Is it possible to breathe without smelling?

It was an experiment that I tried to test tonight during a cab ride home, and I can report that it failed. Tonight I endured the smelliest cab in the world. So smelly that I was gagging as I clutched the handrail, climbing the stairs to my front door. So smelly that I remained nauseated for about 30 minutes after getting home. So smelly that I had to take an immediate shower with the most heavily scented bath products I could find. So smelly that I am getting the coat I was wearing dry cleaned.

I think this smelly cab ride, along with one I took this morning, are somehow punishment for my want of thrift. Recalling the first part of my day... I dropped off my car at the Honda Service Center. Running late as usual, I grabbed a cab instead of waiting for the N- Judah. The trip seemed to go well until the cab driver started to make a lot of pointless turns downtown, basically circling around City Hall. He eventually found his way to Market Street, turned down New Montgomery, and dropped me off in front of the Starbucks across the street from my office. I handed him $20 and asked for change.

"No change."

"What?"

"No change. I only have $50 bill."

"Uh-okay. I'll pay with my debit card."

"No machine. I can't take credit card. You go inside Starbucks. Buy coffee."

I went in. The line was outrageously long. Frustrated, I gave up and ultimately let this joker keep a $4 tip.

I already thought at that point I was being punished for my extravagance, yet after work, driven by hunger and weariness, I once again opted for a cab. This almost proved to be my undoing. I jumped in the first cab in line outside the Palace Hotel, and immediately realized I had entered an alternate hell.

The first odor that hit me was the acrid smell of urine. I patted down the back seat to make sure it was actually dry. I looked at the cab driver, an unkempt man with long, greasy white hair and beard, and coke-bottle glasses. Could it be him? I automatically told him where I needed to go, and it was too late to get out as the cab started to drive.

As my nose adjusted to the urine smell, other scents, primarily feet, musk, and sweat, began to permeate the air. It was almost as bad as the smelliest Muni train I was ever on, but worse in a way because it was more personal. In this confined space, the stench wrapped its reeking arms around me and held fast. If the odor had been visible, I imagined its color to be dark yellow.

I had recently watched HBO's Grey Gardens, which in parts depicts Jackie O's cousins Big and Little Edie Bouvier Beale living in the squalor of a decaying East Hampton mansion. They live among feral cats and racoons, with a five foot tall pile of trash amassing in their kitchen. I imagine that is what the cab driver's own dwelling must be like. I imagine that's exactly what it must smell like.

I took short, shallow breaths for the next 20 minutes. I tried yawning with my mouth over my hand to get more oxygen. I prayed for green lights all the way home. I stifled a gag just blocks away from my house. Hang on. Just please hang on, I told myself.

And then more money gone. Sixteen dollars for the worst cab experience of my life. I need to get my priorities straight and soon.

image from http://www.wilson-graf.com/w/?p=23156

Hello Oakland! I shook hands with Derek Smalls

Tonight I enjoyed a rare treat- Spinal Tap Unwigged & Unplugged at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland. I've been a fan of the mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap since I first saw it my freshman year in college- so much a fan that I can recite every memorable line and song lyric from the film.

So you can bet I was thrilled to see Christoper Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer (Nigel Tufnel, David St. Hubbins, and Derek Smalls, respectively) rock out my favorite tunes from Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind, all unplugged and unique adaptations. The unplugged versions of their songs showcased just how talented these guys are as musicians, while their harmonizing vocals stood out even more in the absence of screaming electric guitars.

What made the evening even more special was that my friends- John and Lou's- dad, who grew up with Harry Shearer, managed to swing backstage passes. Going backstage truly was like a scene from the film- we were ushered into a holding area where a spacey woman with an English accent distractedly shook our hands and introduced herself:

"It's quite full back there yet, we'll take you back in a second... okay, we can take you now."

She summoned us forward into a narrow, crowded room, where Guest, McKean, and Shearer were milling around. The actor who played Viv Savage was also there- I overheard he lives in San Francisco.

We hovered awkwardly at the back of the room until the crowd cleared a little, and shuffled over to Harry Shearer. John and Lou's dad chatted with Shearer and we all introduced ourselves and grinned and shook hands. I tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but predictably the memory was full. We were suddenly interrupted by a tall man in a sequin-trimmed suit, who extended a hand out to Shearer, at which point he turned to all of us and said, "Thank you so much for coming." It was our cue that our visit had come to a close.

Notably missing from the VIP room backstage: hors d'oeuvres in the form of pimento-less olives and cold cuts with oversized bread, hard alcohol, cocaine, women in tight, shiny pants, wafting cigarette smoke.

On our way out, we actually got lost backstage trying to find the lobby. It was a very Hello Cleveland moment and a perfect ending to our evening.

My friend Matt, me, and the Gorenfelds
in front of the Paramount Theatre

Simulacram iv: Then and Now

I was thrilled to see an article in today's San Francisco Chronicle, releasing photos taken by United Railroads photographer John Henry Mentz, in the aftermath of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.

