A Day in the Life of Yourself

Recently, amongst the Bay Areans in my social networks, a blog post was being passed around.  It was a humorous piece by Rocket Shoes – a SF based blog run by a funny man with great taste in music, checkout his mix-tapes – outlining A Day in the Life of the Modern San Franciscan.

I read it and chuckled, certainly able to relate to or recognize a number of the stereotypes. But my immediate reaction was: why so cynical? Isn’t it cool that someone gets to work a creative job that starts at nine? Don’t you move to a dynamic city to experience it? Aren’t viral videos funny because, well, they’re hilarious?

With these questions and more bouncing about my head, I stood atop my anti-cynicism soap box and declared to two friends via gchat that I was going to write a counter-piece; A Day in the Life of the Modern San Franciscan; Sans Cynicism.

I started writing it, determined to convey my appreciation for the metropolitan beauty I had moved to just one year ago. I was going to strip away the sarcasm and ‘tude and highlight a place I’ve undoubtedly come to love.

But it was tough to write a compelling piece without unnecessarily romanticizing some glaring faults. I love public transportation, but MUNI sucks; I shouldn’t have to layer in mid-July; I spend too much time on social networking sites; I pay too much for the irony of dive bars; I’ve come to accept steep rent.

Now I’m not going to flip this into a social rant, dissecting the merits of human-to-human contact versus the time suck of turntable.fm and google+ or the drone of day-to-day. But once in awhile it’s not a bad idea to take a gander into the mirror and ask: am I just living a day in the life? Am I static and predictable? Where’s the originality?

Ok, so I’ve moved off one soap box and onto another, an existential one at that, but having wanted to get back into blogging and having done nothing about said desire, Rocket Shoes’ satirical if not cynical expose was eye opening. Was I driven to write my rebuttal because reading R.S. was like reading my own memoir? Had R.S. looked deep into my soul and pointed out my insecurities about living a monotonous, unoriginal and inauthentic existence? No. But it did hit a little close to home and it’s good to have the boat rocked a little.

I did write that less cynical piece but it read just about the same. I capitalized on stereotypes and bitched a little about this, that, and the other. Sure, I gave a few more shout-outs, perhaps showing a touch more appreciation. But ultimately I grew to appreciate R.S.’s perspective: laughing at the day-to-day can keep us sane. It certainly helped me.

It’s good to be back.

A Giant Fight Finally Broke Out

For half of a season I've been observing the San Francisco Giants.  A team built around pitching and little else, I could not bring myself to become a fan.

I watched games in which their right fielder missed the cut-off man.  Three times.  I watched their self-serving closer with his ridiculous beard and moronic quotes somehow get the job done but never without some angst.  Seriously, who throws a 3-0 slider with a lead in the 9th?  I watched as the Panda went AB after AB without having a clue: he's hitting lefty with a runner on second and nobody out, watches a fastball in for a strike, waves at a breaking ball, then pops up.  Have a clue.  I watched as Andres Torres, the team's leadoff hitter, take the sombrero (4 strikeouts) ALL on fastballs out of the strike zone.  And by ALL I mean he swung and missed at eight (5 consecutive) fastballs up and out of the zone.  The same damn pitch.

For a team needing to scratch and claw for every run, they sure seemed content playing station-to-station and waiting for the three run homerun that no one could hit.  They relied on pitching and then the pitching relied on itself and in August, that just didn't work.

Giants baseball just wasn't a good watch.

Then the playoffs happened and the sexiest thing for a baseball fan in the playoffs is big time pitching performances.  How does opening the playoffs with 29 IP, 3 ER, 5 BB, 36 K out of your starting staff sound?  Sexy.  But I still wasn't a fan.

I became a fan - not just an observer but a fist pumping, jump-up-and-down-alone-in-your-living-room fan - when Pat Burrell, the now one-tool talent (power), went first to third on a flare down the left field line off the bat of uber-enfuego Cody Ross.  Standard Torture (the name given to the Giants' offense by the local paper) would call for Burrell to pull up at second.  Station-to-station.  Not that night.  Off the bat he was going to third.

