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.