In Which I Reveal My Love for This City (and This Country)

Although I certainly have nothing to add about the election that hasn't already been said by others far more eloquent than me, if I didn't say a few words about what it felt like to live here when BARACK OBAMA WAS ELECTED LAST NIGHT (just writing that out makes me all teary-eyed), this journal of my life in San Francisco would be seriously lacking. If anything, this entry is for Future Me, when I am living in a red state, wearing mom jeans, and driving a station wagon (oh god, I hope this isn't really a picture of Future Me!).

On Sunday, while talking to my mom (who lives in Kansas) about very important matters such as our very poor eating habits over the weekend, and our resolve to eat better the rest of the week, I made the comment that I probably would be breaking the diet on Tuesday.

"Why? Why would you break it Tuesday?" my mom asked, confusedly.

"Um, because of the election?" I responded, thinking: HOW COULD YOU NOT BE SO PUMPED ABOUT THE ELECTION? "There are tons of parties…and I know I'll be drinking a lot…to celebrate, you know. I guess things are different out here…"

"Hmmmph," Mom said suspiciously. "Why are you going to election parties? Well, whatever. I'll be watching the results from my house."

On Monday, I read a couple of apathetic postings about the election from Kansas "Friends" on Facebook. One said how hard it is to make a decision on who to vote for (alluding that the presidential choices sucked this year), and the other flat out admitted that she didn't like either of the candidates. Though I do realize that conservatives exist (all four of my parental units are Republicans), I still had hope that the massive outpouring of support for Obama and the unprecedented hatred of W. extended to the majority of people my age, even if they DID still live in Kansas. Reading these apathetic thoughts led me to believe that once again, as in 2004, I really didn't understand how the rest of the country thought, because San Francisco is such a bubble.

On Tuesday afternoon, Cody talked to his little brother, who is registered to vote in Kansas, but just couldn't be bothered to go out and actually do it.

On Tuesday night, when Barack Obama won his historic landslide victory and the tears poured down my face as I watched African-Americans crying and celebrating in a southern Baptist church on MSNBC, a spontaneous party raged outside on the streets of San Francisco, with people yelling and whooping from their windows, screaming and dancing on the sidewalks, and passing cars honking their horns repeatedly.

I have never felt so much hope, so much promise, and so much unity in this country. The years I lived in Kansas, I always felt different and unhappy, and even when I voted in California in 2004, the fact that the majority of the country voted the same way Kansas did depressed me. Finally, I live in a place and a country where I do not need to feel ashamed or secretive about my views. I know this is only one moment (which is admittedly tempered by the passing of Proposition 8), but it's a moment that I will savor for a long, long time.

Huh?!

In a city where Obama is a foregone conclusion, and the big debate is between Nancy Pelosi and Cindy Sheehan and the big crisis is making sure that Proposition 8 doesn't get passed, imagine my surprise when, walking home from the BART yesterday, I saw the following painted onto the sidewalk:

VEGANS
FOR
McCAIN

Please tell me this is a joke?

A Recent Discussion

C: Yesterday when I was walking home, there was this creepy homeless guy cursing God outside of Papalote.

K: Oh my God! I TOTALLY SAW HIM TOO. But it was at about 5:30. And he had moved on to screaming about how God stole his money.

C: Yeah, when I walked past him, it was at like 2.

K: I love how this definitely went on for at least 3 hours straight.

Poo Chunks

When we first moved to our apartment in the Mission (the NICE part of the Mission…you know, the part where crackheads and prostitutes roam at a minimum), we were a bit disappointed that there wasn't a washer/dryer in our building, but we were encouraged by the fact that there was a Laundromat literally about 50 feet away.

My first impression of Sunrise Launderette was that of repulsion. The two inches of dirt on the concrete floor and machines assured me that the place had not been cleaned since it was opened, which was probably in the 90s, based on the fact that only about 10% of the machines worked (no exaggeration - AND if you mistakenly put your quarters in a defunct machine, it would, of course, keep them. Irritation). None of the machines had any signs on them indicating whether or not they were broken, so you basically just had to remember which worked. Helpfully, one of the machines that DID work had the words "Poo Chunks" written on it in permanent marker, so that one was an obvious go-to every time.

