niemann has called and texted a few times and I have either ignored the phone or texted him back to say I couldn't talk then. In my chickenhearted way, I know I am hoping he will just fade away and forget all about me. It bothers me that I made such a poor choice of a friend. Did I really believe that he just had a tough life and needed a loyal friend? Was it all a big ego trip for me? I honestly can't say for sure and that upsets me more than anything else. I do hope that the simple fact I am even asking myself these questions means that I really was just a ninny who was waiting for the good side of Niemann to show up more often than the bad side and that I did try in my own way to be a good friend. I think in this instance being an oblivious idiot with a hopeful heart is humiliating, but better than being Niemann.

When I turn 50, I want to party like its 1985 too

This last weekend I had the honor of attending a 50th birthday party for the woman who was my boss for an entire 3 1/2 months. This woman was the best boss I have ever had, and not only because we worked together for such a short time. Julie is just one of those people - intelligent, kind, curious about life, ambitious but not overly driven, and - most importantly - FUN. I knew any party she threw would be a blast.

In a few months, I will officially be closer to 40 than 30, which is just fine with me. Who cares about some silly little number of years I have spent taking up space on this planet? Age really is a state of mind, a concept that for me is validated every time I ride public transportation and see the infantile behavior that both MUNI operators and passengers exhibit. When I was invited to Julie's 50th birthday party, I was excited to go because I knew that it would be a celebration of her life so far, not a desperate attempt to convince everyone that 50 is the new 30. And THEN I found out that the party had a theme. And THEN I found out what it was - an 80s costume party. Gag me with a spoon.

My date to this party was my wonderful friend Mary. Mary is one of the few women on this planet that I can truly be a friend to and feel that friendship returned. If I don't speak to her for 3 weeks, she doesn't automatically think I am mad at her, that I hate her, and thus talk to everyone else behind my back about imagined insults. She is a straight shooter - she tells me exactly what she thinks in a way that doesn't make me feel attacked. I never feel like I am in some obscure competition with her over things that don't matter. Most importantly, when I hang out with Mary, I always truly enjoy myself. So if there was any chance of me having fun at this (now) ludicrous party, it was all going to be because of Dona Maria.

I love dressing up for almost anything except funerals and dates, which can sometimes feel like the same thing. The idea of going to a costume party always makes me happy, depending on what the theme is. The only things coming to mind about the 80s were how much I hated it when Billy Carney would call me Lysol (get it? Lisa/Lysol? He was truly a clever kid), how much I would laugh when Mr. Piatz threw erasers at kids sleeping in his math class, and how truly awful the fashion was. If you could even call it fashion. It was more like every bad idea regarding a person's appearance was crammed into 10 long years of visual ouch-ness. Mary, being Mary and generally much more positive about these sorts of things, seemed thrilled.

Ok, so if I was going to attend a party celebrating a friend's birthday with another good friend as my date, I was either going to have to adjust my attitude or just stay home. I don't try to be a party pooper, it just comes naturally sometimes. Mary's suggestion that we dress up as Milli Vanilli helped immensely. Unfortunately, I am not a talented lip syncher. I'm not a talented singer, either, but that would not be necessary for obvious reasons. And even though you can find all kinds of truly wonderful and bizarre things in San Francisco any day of the week, long dredlock wigs would be a challenge. Besides, I enjoy looking like a girl, not some hairy wannabe popstar.

By Friday afternoon, I was tired and grumpy and in no mood to try to find 80s togs to wear that wouldn't completely gross me out, but I had agreed to go shopping with Mary. We took a stinky, crammed bus up to Haight/Ashbury where all the best vintage stores are and started browsing our way up the street. I could tell you all sorts of interesting things that I saw and heard while in the Haight that night, but that would totally take me off on a tangent. Maybe another time.

One thing I will tell you is that for some reason, the 80s are now retro. I personally don't think I have lived long enough to have my childhood be labeled as retro, but obviously some fashionista does. ALL the trendy little shops along Haight Street had lots of 80s knock-offs, 80s inspired, and 80s refrence items in their windows. It was kind of creepy.

Eventually, we went into a store I usually associate with vintage Summer of Love and Disco clothes. Held Over is pretty famous for having the best quality vintage items from the 60s and 70s. I was skeptical that we would find anything newer than 1978, but boy was I wrong. They not only had several racks of honest to god real 1980s clothing, but they had it sorted out by the type of person who would have worn it - valley girl, preppy, long prom dresses, short prom dresses, rompers, beaded dresses that Angela Lansbury would have proudly worn on Murder, She Wrote. They even had Little House on the Prarie dresses - anyone feel like channeling Laura Ingalls Wilder? The best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) was a pair of parachute pants - I had deliberately forgotten how truly awful those things were.

As we started flipping through racks looking for things to try on, I was totally unprepared for the memories that came flooding back. That sounds really cliched, but seriously, that is what happened. Every single thing I saw reminded me of someone I knew, something I saw, something I wanted to own, to be, to look like when I was a kid verging on teenage-dom. I could not stop laughing at how horrible the fabrics were (everything seemed to be made from some flammable fake material), how crazy the colors were, and how truly unflattering some of the shapes were. One completely unflattering dress Mary tried on was classic valley girl with triangle shaped buttons running asymmetrically up the side (think civil war uniform). When she stepped out of the dressing room, the white bib front looked like a cloth diaper she had thrown on before she started burping babies. Yuck doesn't even begin to cover it.

I tried on a few dresses, but the one I chose is something that if I am truly honest, I would have loved when I was 14. It was classic 80s punky-rocker chick, very Madonna and Cyndi Lauper-ish. It was also hideously ugly, but who cares - I was too busy channeling my inner teenager. Wearing a really ugly dress in public was something that I loved when I was a rebellious teen. Half a life later, I was doing it again.