Many of these photos have never been published, and offer us a fascinating glimpse of our City in the wake of the disaster. Tomorrow marks the quake's 103rd anniversary.

Sutter Street between Steiner and Pierce in 1906 (at top) and

present day (at bottom)

Union Street between Steiner and Pierce in 1906 (at top) and
present day (at bottom)

DIY Fungi

My husband, Jason, recently brought home a mushroom log from the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market. When he first showed it to me, I thought it was some nasty-looking panettone, or some other sweet euro-bread that I don't like.

It's actually a Mushroom Mini Farm, and is sold by Far West Fungi

out of Moss Landing. Ours is a shiitake mini farm. This thing is really cool. You punch a few holes in it, keep it in a plastic bag, and in a few days you have a mushroom harvest! It's like a science project watching the mushrooms grow, seemingly getting larger hour-by-hour. Our mini farm should last 4-5 months and produce 3-4 crops.

We harvested our first crop last night and enjoyed shiitake mushrooms with garlic, sauteed in butter and served over whole wheat fettucine. Yum.

Curious cats and shiitake log

The War Dead

On Sunday cameras were permitted to cover the arrival at Dover Air Force Base of a flag-draped coffin bearing the remains of Air Force Staff Sergeant Phillip Myers. It was the first time in 18 years that the media has been able to document the solemn arrival ceremony of the U.S. war dead, now that the ban first set by former President George H.W. Bush has been relaxed by the Obama administration.

I listened to a report detailing this ceremony on NPR today. It involves transferring the soldier's coffin from the cargo plane to a military mortuary van.

"We march up in a formation — the seven of us — two columns of three and one behind, calling the cadence — left, right, left, right," (one) soldier says. "There's no music … even the commands we call out — they're not loud."

Another soldier discussed how he couldn't permit himself to show too much emotion, because he didn't think that's what the fallen soldier would want. Several of the soldiers interviewed wondered about who it was inside the coffin- were they young or old, a man or a woman, a private or an officer?

There are people on both sides of the argument about media coverage. Some feel that it invades the privacy of grieving families, while others maintain that a lack of coverage hides the human cost of our wars.

I am all at once drawn to and repelled by such accounts of tragedy and sorrow. Modern culture is increasingly voyeuristic, and I do admit I click on all the worst news stories each morning when I start up my computer- sometimes regretting my choice. I read the articles' comments from posters, admonishing the media for only reporting the grim news stories. Yet we are all reading them.

My husband doesn't like my morbid curiosity and penchant for true crime stories, while I don't like the ultra-violent cable shows he enjoys, which, he points out, are just fiction. I'm not sure what that says about me. Am I a realist? A pragmatist?

I am certainly not as pragmatic as my father. He once told me the story about how he was on a flight from Vietnam to the Philippines during Vietnam war time. He was traveling in a cargo plane, and, overcome with tiredness, he lay down on one of the coffins there. "God, dad, didn't that bother you?" I questioned him, disturbed by the thought. He replied that it didn't at all, there was no other place to lay. He is a hard-boiled stoic, to a fault. And while I don't like to shelter myself from the truth, I do think that I possess a sensitivity that meets ignorant bliss halfway.

The Long Way Home

Path of Rejuvenation

I've lately been fond of leaving work and taking a longer route home- one that follows The Embarcadero, to Bay Street, through The Marina along Crissy Field, and then onto Lincoln Boulevard as it winds through the Presidio and eventually out to 25th Avenue.

The views offered from the bluffs along Lincoln, overlooking Baker Beach, are breathtaking. I love slowly winding down this stretch of Lincoln, one eye on the road and one eye gazing out over the dusky, shimmering Pacific. It's the perfect ending that sets the tone for a restful evening. It's like hitting a reset button that erases the daily rubble we create.

View at dusk from Lincoln Boulevard overlooking Baker Beach

I must confess I drive this route. I try to not make a habit of driving to work, but sometimes it's a necessity- if I need my car for something after work, or if I am going to be excessively late in the morning. But The Long Way Home gets addictive. I really should try it by bike, as my friends Jake and Greg do.

The Phantom Trailers

Last Thursday I took The Long Way. I left work at 7:00, and by the time I reached the Presidio it was dusk. Driving on Lincoln, I was in the more forested area, just after Merchant Street. In the fading light, I came upon men standing along the edges of the road, and what must have been about 50 trailers. Were they filming a movie? Was it some sort of convention? Was it a mirage?

The next day, they were gone. Okay, so that's not so spectacular, but I like to imagine it was some twilight vision and they were never really there. Maybe that idea would be more plausible if I had seen wagons and men on horseback in 19th century dress, instead of modern-day trailers and guys in T shirts and baseball caps... but one can fantasize.

The one thing I am still waiting (and more likely) to see during my crepuscular ambling through the Presidio is a coyote.

photo from http://www.flickr.com/photos/schuberts/349047938/