Every single time we went to Sunrise Launderette, there was a new adventure to be had. Sometimes the homeless people sitting on the bench inside (and there were ALWAYS homeless people just hanging out in there; the door was always wide open) would grunt and nudge each other while gesturing to your lady pants. Sometimes the experience was as drab as losing 6 quarters in a dryer that tossed your clothing around, but had no heat. Sometimes a woman wearing pale pink polyester stirrups would flash you when she bent over because her elastic waistband failed to keep her pants securely at her waist. This one time Cody had two pairs of pants stolen out of the washer. It was a crap shoot, really. You never knew what you were going to get.

Every single time we would vow "Never again!" but to be quite honest, nothing could outweigh the fact that THE LAUNDROMAT WAS 50 FEET AWAY. We were just too damn inert to seek out another Laundromat.

Until…it happened.

One day we headed over to Sunrise Launderette. It was curiously empty: there were no homeless people having an intense argument with themselves about the nature of God; no downtrodden people wearing polyester stirrups sadly shoveling their clothes into a broken washer. The eerie quiet resonated as I walked over to Poo Chunks and stalwartly placed my unmentionables in it. Cody walked over to Washer #12.

He quickly slammed the lid shut. "Oh. My. God." he choked.

"WHAT WHAT?" I screamed excitedly. A new Sunrise adventure!

C: "Um…you don't want to look in there. You really don't want to know."

K: "YES I DO! WHAT WHAT?"

C: "Baby…Someone shat in that washer."

After ascertaining that it wasn't some animal droppings or something (concluding factor: the presence of newspaper used in place of toilet paper), a wave of disgust passed over me, to be quickly replaced by indignation and anger. "That is SO DISGUSTING!" I shouted. It was ONE thing for a homeless person to annoy patrons by sitting on the bench making lewd comments (and possibly stealing pants), but another completely to leave the bench and venture over to a washer, unbuckle the pants, perch on the washer, and leave a gigantic crap present for some unsuspecting soul to find. While Cody retrieved our clothes from Poo Chunks, I ran back to the apartment (stopping quickly to update my Facebook status, of course) and returned with my own permanent marker.

On Washer #12, I wrote:

WARNING:

This machine contains ACTUAL POO CHUNKS.

I would end this post by taking a picture of the message, but fortunately, Sunrise Launderette closed almost immediately after The Incident. I guess the owners didn't want to deal with the actual poo chunks either.

Fashion Lessons from the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival

This past weekend, Cody and I dropped by the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival, a festival that we did not go to last year due to our sheer inability to get out of the apartment before 1:00 pm on weekends. It was a move that we have supremely regretted since, because, really, how many cities offer you awesome nationally-known bands playing in a park for free? We are currently in this phase of trying to enjoy all our city has to offer so that we won't have any regrets if we do move in the near future, so not attending the festival this year was not really an option.

And boy, am I glad I attended. Many lessons were taken away from Hardly Strictly Bluegrass this year, including (but not limited to):

1) You know you are getting old/lame/growing up when you identify more with the parents of babies or little kids than with the people your own age smoking weed next to you.

2) You know you are getting old/lame/cranky when you become irritated by the constant rush of people stepping on your blanket in their zeal to exit the premises after Bonnie "Prince" Billy has finished playing.

3) You know you are destined to live in the suburbs/the Midwest when you emphatically agree with your husband that the concert was so much more enjoyable before ALL THOSE PEOPLE started meandering in.

However, these life lessons were nothing compared to the fashion lessons I learned from my fellow concert-goers this weekend, which include:

1) Overalls are the shit. Bonus if you pair said overalls with the genius fashion design that is the dickey.

2) Two other items of "rural clothing" making a splash at the festival this weekend were the straw hat and the plaid shirt (the plaid shirt should, however, be paired with skinny jeans -- NOT overalls -- to achieve maximum hipster-rural chic).

3) For the fellas, it is preferred that you pair your overalls, dickey, and straw hat with the ironic mustache, as modeled here by Jason Schwartzman in the hipster-friendly movie, The Darjeeling Limited.

4) Sometimes, however, overalls are a little heavy when it is warm out, so a popular choice is to cut off a pair of your (preferably tight) pants so that you are now sporting a pair of very short cut-offs (as modeled here by Never Nude Tobias Fünke). Any other type of short is unacceptable. Do you want to look like your dad, who unfashionably sports long, pleated Dockers shorts in varying shades of khaki? No, no you do not.

5) The cut-offs are best paired with tube socks in
varying patterns. And a vest.

6) Don't believe for a second that tie-dye is dead. It isn't.

7) It is, however, best worn with gypsy headbands (as modeled here by Mischa Barton; so boho-chic).

