Lights, Camera, …

He called it a rock star filter. To me, it just looked cool. Pics from the socializing going on after the workshop. Thanks, Merlin.

‘Til Death Do Us Part

I expected a small adobe brick building in a field somewhere. They were getting married in a Mission and for some reason that conjured rural images in my mind.

We parked on a city street, at a meter, and walked through a bustling crowd. “Where are we going?” I repeatedly asked. They pointed. “Right there. The white building.” Said building was sandwiched between others, not even a hint of a lawn surrounding it. As we neared, I heard amplified noises. The others, while not surprised about he location, were surprised by the sounds growing louder and louder as we approached the church.

Strains of loud Christian rock assaulted our ears as we rounded the corner. I turned to Em. “Diane doesn’t seem like the type to hire a band to greet guests.”

As we rounded the corner, the music grew louder and we were astonished to witness a festival, a “Freedom Fair” taking place in the courtyard and on the front steps of the church. The drummer hammered a steady beat with his eyes closed, head turned towards the sky. Several musicians, men and women, strummed electric guitars. A singer belted out words praising her Lord. People gathered around, singing, clapping, observing, praying.

The only thought running through my head was, Are we going to be able to hear the ceremony? We entered the Mission yet the sound didn’t diminish. I had a flashback to my brother’s wedding, almost 20 years ago, in the small town of North Wilkesboro, North Carolina. The church happened to be adjacent to a race car track. The wedding happened to be on the day of a major race.

“Do you, Greg, VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…… take VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…”

It was one of those moments during my life when I knew that it was completely inappropriate to laugh, yet I couldn’t ignore the irony of the situation. Being sixteen probably didn’t help either.

Thankfully, on Saturday, the band took a break moments before the wedding began. Solemnness was restored as Pachelbel’s Canon in D rang through the church. Two beaming mothers were escorted to their seats, followed by the bride, elegantly radiant as she sashayed down the aisle.

Today’s Special

The specials board read like the sushi chef’s own personal ad (roll names in bold, in the order presented):

Super Super S?xy sushi chef iso a Super Hot Hot Hot female. Size doesn’t matter, will consider any XX. Come be my Very, Very Sapporo Super No 1 gal (or maybe No 2) for this Sapporo SAM. I will be your Super Star, giving you a little Hawaiian Poke, making you scream Oh My God! I’m a man of many tastes – let’s share a Mexican Burrito and be Happy Together. Or perhaps you are a Tuna Lover? Let me take you to Paradise where we’ll feast on Fatty Toro then enjoy Super Super S?x all night long. But first, my dear, you must get your Energy Up, so please accept my specialty – a Spider, Unagi, and Oyster roll to put you, and only you, in the mood.

Spotted on the Street

A lilac bulldozer, in front of my house. Just didn’t seem like an appropriate color for an instrument of destruction.

Tongue In Cheek

3 Racy Men’s Magazines Banned by Wal-Mart

“The Timothy Plan, a mutual funds management firm that invests in companies based in part on whether the companies share its values, has been pressing Wal-Mart to pull women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan and Glamour from checkout lanes and put them back into the magazine rack. Arthur Ally, president of the Timothy Plan, said that he saw magazines like Maxim and FHM as ‘a level worse.’”

“It is soft-core pornography,” he said. “It’s very addictive and leads to harder stuff.”

Cycles

I was in that state, drifting between total unconsciousness and ever so slight cognizance when I heard it. A muffled, yet loud, thump. My eyes struggled to open. I listened more carefully. No sounds whatsoever met my listening ears. For some reason, this led me to believe that I was being robbed.

As quietly, as carefully as possible, I threw back the reassuring weight of my down comforter. First one tiptoe then the other I placed on the chilly floor. I stood perfectly still for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the black of the room. I peeked into the hallway. My eyes did not meet another’s. The front door did not appear to be ajar. I pondered. There wasn’t another entrance to my studio apartment. I tiptoed around my bed to my closet. Maybe the burglar entered through the window in the closet.

I placed my ear to the door of the closet. I heard noises. Not a barrage of loudness, but quiet, surreptitious sounds. I flung open the closet door.

The noises were indeed coming from my closet. All of my clothes, ever so gracefully, were sliding from their proper place on the closet rod. The rod had broken freeeeeeeeeeeeeeee from its position on the wall and hangers upon hangers danced across the floor. I had only enough energy to push the bodiless dresses, skirts, and pants back into the closet with a poke of my toe before returning to bed. A sense of deja vu shrouded me.

This morning I remembered. Not quite a year ago, the same thing, more or less. In Korea. First the light bulb, then the closet. Maybe I should read my archives to see what is going to happen to me next.

Life Amongst the Cubes

I had an Office Space moment today. I sat in my cube, when suddenly my nose tickled. I sniffed, then let out a succession of tiny sneezes. From the next row came a pinched voice and in a sing song manner I heard, “Are we allergic to work over there?”

I was tempted to reply to this unknown entity, “No, and we don’t have a case of the Mondays either.”

But I didn’t.

He Said, She Said

Since I’ve moved back to San Francisco, I haven’t blogged as much. Not because life’s not interesting, but because too many of the characters know each other. I can’t write with the same anonymity that I did while in Korea. I don’t mind exposing my own misadventures, but feel somewhat of a traitor when exposing those of unsuspecting friends. Emily sent me this link today. Couldn’t have said it better myself.

The Biggest Block Party

Bay to Breakers is an annual 12K race, starting downtown (bay) weaving through San Francisco to the beach (breakers). This year the organizers expected over 70,000 registered runners. That’s a lot of people.

