To the trees!!!

Oh my GOD!! Red headlines! Lots of them, DEATH and masks and bio-hazard suits!!!

I'm no scientist for the Center for Disease Control, at least not anymore, but this whole horrifying, sleep-depriving panic sweeping the world over this swine flu seems awfully inflated and cinematic. I fully recognize that the prospect of 1918 repeating is somewhere in the scale of reality, at which point yes, I would use all of my accumulated Bear Grylls knowledge to build a bungalow in Canada out of elk skins and throw rocks at anyone who comes close.

However, I get the sense from all of this hype and fear-mongering that maybe 1918 is to make up for the fact that it's not so 1933 as we've been told to fear it is. Aside from Matt Drudge being a complete hack and sensationalist, the rest of the media seems to froth at the mouth (is that a symptom? i thought it was just bad coffee breath! oh god!) from images of foreigners wearing masks or these huge numbers of Mexicans succumbing to the unstoppable virus...

Wait, what?

and huh? It may be less powerful than the standard winter virus?

Meanwhile, we're all being told to stay 6 feet away from each other and sing the ABC song while washing hands. It's interesting to hear NPR talk about how cute and quirky it is to sing the ABC's as an adult, while maintaining the stress of avoiding unnecessary contact these days.

I guess the hype did lead me to cross to the other side of the street yesterday when a homeless dude started violently trying to farmer-blow the snot out of his nose in front of me. The wind whipped up and as he was bent over, huffing and grunting, mist whirling around him, an image of that end scene in E.T. with the biohazard suits mixed with recent headlines on Drudgereport to give me a little added concern.



In the end though, maybe this scare will teach people to wash their hands, like they should have all along (much like the depression scare has taught people to be grown-ups with money). If it turns out to be as real and devastating as we're told, there's no sense in panicking anyway since there probably will be no escape. THERE'S NO ESCAPE.

My loony bun is fine

There's no "I" in teamwork

But there is in blind. Citizenry, too.

I could sense something of some level was about to unfold while sitting at the red light of a busy intersection downtown today. It's always seemed like there is a high visually-impaired per capita in sf, so im surprised this doesn't happen more often.

An older, gaunt gentleman scuffled up to the yellow braille mat that warns blind people that speeding, unintelligent drivers are inches away. This man also had the blind walking cane that he tapped in front of him as he went, so he pulled up to the mat and stopped for a few drags of a cigarette while he waited patiently to cross the street.

Problem was, he was waiting for the light that was currently green with the lit up white walking man telling him to cross. Compounding problem: he couldn't see the walking man. Since I sometimes can sort of read minds, I could tell he was waiting for the sound of the traffic to change direction to know it was time to cross.

Sure enough, my light turned green and he started tapping his way into the street as an unaware car came barreling up on my left. Heroes usually need to act on the fly, so I quickly accelerated and pulled in slonch-wise into the middle of the intersection, stopping oncoming traffic. Meanwhile, a few onlookers half a block away came sprinting down to guide the man back to the curb.

I felt sorry for him, as he was clearly embarrassed. I know it's common sense to help a blind person, but it's always sort of refreshing to see strangers using it.

Now that was a damn good sit.

One of those nights so warm that every slight, momentary movement of air feels like god throwing you a bone. Every window and door propped, slid and pulled so wide to encourage that one degree drop. I opened a closet door thinking there would be some cave effect and cool air would come rushing out. I guess it was cave-like - just dank.

That's how I found myself out on my 3-foot patio on the top floor of my building half an hour after the sun set, which has to be the coolest time of the day. Particularly this time of year, when it stays light until 830ish. Late enough that as the sky is still a dark orange over by the golden gate, I could hear the first drunken fight of the night breaking out in the bars on grant.

I settled into the beach chair propped on the metal grate patio, which always creates a horrific image in the very back of my mind that it will give way at any moment and I'll go flailing helplessly 4 flights down onto the pavement, pancaked. I suppressed the fear as my ass suppressed the chair, which is orange. The tension on the legs was just enough to violently pop to the next grate, sending the images flooding back.

I took a swig of my drink and kicked back, soaking in the skyline. Every light on in the buildings across the hill, except for the lone 25 story apartment building straight across the valley that someone aptly compared to a big film strip because of all the different colored windows in the staircase up the middle. I think it looks like a giant middle finger proudly flipping off downtown.

Everyone's window was open. Sirens, music, the sound of everyone enjoying themselves - except for the brawl, which sounded like it had found a winner.

Idly puffing my pipe as ships sailed into the bay behind the Saint Peter Cathedral, it was the recipe for absolute and total relaxation and contemplation. I tried to puff O's with the smoke. I got to thinking about my sister and brother in law and nephew, who just moved away and how I miss them living nearby. My quasi-sister-in-law ("Q-Sil?") is moving away too, which sucks. I gave myself an "aw shucks" and tried an "O" again. The flavor is "Captain's Spice", but just smells sort of like Main Street USA at Disneyland, which isn't all bad. I managed an ampersand and what looked like a zero with a slash through it, but no O.

Here's hoping there's more nights like this to perfect it.

Fat girl

I'm an unabashed fattist. I've had friends who are overweight and don't sweepingly disapprove of anyone who tips the scales, but chances are, if I don't know someone and they've clearly been really packing it on, I connect my own internal personality dots pretty quickly. I also cannot stand witnessing someone littering.

It clearly, then, was two strikes when driving home today your standard rotund little girl was stampeding carefree down the middle of the street, her arms raised in chubby glee as she threw her mercilessly-emptied Doritos bag to the wind.