8) And finally, never underestimate the willingness of the white male (of all ages, shapes, and subcultures) to seize any opportunity he can to strut around without a shirt. Extra points if you pair your shirtless look with aviators, as seen here.

Overall, though, it was a good time, and I'm super glad we went, because we saw some good bands and it was FREE! But I have to admit that, like any event in San Francisco, the people-watching was the best part.

F-Train Adventures: The Princess Cruisers

In 2004, a few friends and I spent a glorious week on a Princess cruise ship that went to Mexico (I had a friend who worked there in the summers and got us a trip for almost free, and being the poor college students that we were, we figured it would be ALMOST CRIMINAL to pass up such an opportunity). While others our age were doing body shots in Cancun, we were taking full advantage of the all-you-can-eat buffet and the G-rated variety shows. When we would manage to tear ourselves away from our best friend the buffet, we amused ourselves by sitting in the Dipper and laughing wickedly (demonstrated below, with random stranger) and devising suspicious stories about our neighbors who never emerged from their room the entire length of the trip. (Our conjecture? They came to die.)

So as you can see, despite the fact that the median age of a Princess Passenger is somewhere in the 55-65 year range (yes, I did actually waste time this morning looking this up), I have some very fond memories of my time with Princess.

This fondness, however, did not translate when I stepped onto a crowded F-train last week (at the middle door…this detail will be very important) to be greeted by a large group of Princess Passengers, complete with luggage.

"How do people pay when they don't get on at the front door?" a Princess Passenger crabbed to her traveling companion. He mumbled something about monthly passes. "Hmmph," she said.

The driver announced that Broadway was the next stop. "Broadwaaaaaay! Broadwaaaaaay!" one of the male Princess Passengers started singing, over and over. Fortunately, he did not snap his fingers to the beat.

Next, there was much discussion over whether the stop at the cruise terminal was, in fact, the right stop. After it was ascertained that it was (concluding factor: the big Princess cruise ship outside), it was time to disembark from the F with the luggage.

"STOP! WE HAVE TO GET OFF! WE HAVE TO GET OFF!" screamed one of the Princess Passengers. This, of course, created a massive sense of panic amongst the PPs, and led several more Princess Passengers to bellow to the driver about THEIR LUGGAGE! and IT WOULD TAKE THEM SOME TIME TO GET OFF!

This was the understatement of the century. First there was the flustered handling of the luggage. Then there was the confusion over which door to exit from. Then there was the paralyzing fear because the DOOR WON'T OPEN. WHY WON'T IT OPEN! ("Step down!" we all tiredly said.)

When the train had quieted down again, we all had some time to breathe a sigh of relief and steel ourselves for the next big tourist stop, Alcatraz. Why oh why do I work by Pier 39?

BART Adventures: Grown Men Slapping Each Other

Yesterday morning, while sitting on the BART (my favorite mode of public transportation in the city due to its usual speediness, lack of tourists peering at San Francisco maps, and its number of available seats), I witnessed my first ever BART fight.

The fight began, as all things worth fighting over do, with a heated discussion over WHO REACHED THE LAST AVAILABLE SEAT FIRST. The aggressor, a man who looked as though he worked in an auto shop, began by pushing and yelling at the unfortunate businessman who had chosen to cross him, "What the fuck!? What do you think you're doing, man?" The businessman, who was equally incensed over the situation, screamed repeatedly, "You're crazy! You're crazy! I'm calling 911 on you!" The lame verbal argument degenerated into a physical fight, complete with both men windmilling their arms and slapping at each other in the manner of two teenage girls.

Meanwhile, we other passengers on the train reacted to this impressive show of bravado in either one of two ways - by 1) moving away from the crazy windmilling arms and giving these two idiots ample space to slap each other, or 2) stalwartly staying put and refusing to give up our seats. I, of course, refused to move from my seat, and responded to the aggressive bitch slapping by cowering slightly and pretending I did not exist (this is a very successful tactic; also highly recommended for when an elderly person attempts to steal your seat. The key is to not make eye contact).

You would think the most amusing part of the fight was the bitch slapping, but no. The best part of the entire thing was when BOTH men pulled out their cell phones and called 911 to report the other AT THE SAME TIME.

The adventure (well, for me anyway) ended at the Montgomery station, where the businessman tried to escape, while on the phone with 911, only to have the auto shop man follow him. I do not know the eventual outcome, but I do know that I learned a valuable lesson: Never underestimate the power of an available seat on the BART (particular on Monday mornings).