The Oath of Loyalty on Celluloid

The oath of loyalty on celluloid.

This, muttered by the man to the left of me and a seat away on the bus this morning. The words grab my attention and I look over at him and examine his rough hands, dirt under his nails. He has a bunch of bags and is reading the paper and chuckling. He smells faintly of sweat and urine.

On a workhorse route like the 38 Geary, he would be a common sight. But on the 1AX California Express, he is an anamoly. This express route caters to the suit and tie crowd, and services the tonier parts of the Richmond District and Lake Street Corridor.

I was going to take my scooter to work this morning, but was running late and was a little too tired. I'm new to riding, so I'm meticulous and a bit superstitious about everything that concerns my Vespa. If I'm foggy-headed, if I know I need to rush, I don't ride. This morning I weighed my options to the point that I made myself even later, so the bus it was.

Once I was on board and found myself close to this man, I started to regret that choice. San Francisco has hardened me. That sounds laughable- this is not a hard city. Not like New York or Philly, I imagine. But it's made me often intolerant when it comes to homelessness. I know this man has a right to be here (assuming he paid his fare), but I will admit, I hate riding the bus and being trapped with someone whose personality is boderline and who smells. That may sound wrong, that may sound elitist. I wrestle with my conscience that tells me to be empathetic and charitable, and my feelings of discomfort and slight fear. There have just been too many stories recently about transients stabbing people on Muni.

We can buy Planned Parenthood. Moxie!

The man continues to read the paper and mutter disconnected phrases. Next to me, two passengers, a man and a woman who are good friends (or at least bus buddies) talk nonstop about their kids, little league, and recent travels to Hawaii, as they do every time they are on the bus. The lyrics to Beck's Sexx Laws cycle through the back of my mind. They've been visiting me on and off since my spin instructor played the song in class last week. I stare at my hands for a while and wish the traffic wasn't so heavy.

Once, I road the 38 Geary to work, and there was a man on the bus that started to say inscrutable things in a mystical, wise voice. Phrases like, "He knows that you will be there when Molly signs the tablet," etc. Phsyically, he was a cross between Pete Postlethwaite and the giant from the Roadhouse dream sequence in Twin Peaks. And maybe I had been listening to too much of Stephen King's The Dark Tower audiobook at the time, but I was convinced that this man, in another era, would have been a soothsayer, or a proverbial wise man on a hilltop. I nicknamed him "The Riddler" and promptly told my friend, Dave, to keep an eye out for him, as we've been nicknaming enigmatic denizens of our towns since college days.

SSSsssssss!

The man on the 1AX starts spraying his head with what I think is spray deodorant. It draws me swiftly back to my junior high locker room, where the girls had all simultaneously embraced Secret Powder Fresh Scent in an environmentally destructive aerosol. The woman to my left covers her nose, and I stifle a sneeze.

I wondered about this man. He was talking a lot of nonsense, but it was pithy nonsense. He, like The Riddler, are different from the aggressive gutter punks that make me avoid Upper Haight, or the downtown lungers strung out on crack. With a prescription, with a different decision made years ago, or perhaps without a job layoff... I wondered who he could be. He sounded smart, and his face revealed a faint semblance of normalcy beneath the veneer of crazy. As I said, I am no homeless advocate, but I wish there was a solution. There probably never will be, 100%. So I don't know if this post was meant to be a mini-treatise on the state of homelessness in San Francisco, or has just become a snapshot of my rather ordinary morning.

Cityscape by Twilight

Taken as I left work at 6:30. I've always been enchanted by the glassy building in the background. My iPhone does not do it justice- it has this way of looking liquid, reflecting the sky and blending perfectly with it so that it disappears. It always looks ethereal at twilight. Someday, I need to get this shot with a real camera.

Optimism

Thinking big. This is a scooter I saw in the parking garage at the Whole Foods on California ST. I like the owner's sense of humor, and the fact that we all love our two-wheeled forms of locomotion, no matter that it's not a pretty face.

Vernalis

I'm home sick for the second day in a row, keeping good company with British drama on the TV and cats on the couch. And although the recent rains are telling me that we are still in the throes of winter, my mind can't help turning to thoughts of spring. Maybe it's just a hint of something on the breeze, or that feeling of renewal as you turn the corner and begin leaving a bad cold behind you. Whatever it is, it has me looking forward and thinking about all the things I want to do in the coming months, almost like belated new year's resolutions.

One thing I've neglected and desperately want to revive is my blogging. My posts have been spotty at best, and though I don't pretend that I'll ever be a daily blogger that will talk about things that are of immense interest to scores of followers, I at least want it to be a regular thing. Once a week would be enough. Two or three times a week would be awesome.

As if on cue, my husband walks in the door after a run, with a half-bloomed cherry blossom branch he's snapped off somewhere. An early spring. Renewal. I must be onto something.

The day Muni took the black pill

Think Muni and the mind conjures many things. A clever logo. The 8:35 express that wasn't there. Nate Jones and his ilk. For me, it's a fairly dependable conveyance to work. It is also frequently nausea-inducing, either because of its lingering scent of urine, or for the lurching driving style of its operators. But I admittedly have a delicate constitution.

The 14 Mission almost took off our car's passenger side mirror once. Emboldened by their hulking shells of metal, Muni operators think nothing of crowding you out on the City's narrow streets.

But common grievances aside, the most unheard of thing happened on my commute not too long ago. The 1 California AX Express ran out of gas. And it didn't come to a fizzling halt just anywhere- the bus decided to quit in front of the driveway of the King-American Ambulance Company on Bush Street. Now we were in a pickle.

Traffic on Bush Street is hectic to say the least. It can be like a three lane freeway, with its timed lights and aggressive commuters hurtling towards downtown. The bus driver wouldn't let us out at first for safety reasons, and then one by one the EMTs started coming out of the ambulance company, scratching their heads in awe.

EMT: "Uh, you're going to have to move that bus. We're a 911 responding ambulance center."

Muni Operator: "Well, I can't. I'm out of gas. I've called for help, but it might take a while."

Those of us on board all wondered how a City bus can run out of gas? Don't they check these things? Apparently not. Our driver, who I must state is one of the nicest guys out there, simply said, "Call Muni" when confronted with our questions.

We sat for a while, uneasy as we waited for the fateful wail of sirens that would alert us to the fact a trapped ambulance would be unable to respond to a life-or-death emergency. Thankfully that never happened. The EMTs had started gathering with the plan to push the bus and all of us in it, but then someone managed to open up a secondary driveway.

Eventually the driver let us off and we stood around waiting for a new bus to pick us up, laughing easily in the new found camaraderie the morning had given us. Once we were finally headed downtown, we passed yet another Muni bus being towed. It was like a Muni bus suicide pact. It made for the most interesting commute I've had in a while.

Waiting for a ride on Bush Street (disabled bus in background)

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