Today's Laugh or Cry Moment

I was just emailed the minutes of a meeting. The newly appointed secretary took meticulous notes, which means I got to read:

Item 2: Diversity
We discussed about the diversity that does not exist in the club and how we should go about recruiting. Overall, this topic was left undecided as it is a large social issue in the world that we cannot solve in one sitting.

Item 3...

So... Laugh or cry?

With the next breath will be peace

Saturday, 9:29 a.m.

Outside: Quickly sprouting silent crowd of cart-wielding shoppers.
Inside: Two women, one holding a small ticker-counter, the other holding a walkie-talkie.
Between: Huge panels of separating, sound-proof glass.

The shoppers tilt slightly forward as one Inside woman approaches the glass panels to raise them. Behind her, the other woman crosses herself.

Costco opens.

Rules... and Their Exceptions

Well, it has been a less-than-ideal summer in terms of relying on the consistency of certain truths that hegemonically rule my universe:

* The Slow Cooker became a No Cooker
* I not even for a minute boarded any airplane
* The August skies were so relentlessly drip-cloudy I had to seek out lawns to crash on in Millbrae,
* I almost watched The Bachelorette, and
* I nearly didn't sprain my eyes from excessive rolling while actually watching "Eat, Pray, Love"

So this morning, the last before the school year truly tidal waves me, I made one last effort to re-balance my little Mercury-in-Retrograde-or-something Summer universe. Following my rule that Sunday morning pre-8 a.m. is the most peaceful and therefore best time to walk (excepting all of Thanksgiving week), I (puffy vested and flip flopped despite the fog) walked out my gate to enjoy an early light amble, deciding: shall I go Right (Right Head swivel) or Left (Left Head swivel)? Only to find immediately to my left, about eight inches left, a rapidly approaching gun followed by a power-chasséing? police officer (what is the human equivalent of the equestrian 'trotting'?!) up the street, hollering "Drop the bag! Drop the bag!" at some person presumably already mostly up the block (I presume because it didn't seem like a good idea to turn my back just then). Did I mention the gun shaking and extended (with me suddenly in the way)?

The po-po and I both probably looked the same amount of startled and I retreated, remembering the rule about there being exceptions to every rule.

Exception: When faced with a gun, a badge and a nervous, adrenalined aura, it's probably the safest and most peaceful to head back inside if you have the choice.

Run Naked?

Until today, I have never been asked my permission for someone else to run naked. Odd, isn't it?

Two peas, one pod.

One of the peas is the rapidly shrinking Original Shorty (OS), formerly known as Flappy Pappy. The other pea is his absolute favorite person, Baby "Gluteus to the Maximus" (BG), formerly known as the Butt Pugg, currently pseudonymed as OS's one and only grandson.

Here are a sampling of today's conversations:

1. OS separates his daily pills into boxes. BG sends out a searching hand. OS:

Ah, this one is called [let's say Enulose]. It's a laxative. You don't want one of these. Not yet, anyways.

BG withdraws hand and appears pensive.

2. OS: Grandpa loves Max sooooooooooooooo much.
BG: Too much.

Winnemucca, Location of the 44 Hour Softball Tournament

Which far from explains why I am here.

It started with my brother moving to Utah.
It continued through his realization that Utah is not so big on easy alcohol access and that he therefore must be chipmunk-like and store up for winter.
It moved on to him exacting a promise from me to drive a station-wagon FULL of alcohol to Salt Lake City.
It wound its way to Shorty #1 (now medicated, but formerly known as Flappy Pappy) deciding he simply could not stand to be left behind while I drove to Utah on my own.
It involved him telling me every other day for the past month,

Winnemucca is known for its Basque Community and the Basque food. Can you believe it?

Which, through the power of sheer repetitive advertising, I believe I now can.

It went on to concern the typical family 'Bait and Add' sudden appearance of Shorty #2 (a.k.a. crazy mama con beehive) in the pocket of backseat remaining in the car as we sought to leave San Francisco.

All of which resulted in - after eight hours, fifteen stops punctuating the 'Don't go over 55mph' screeching soliloquies, and one very threatened GPS system - several new creases on my brow and more new trauma hotspots in my neural pathways. But, since I am an albeit reluctant lifelong learner, all was not lost.

1. The description "downtown" has a vast array of meanings. On the corner of Winnemucca Boulevard and the aptly named Malarkey Street, an actual tumbleweed whizzed by me. The alacrity of the tumbleweed should indicate several things, only one of which is the rate Shorty #1 walks. And

2. Basque restauranteurs have a well-developed sense of humor. Not only do Winnamucca Basque restaurants provide airbrushed glamor shots of your meal in its previous baby state (which I believe allows patrons to more easily cave-person grunt-point their ordering wishes),

they also provide the perfect meal for a country-crossing vegetarian - all you can drink red table wine. It certainly is a relief not to have to masticate one's nutrients. And, besides, with so many choices - from bacon-infused french fries to veal-soaked lamb chops to beef-simmered ham to the very vegetarian iceberg lettuce salad - how could one otherwise decide?!

Brain, Meet Summer. Now Turn Off.

My brain becomes very productive the second I go on summer break. I mean real break. No unpaid meetings about next year. No summer school teaching. Meaning I have been on for exactly four hours... and it is July. Not a good sign. I have to get all my seemingly-lucid-awake-REM-sleeping-brain-stateness in within the window of one month this year. We should all be experiencing a sense of dread.

All this summer brain cramming hurts. Today, I woke up wondering why it is that in supermarkets eggs are never housed anywhere near the chickens. How is it that eggs became a dairy?