Mary and I spent hours flipping through racks, laughing at truly bad items, making fun of absolutely everything, and having a total blast getting all the details of our costumes just right. It wasn't such a bad way to spend a Friday night.

The next night was Julie's party. Mary went to a salon to get her hair as big as possible and then came over to my apartment to get dressed. I was bowled over by the poodle on her head - the hairdresser had crimped her hair all over, then used half a can of hairspray on it and put a little ponytail on top in a scrunchie. She even had her bangs up in a 'rooster'. Classic 80s all the way. Getting ready was just like highschool - we were sharing makeup, fashion ideas, stuff, and laughing our asses off as we got ready to go out for the night.

The party was at the Log Cabin in the Presidio, always a fun place to be. When we walked in, I was shocked and very embarrassed - hardly ANYONE dressed up. We just stood in the doorway wondering if we had somehow crashed a completely different party. It wouldn't be the first time in my life that I had misinterpreted something and gone completely overboard in the wrong direction in as public a way as possible. That feeling of awkwardness coming over me was unfortunately one of the most memorable parts of my life in the 80s. I felt like a cliche - the girl trying so hard to fit in who is clearly not one of the group. Ugh doesn't even begin to cover it.

Someone grabbed my shoulder and hugged me really hard, screaming 'oh my god you look great' in my ear. It was Julie, and she was totally glammed out as Joan Jett - this woman was clearly setting the tone for her own party. She was obviously thrilled that Mary and I had gone all out with our costumes and made me spin around a few times so she could get a good look at all the details. I really had it goin' on - spiky hair with a big hot pink bow, bright makeup, Cyndi Lauper dress, lace gloves, loads of jewelry including huge white earrings and a rosary (I know, I will go to hell some day for using my first communion rosary like that. Add it to the list of all the other things sending me to hell), hot pink cut off lace tights, Doc Martens. Mary was totally fabulous with her short dress, pink lace tights, high-heeled black booties, and really big hair.

It was obvious that Julie was thrilled we had really gone all out for her party, which helped that panicky, oh god I am such a dork AGAIN feeling start to go away. Life became even better when she pointed out the open bar. One of the best parts of being an adult - I don't have to pay an obliging grownup to buy me something alcoholic and then hide it in the way too obvious brown paper bag. The years of consuming 40s of Old English, St. Pauli's, or even Bartles and James are long over. After we got drinks and started talking to other people, it became pretty clear that Mary and I were part of the small cool kid club at the party.

I have never in my life been one of the cool kids. Even as an adult I have to work extra hard to fit in. Part of the problem is that I don't understand why some people are cool and others are not. The rest of the problem is that in general, I just don't care. That doesn't mean that there haven't been times when I wanted to be part of the in crowd, just like nerdy Brian in the Breakfast Club asking if the cool kids stuck in detention with him will ignore him on Monday morning. I am still enough of a dork/nerd/geek to want to be part of the popular kids group now and then and Saturday night I was one of the coolest people at the party. All because Mary and I took the idea of an 80s costume party as literally as possible and channelled our inner Molly Ringwalds instead of poor dorky Brian.



The party was great. It was obvious that Julie is a much loved and respected woman for so many reasons. She also set the tone by going flat out in enjoying herself, even going so far as to take part in a skit of several of her favorite songs. In one part, she was dressed up like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz - I would love to know the backstory on that one.



The music was fabulous. Think of an 80s artist who had at least one song with a dance beat and you would have heard it that night. For all my kvetching about how awful the 80s were for fashion, when it came to music, that decade was as good as any other. I had forgotten how many truly great bands thrived in the 80s and I knew the words to every single song played. And I sang my little atonal heart out, not that anyone could hear. They were all singing too.



I also danced my tuchas off. Most of my friends these days would agree when I say I am not a dancer. The truth is, I don't usually boogie down with them unless they drag me out onto a dance floor. I don't really know why that is. If you had asked me last week, I would have said it is because I am such a complete klutz that I am afraid of hurting innocent bystanders or embarrassing myself with a clumsy, maiming dance move. But when I was out on the dance floor at this party shaking my thing and hopping around like a demented pre-mosh pit pogo stick, I remembered how much I had really, truly LOVED dancing when I was a teenager. I have so many great memories of dancing with my best friend Mike Reinsch (I mostly sort of orbited around him while he was doing his own thing) or watching Candi Baldwin recreating every Madonna video step for step at school dances. Even the jocks were fun to watch - they all danced by jerking their heads around, like demented chickens who were always on the off beat. By the end of the night, I was tired, sweaty, and extremely happy.



It is interesting how memory can play tricks on you if enough time goes by. My perspective on the 80s was always tied up in how bad everyone looked - and it is true that there was a lot of really awful fashion. But no era is ever exemplified by just one thing, and that is definitely true of the decade where I spent most of my childhood. This party not only gave me an opportunity to help a really awesome woman celebrate how happy she was to be turning 50. It also in a cliched, sappy, Hollywood way gave me back some things I had forgotten along the way in life. I really did love The A-Team, I was kookoo for Cocoa Puffs and Count Chocula cereal, I wore my knee-high rainbow striped gym socks with pride, and I always had a spare can of AquaNet in my bag so I could maintain my big hair. I knew all the lyrics to every Madonna song, had watched Goonies, Ghostbusters, and Raiders of the Lost Ark hundreds of times, and had the predictable crush on Rob Lowe. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.



I heard a rumor that a bar in my neighborhood hosts an 80s night on the weekends. I can't wait to get my gear on and go.

2 Super Hot Chicks

Kissing Michael Jackson

Gotta love the bow

The infamous poodle