We arrived downtown a little after 7:30 am and slowly inched our way as close to the start line as possible. I held onto Laurie’s coat so that we wouldn’t get separated in the throngs of people. As we nudged forward into the crowd, I hesitantly asked, “Should we have a contingency plan in case we get separated? Or should we not have a plan to insure we don’t get separated?” We decided on the latter. We reached the point of absolute saturation, the point past no more movement was possible, though we were still blocks away from the start line. We settled in, waiting for the official gun to signal the start of the race. We admired the ingenuity of our fellow runners. See, this isn’t a normal foot race. It’s one in which there is also an official costume contest, and the costumes range the gamut from mild to outrageous. And for some odd reason, many runners also choose to run in the nude (mostly those that, in the interest of those around them, really should have something covering their bodies).

We didn’t hear the pop of the starting gun, but we did hear the tremendous wave of cheers and witnessed tortillas flying everywhere. The race’s beginning is traditionally marked by the tossing of tortillas. I had always thought of flour tortillas as being the “light” tortillas, but when one thumps you in the head its potential as a weapon hits you full force.

Even though the race had begun, we barely moved, sandwiched in between a father holding his 18 month old daughter to our left, a Campbell’s soup can behind us, and Little Red Riding Hood to our right. We shuffled with teeny tiny baby steps, willing the crowd to move, aching to stretch our legs and run. Twelve minutes later we actually passed the start line. The tv crews were filming; people lined the streets to watch. Cheers surrounded us. Less than a mile into the run, we heard the loud strains of the first rock and roll band along the route, the music adding to the festive atmosphere.

We wove our way in between walkers, runners, and baby strollers, trying to carve a path. We jogged around the massive floats people constructed to carry their kegs. In addition to the costumes and the nudists, there is also a lot of drinking in this race. In true San Francisco tradition – anything goes. We passed the fire station on Howard street, where the firemen gathered outside to watch the craziness that ensued. One of the kegger groups stopped in front of those fine, polished, uniformed men, offered a cheer to the SFFD, then chanted, “Fireman chug! Fireman chug!” When the firemen wouldn’t imbibe (though they did seem amused by the offer), the group did so for them, then continued the race.

As we rounded the corner onto Hayes Street, we were met by the shoal of 6 foot tall salmon, fighting their way against the crowd, running towards the start line. Runners laughed and pointed, then continued struggling up the one massive hill of the race. Both individuals and community groups set up tables along the way, passing out water, Gatorade, and lemonade to parched runners. As we ran by people of all ages cheered. “You can do it!” “Good job!” “Keep it up, runners!” Some friendly folks hooked up their garden hoses and misted us with water as we trudged along.

But all turned it into an occasion to celebrate. House parties were in abundance. Each group was completely entranced by the other. Non-runners gathered onto stoops and porches, watching the runners, relishing the creativity of the costumes; the runners slowed their pace a bit to check out the dancing and socializing going on at the parties. All waved to each other.

As we neared Golden Gate Park, almost the halfway point, we were met by another group running towards us, against the flow of traffic. Curious, I stared. We had already passed the famous salmon running upstream. Who could this be? I first noticed the long baguettes some were carrying, then the berets and the handlebar moustaches pasted on crookedly. Then I espied the words on the huge banner several of them were carrying, “No one runs like the French army!” I poked Laurie and we laughed, careful not to invoke side stitches as we ran along, our pace not determined by ourselves, but by the thousands of feet surrounding us, pounding the asphalt of Fell Street.

Once in the park, we saw the “Axes of Evil,” a group outfitted in all black, carrying rough medieval axes constructed of cardboard. We were surrounded by the land sharks with multi-colored giant fins atop their heads. We felt compassion for the pink lingeried group of men and women with the message, “Just another pink-slipped teacher.” We laughed at the older man mimicking the yuppies running while talking on their cell phones, holding a banana to his ear and shouting at someone across the way, “I can’t hear you! What was that? I can’t hear you…”

We crossed the finish line at Ocean Beach. We laughed, sprayed by the salty mist of the ocean yet warmed by the unusual rays that didn’t have to battle a dense fog to reach us. I’m not even sure of our time. It didn’t matter. I had regained something even better – the camaraderie conjured by the runners and the spectators, the epitome of what I miss every time I’m not here, the magic of San Francisco.

Long Time, No Bowl

It’s been quite a while since I set foot in a bowling alley. Tonight I went not so much for the bowling experience as for the camaraderie and fellowship for a good friend’s birthday.

For those not familiar with a bowling alley, each lane is long and narrow. At one end are the pins (10 of them). At the other end is the line which marks the beginning of the lane. And about one third of the way down the lane are little arrows, in an inverted “V” formation, guidelines used to aim the heavy cannon of a ball meant to slide effortlessly from your hand. The lane itself is very, very slick, layer upon layer of wax, to make that heavy cannon of a ball glide smoothly down the lane before careening into the pins awaiting at the end.

Did I mention it’s been a while since I’ve been bowling?

I saw the inverted “V” and somehow assumed that was the “foul” line, the line which one’s toes had to avoid in order to have a fair bowl. So with gusto, I ran down the lane, arm held back, eyes on that front pin, then with great effort released the ball, sent it hurdling, kerplunking, everything but gliding, down the lane. The force with which I released the ball, combined with the layers of wax on the floor below me, conspired to send me hurtling into the air, landing with a soft thud on my rear end at the exact moment my ball made contact with one, and only one, pin at the opposite end of the lane. It took a moment for me to realize what had happened. I tried to stand, to walk back to the safety of my teammates. Alas, it was not meant to be. Each time I put my foot down to stand, it slipped from under me. Mortified, I did the only movement I could muster, a crab walk back to the end of the lane.

As I stood up and turned around, I was met by incredulous stares from my 4 teammates followed by bursts of uncontrollable laughter. As I picked up the ball to complete my frame, one of the gals sidled up to me. “You really don’t want to cross that line.”

Better advice never heeded.