My first reaction was to stop and raise my hands at the portly kid, as if she'd really understand. I'm aware enough to appreciate that a poor overweight kid is mostly the result of parenting, which was reinforced as I saw the kid's mom a little farther down the block; a proportionately larger version of her daughter. She watched the Doritos bag blow away down the street, only to goad her round child into stomping faster toward her. I watched the kid's suffocating pink shorts ripple by and thought for a second about getting out to ask mom to pick up her kid's 5:45 snack before letting out a good "tffsh!" to myself and driving off. Come on people, come on.

Dear moron

You may have still been out courageously and selflessly completing a long night's work at 6am this morning. If the demands of a long night's labor finally exhausted you and you were asleep, you would not have heard the faint sound of clapping. That was my applause, my salute to you for nobly doing what was required to make ends meet.

I understand that a block of unattended cars at 3 am is more appealing than a job application, a shelter or stumbling aimlessly with your ilk through city streets. If you hadn't humbly slipped away before I woke up, I would've loved to have shook your hand, crack under the nails and all. The way you meticulously emptied out the glove compartment onto the floor, thoughtfully spreading every item around to artfully emulate a tornado raping a car, I imagine. A tornado of futility... well done.

I can only express my apologies that the ipod you made away with (you know, the nearly worthless model whose screen looks like a Gameboy from 1989?) is on its last leg. The battery is basically shot and the songs have been skipping. Hell, aside from the Stevie Nicks, most of the music has been allocated to the maximum number of unique computers so you wont be able to pass along Cobalt Season to all your friends on their new MacBook Pros.

Oh, and also, apologies for not leaving a Stickie note on the garage clicker in the center console explaining where it works. Turns out it's for the parking lot at the Chron, which you'll never realize. Aside from that, I just feel horrible that you found absolutely nothing of value in the car. If I'd have known you were going to grace me with your presence, I would've left something other than receipts, Jean's Mariah Carey CD, and gum. I'm sorry, Moron.

One last thing: if you would please pass along my regards to your friend Jackass. I had the misfortune of witnessing that horrible incident on Mission St yesterday where that city bus nudged his wheelchair as he was doing that thing he does where he pretends to be a zombie and pulls himself across the street with his pigeon feet as he lies limp in the chair and stares off, screaming at passers-by. He is pretending, isn't he? Anyway, that bus had no right to go on a green light and he should've seen Jackass rolling between cars. At least my tax dollars were there to care for him; all four fire crews made it to the scene to attend to him as he waited passively in his wheel chair. Traffic was only tied up for 6 city blocks, no big deal.

So, in closing: thank you, Moron and Jackass. You add the simple things to life that make each day (and early morning) a real treat.

Fuck you,

Me

Small, but confident. Icy, yet a friendly conversationalist:

The April snowman.

God smiles on us again

I almost quit my job in a fiery, sarcastic fury every 30 minutes, sure. We're told we're living some sort of modern version of the Grapes of Wrath while our economy and way of life eats its limbs alive while we watch - yea, ok, whatever. I still haven't figured out what that mouse falling from the sky in front me the other day meant - has anyone? Who cares about any of this non-sense. Today was Opening Day for the Giants and no two-bit April rainstorm or general depressing reality could keep the greatest game from being played - God demanded it.

I couldn't decide whether to call in sick from the get-go or just nurse a "stomach ache" in the later morning to bail to opening day. I settled on stomach ache, since the national weather service called for "definitive soaking" rain at game time and I could milk the ache to fruition or let it "pass" should the game be rained out and nobody would be the wiser. I also actually had a legitimate stomach ache... damn Chron coffee.

Good triumphed over Satan's low pressure trough matriculating over the Pacific and baseball was played. For those who don't care about baseball or don't understand it (there's no difference, really - it's the game of brutes and scholars), today's game was an important one. The Giants have sucked the proverbial (isn't it irritating when people use this word? it's always in the most obvious circumstances) monkey balls for the past 5 years. They haven't had any homegrown players of any consequence for two decades and have been embarrassed on opening day for 3 straight years.

So when I managed to get to the sold-out park for a quick 3 innings before returning to work and almost sarcastically give my two weeks again, the sun/goodness defied all odds and broke through for a win. Somewhere, an angel just got its wings and a Dodgers fan just got herpes. Go Giants.

Vague Omen

Walking to my car today, a mouse fell from the sky and landed on the sidewalk in front of me. It hemorrhaged and twitched around - probly because you dont fall from the sky onto the sidewalk without shattering every bone in your body, I don't care if you are a tiny rodent.

As I imagine it would with most people, I immediately believed that this had to mean something. Or at least supposed to mean something. Mice don't fall in front of you out of nowhere just because "it's what they do". Don't the Chinese have some saying about this? Nevermind, it's probably something about the white devil curse. Somewhere, that Chinese lady that accosted me on the sidewalk months ago and threatened to poison my food in the conquest to wipe out white people probably dropped something in front of the voodoo doll she made of me in her dark, dank Chinatown apartment.

It didn't help that a man that was either homeless or crazy (is there a difference at 6th/mission?) started talking mid-sentence from the shadows behind me, recapping what just happened in an ominous, breathy voice. "- just fell from up there... wooooeeee.... thing just ran right off the top of the building.. never seen that before.." He tried to crane his neck the ten floors up to the top of the building but whether it was Lupus or just laziness, he only managed a glance about two floors high. "Woooee.. damn near hit that lady in the head in front of you.."

He started in to this creepy pirate laugh that turned into a throat-clearing hack. I walked away, the mouse still twitching and squirming on the pavement.