On my way to the Hayward BART I passed a small park. A group gathered, obviously part of a group activity. Frisbee? Flag football? Hackey sack?

As I got closer I noticed all were clad in black, head to toe. Not so unusual. Several had formed a semi-circle around a woman in the center. I craned my head. She was holding a whip, high above her head, then with a flick of her wrist, “CRACK!”

As I passed I heard her saying, “It’s all in the snap of the wrist. Now who wants to be the first to try?”

Yay!

A soon to be college grad interviewing for an entry level position was telling me about a school project in which he had to study a failing brand and make recommendations to turn it around. I inquired about the brand – which had he chosen?

“Starters.”

I thought for a moment. “Starters? I’m not familiar with that brand. What is it?”

Enthusiastically he answered, “It’s an athletic brand. It’s pretty popular among the college set. I wouldn’t expect someone from your generation to know what it is.”

Ouch.

At the last minute we decided to go to the Fillmore to see Big Head Todd and The Monsters. Much to our surprise, we arrived to a sold out show. As ticket-holders wandered past, we queried, “Extra ticket? Friend bail?” all to no avail.

Emily headed to the box office; I headed to the scalper’s corner; the other two simply watched.

At the box office:
Emily: Are you going to release any extra tickets?
Box Office Girl: No.
E: What about after the show starts? Will you release extra tickets then?
BOG: No.
E: Is there any chance you may release tickets?
BOG: No.
E: Should I check back later, just in case?
BOG: NO.

At scalper’s corner:
Me: What are you selling those for? (craning my neck as I speak to the 6 foot 7 massive block of a scalper)
Scalper Man: Fifty dollars.
Me: For one ticket? (incredulous) Face value is $25.
SM: Yep.
Me: I’m talking about tickets to tonight’s show. Big Head Todd. And the Monsters. They’re a band from Boulder, for god’s sake.
SM: Fifty dollars.
Me: Did you know that according to California law, you’re not allowed to resell tickets for more than face value.
SM: Then try the box office, sweetie.

Emily and I reconvened, the other two laughing at our attempts. Emily continued to query passers by. I decided to try the scalpers again.

Me: Okay. So let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that the opening band plays for an hour.
SM: (silence, gazing into the distance)
Me: That would put Big Head Todd and his Monsters on at, say, 9:15, maybe 9:30.
SM: (still silent)
Me: So, hypothetically speaking, if you still had those tickets in your hand at 10:00, what would you sell them for?
SM: (still not looking at me) Fifty dollars.

I sighed with disgust and started walking back to our group. On the way there I noticed a guy with a Fillmore ski cap on, just hanging. I smiled. He gave me the nod. “They giving you any problem?” as he nodded towards the scalpers. “No. They’re just trying to sell the tickets for $50. That’s ridiculous. Can they do that? Who are you?”

“Troy. I work for the Fillmore. I’m kind of a scalper police. I make sure they’re, you know, doing right.”

Emily joined us. “This is ridiculous. This is Big Head Todd. I stood in line for Prince, the line wrapped around the block, and I was able to buy tickets for FACE VALUE. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to do the same for Big Head Todd.” And she continued to query the ticket holders. “Friend sick? Extra ticket? Thanks…”

Troy watched us, amused. He walked away, he talked to the scalpers, he went to the box office, he eventually came back. Speaking to no one in particular he said, “Follow me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t smile. And don’t say thank you.”

Emily led the way, with me, Tricia, and Bryan close behind. Troy whispered something to the bouncer. We were whisked in, hands stamped, and on the floor of the Fillmore, ready to rock out. For less than face value.

There we were, four women rehashing the weekend’s events over Sunday morning Bloody Marys.

Tricia began, “Lent was telling me…”

I cut in, “Did you just say his name was Lent? Like the time before Easter? What kind of name is that? Did his parents name him that or did he choose it?”

Emily smugly offered, “He could have given it up for Lent.”

Ba da bum.

…the sign said. I pondered. When would this ever be correct? Ten of your cent’s? No. The ‘your’ is already possessive. Ten cent’s copies? Possibly. If you’re talking about copies belonging to someone name Ten cent, but then it would be Ten Cent. These are the things that go through my mind when I see a punctuation malfunction. How can I make it right?

The petite, perky blond nudged her way up to the bar. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she nasaly whined. The bartender glanced her way. “Could we, like, you know, change this music?” The bartender disdainfully answered, “No,” and continued pouring drinks. As the petite blond poutedly left, the bartender turned to me. “How would she like it if I asked, ‘Could we, like, change the clientele?’”

Ring. Ring.

“How about dinner on Thursday?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got other plans.”
“A raincheck?” he continued.

The dilemma. Do I tell him I have other plans for every date he suggests and hope he gets tired of asking – the rather passive approach to ending a non-relationship, or do I directly tell him not to call anymore? I choose the latter.

I clear my throat. “Well. No. I don’t want to go out again. Thanks, though.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. The last time we went out I felt uncomfortable and I’d rather not go out again.”

Pause.

Now he clears his throat, “Okay. But let me list all the things that you’ve done (on the TWO dates we’ve gone out on – emphasis mine) that have made you unattractive to me. I didn’t like it when you…”

More curious than anything at this point, I listen. This has to be going somewhere.

After listing several things that I did that he didn’t like he ends with, “And in spite of all of these things, I am still willing to give you another chance.”

Now it is my turn to pause. I’ve dated a lot of men. I’ve broken up with many men. But I have never, ever had a man try to convince me to continue dating him by detailing all the things that he dislikes about me. Call me crazy, but I’m guessing the success rate, probably not so high.

We go there for its laid back atmosphere. It’s never crowded; we always sit at the sushi bar and banter with the chefs. After an evening at the museum, that was what we wanted – a place to unwind, to talk, to enjoy good food.

Why was every seat in the restaurant taken, along with every seat at the sushi bar? On a Thursday night? I had never seen this many people at this sleepy neighborhood joint in all my visits there. Combined. And there was music. Of sorts. An older woman with makeup caked on, a Glamour Shots shoot gone awry, crooned at one end of the room.

We looked around. It was an … artsy crowd. Lots of mismatched clothes. Juxtaposition of ghastly white skin and India ink black hair. Blood red lips and heavily kohled eyes.

We noticed a flyer. “The Queen of Jazz” cd release party, March 3, 7-10 pm. That explains it. The woman sitting at the sushi bar to our right was saying, “And what kind of mascara do you find best?” He replied, with a flourish, “Well, I use it all… You really aren’t going to make me choose, dear, are you???”

After perusing the room for a few moments we raised our eyebrows at each other.
“Do you…” I started.
“…think we stand out?” he finished.
“Yeah,” I replied, “But why?”
He paused then smirked, “Maybe that we’re the only normal ones in here?”

A larger than life Chairman Mao, resting peacefully, in his government issued pajamas, snuggled under his government issued blanket, surrounded by tens of thousands of tiny plastic dinosaurs, all made in China. Green, blue, red, orange, ochre, salmon, groups of brightly colored variations of dinosaurs – Tyrannosaurus Rex, Brachiosaurus, Stegosaurus, Ceratops, Albertosaurus, Allosaurus – all clumped in tightly packed groups, swirling in trippy patterns towards the Chairman, just beneath his platform bed, supporting his sleep of reason.

Awesome.