Unable to solve the logic of this (though, of course, the Michael Pollanian corporate A->B of this seems clear), I moved on to the Phenomenon of the Fixie Identity. Specifically focusing on what SF walkers would need to create a group identity. Which led me to offer (in the classy spirit of Juicy Coutoure) the emblazing of all velour clad strolling bottoms: "Get off your gas and walk." Feel free to weigh in on possible fonts.

The Slow Cooker has unfortunately been dragged into my condition, and together we have arrived at the following for our future ukulele band:

Name: Paranoid Jews
First Album: The Guilty Catholics
Sophomoric Album, SC's Pick: Pious Muslim
Sophomoric Album, My Pick: Buddhists That Kill

Feel free to send me back to work asap, someone.

L.A. Really Has Nothing On Us

In 2003, San Francisco had the foresight to enact a law changing the term "pet owner" to "pet guardian." And today there were hella guardians watching their companions pee all over San Francisco's urban equivalent of Venice Beach: Dolores Park. With the temperature getting to nearly 60 degrees, everyone (complete with fixie, skinny jeans, and wee pooping companion) was basking in the Vitamin D and watching our equivalent of water (Dolores Street traffic). Packed in whether sitting or moving, I could not help but ear-hustle what I took to be a quintessential San Francisco conversation:

A: Well, her mother, you know, was Army... while her father was from the Air Force.

B: Aaaaah.

A: So I am sure you can imagine what an impact that had on her personality.

B: Yes.

A: I mean, she is really an unusual chihuahua.

Me: Blink.

Is It Me?

Last night I saw the excellent and disturbing documentary: Prodigal Sons. Consequently, AA, A and I spilled out of the film in strange head spaces only to find ourselves at the equally strange intersection of California and Polk streets. Desperate to process the film, we turned up Polk. We got approximately one foot before I stopped moving and instead started staring and pointing, all jaw droppy. AA and A just kept chatting and I was encouraged (kindly, because they are kind) to get my slow-ass butt in gear and start moving.

Me: Did you see that?

AA and A: Huh?

Me: That... that was John Waters!

AA: Oh, really? Huh! I figured you were just being slow and distracted.

And on that note, which says more about my turtle-like reputation than really anything else, we turned into the corner diner, where we munched on french fries, held our breath against the cook smoking in the kitchen, got stared down by a marble-eyed chihuahua by itself at the next booth, and visited the shortest toilet in San Francisco. So things ended as mundanely as possible. For me, anyways.

Sometimes I Think I Could

Be a middle school teacher. This affliction generally shows up after I have spent a couple hours with a flock of middle schoolers. They are ridiculously smart, quick, perky, open-faced, funny, quirky, and muffin-esque.

And the affliction has two cures -

(1) Spending an additional seven hours with a group of middle schoolers.

or

(2) Hearing that by the end of our several-hundred-large middle school conference this year:

One chaperon had left half way with a 102 fever, another chaperon's illness prevented them from arriving in the first place, and third chaperon got stuck in the parking garage with an over-sized van and had to deflate her tires to get out, leaving only one chaperon standing.

For whatever reason, that reminded me - no middle school for me, thanks.

"Unfortunately, the people of Louisiana are not racists. "

-- Dan Quayle, VP and Founder of the 'foot in mouth in a majorly public way' club

I remember when leg warmers were in, Dan Quayle was VP to a certain George Bush, and we wore our sunglasses at night out of sheer embarrassment. This was also the time of a Vermont organization whose sole life purpose centered on following Quayle around, capturing the myriad of crap that would emerge from his vocal cords, and broadcasting it through a monthly newsletter. Meaning that he spoke in a cringe-worthy manner enough to fill a monthly newsletter. Which he did... and then some. Amazingly, the whole time he was in office, their monthly newsletter remained thick enough to moonlight as insulation. You perhaps remember:

"Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."

"I am not part of the problem. I am a Republican."

"I love California, I practically grew up in Phoenix."

"A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls."

"Mars is essentially in the same orbit . . . Mars is somewhat the same distance from the Sun, which is very important. We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and water. If there is water, that means there is oxygen. If oxygen, that means we can breathe."

"The Holocaust was an obscene period in our nation's history. I mean in this century's history. But we all lived in this century. I didn't live in this century."

"I was recently on a tour of Latin America, and the only regret I have was that I didn't study Latin harder in school so I could converse with those people. "

"Republicans have been accused of abandoning the poor. It's the other way around. They never vote for us."

"What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is."

Ah yes, Danny Boy, truer words were never more confusing, how wonderful that the pipes, the political pipes, are calling...

Anyways, just a few highlights for you there on Memory Lane. But let us pull ourselves into this century, the century in which we all live, minus perhaps the DQ. The way things are going these days, a person need not a monthly newsletter; one could instead modernize to a daily "WTF" blog of bigoted, ignorant, hateful things that public people say.

I for the sake of not totally wasting my mind, like to limit my public bloggy WTF rantings to the sporatic. Like a suddenly bitter wedge of tangerine. But today is definitely one of those days, because Education Secretary Duncan? I wish he had been lawsuit-provokingly misquoted by last week's The Washington Post article:

Education Secretary Arne Duncan called Hurricane Katrina "the best thing that happened to the education system in New Orleans" because it forced the community to take steps to improve low-performing public schools, according to excerpts from a television interview made public Friday.

So let us just be clear. And in honor of the start of Standardized Testing Season and my colleague Alita, let's do this in SAT terms (Lord knows that shit is clear):

Hurricane Katrina :(IS TO) New Orleans Schools AS
War : Urban Renewal
The Plague : Medical Research

Or, in the words of the DQ, "We're going to have the best-educated American people in the world."

WTF.