Had I really just seen the Giants work to improve their own chance to score?  Indeed I had.  I was impressed and on board.

I'm not a Giants hater but I do need for my team to give the impression that they are gonna fight and when they punched back at the Phillies Wednesday night I saw something I hadn't seen before.  I saw a team not trying to belong but a team trying to win. 

The Giants followed with a double from struggling third baseman, Panda McChubby, and it was clear to me that this team had arrived. 

I don't necessarily need a winner but I need to see a fighter and, for the first and most important time this season, the Giants are fighting.

It's AB's Turn to Age

I will be celebrating my annual aging event with a karaoke party and I need some help.  As a Jewish male I am inherently a non-decision maker (see: Woody Allen films) and need the guidance of a trusted source.

That's where you come in.  Help me decide how to serenade the karaoke crowd.  Below are 5 options to be voted upon, the vote ticker is on the upper right corner of this page.  Vote and the winning song will be sung on Friday, October 15, at Festa Karaoke bar in Japantown, SF, CA, USA by me.  Maybe someone will record it and we'll post it here the following week.

The options:

1. "Love Story" by Taylor Swift
• A romantic classic, Swift captures the attention of love birds and tweens alike.  Her very real and impassioned lyrics (Romeo save me I've been feeling so alone/ I keep waiting for you but you never come) will have you crying, smiling, laughing, and crying again all in the course of a single song.  Ballad-ed by a gangly 6'5" guy will only heighten this emotional event.
2. "I Belive in a Thing Called Love" by The Darkness
• High notes, Sea World clapping, and an eighties vibe: why wouldn't this song be an option?  This power ballad is always an audience favorite as it involves them.  Call and response is a guarantee for karaoke success and a surefire way to bring down the Japanese house.  
3. "Escape (Escapar)" by Enrique Iglesias
• A song that can only be sung from a place of pure love, Enrique captures the essence of what Mark Zuckerberg was going for with The Book: You can run you can hide but you can't escape my love.  Combined with expert interpretive dance, this is a song fit for a white guy to bring out his inner latino.
4. "Mack the Knife" by Bobby Darin
• A classic song that builds to a stunning crescendo likely to keep Japantown reeling for weeks.  Epitomizing cool and oozing with suave, this is for the performer's performer.  Bobby Darin would be proud to be on this list but never let you know it.
5. Other
• This is to be selected by you, the voter.  Submit your "Song's to Be Sung by Adam" in the comments below and, should your selection pick up enough steam, your song could be sung on Friday, 10/15 at the karaoke bar.

An Open Letter to San Francisco

Dear San Francisco,

What an amazing city you are.  The culture, sites, history, food, art, diversity; you’re an immaculate city nestled into some of the most beautiful coastline in the world.

 

Within a brief drive, any and every type of outdoor activity is accessible.  In three hours you offer skiing in Tahoe, surfing in Santa Cruz, or climbing in Yosemite; all world renowned as among the best.  Remarkable. 

Each of your neighborhoods offers an incredibly diverse cultural experience; from the Marina to the Mission, the Sunset to North Beach, you offer everything to everyone.

I have so much to see and learn from you San Francisco, thank you.  Thank you one-thousand times over.

But please, San Francisco, allow me this.  With all you have to offer, allow me to offer you this: when the thermometer hops over 73 and the sun comes out to shine on the eucalypti of the Presidio, the hills of Delores Park, and the western gate that is that glorious red bridge, San Francisco: LOSE THE JEANS AND HOODY AND MIX IN SHORTS AND FLIP FLOPS.  

In fact, I command this of you.  I cannot stand to see another North Face fleece on an 85 degree day.  Dammit that’s winter garb.  

A wise man once said, “Act like you’ve been there before.”  That is to say, we’ve all seen a nice day, act accordingly.  Yes, I understand it’s rare that this weather rolls around.  But seriously, act like you’ve been there before and do the right thing.  If we’re all pasty and white then technically no one loses, right?  If we all get burnt then it’s ok.  Fear not the sun.  Embrace it.  

And so that is what I can give to you, San Francisco: pants that end before your knees and shoes that cover just a portion of the foot.  Try it.  I beg of you.

Love,

AB

PS.  But bring a jacket.

Outside Lands was Experienced and Phoenix the Band is Better than the City. Exponentially.

Just awhile back I was reading an article in the New York Times (be impressed). The premise of said article was that money might not buy you happiness but in some cases it can lead to happiness. You see, according to a study, most people are not fulfilled when spending on material goods. Those who spend on experiences are far happier.

And I could not be happier to be out $150 for Outside Lands 2010.

The WC loyalists will say, “But Adam, you already went to Coachella and wrote about that.” Indeed, I did. But what other forum could I use to convey the faux-hipster movement away from fedoras to canes? Yes, canes, as in: upright assistance. I swear there was an abundance of able-bodied cane enthusiasts at the two-day festival. I have no explanation.

Day one was filled with groups I didn’t really know, fog, cold, and disappointment. I didn’t really know My Morning Jacket or Gogol Bordeaux and each was impressive. Gogol erupted on stage and I couldn’t tell if they were singing in Spanish or eastern European but it didn’t matter. My Morning Jacket was good. Took the stage and put on a rock show that became a bit redundant but entertaining.

The cold and the fog were chilly and wet. Bothersome.

Disappointment came with Wolfmother and The Strokes. Both put on just mediocre shows and I’d venture to request that Strokes front man, Julian Casablancas, never address a crowd again. Great voice. Terrible commentary.

For day one I only knew three songs across five performances. But day two featured Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, Phoenix, and Kings of Leon. Toss in slight familiarity with Amos Lee and The Temper Trap and I knew day two would be good.

Then MD thought the back pocket of my jeans would be a good place to keep a flask of vodka and I then knew day two would be epic!

Amos Lee was a surprisingly fun singer and was exactly what the sun needed to be coaxed out. The Temper Trap followed with a good show but was really just whetting my desire to hear Edward Sharpe followed by Phoenix. Ultimately, everyone would know that I enjoyed the Phoenix show.

Edward Sharpe's performance consists of ten hippies running around on stage and was nothing short of amazing. Folksy hippie music can’t always get people up to party. Edward Sharpe can.

Allow me to preface my Phoenix performance review with the fact that I really like this band. I haven’t taken them off my iPod Shuffle for some ten months and I frequent Phoenix radio on Pandora. That said, let’s briefly rehash my Coachella thoughts on Phoenix:

Phoenix put on a fair show but left much to the imagination.

They might as well have popped their CD in and danced on stage

So when you’re three-quarters through a two-day concert and you’ve known maybe a dozen songs and then a band plays a 75-minute set you know all the words to and you’re a few flasks-n-pints deep, let me tell you: Phoenix fucking rocks. They played a great set and I haven’t been able to get enough of their song “Rome” since Sunday.

I am told Kings of Leon closed the festival.

So back to the Times article. It was the experience that mattered, not necessarily the music, venue or liquor. And experiences – as we learned from the martyred Chris McCandless – are best when shared. So thanks and great work to:

· MD – photographer extraordinaire, but please do not share

· SC – sorry for the Franzia fiasco, if I could have chosen who to shower, it would not have been you. AJT? Kidding. LC, fo sho.

· LC – someday you’ll hear a song you know

· AJT – when missing JAOLL assume the fetal position and wait

· AM – I wish your favorite song from the weekend had been from the show

· RM – Ed Sharpe > Al Green

· PS – tardy, but good to see you

· CHFOLL – sigh

· Phoenix – I heart you

Then it was over and our crew parted ways; biking, stumbling, or walking home. Monday morning was tough, but we endure and we go back to the proverbial grind so that we can pay for some more experiences.

Two Wheel Transporting and a Red Bridge

Well slap my ass and call me John Steinbeck I rode to Sausalito. Got on a bike and rode the rolling hills and grassed countryside the great American novelist so aptly versed us on: Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Travels With Charlie.

We left from home (San Fran’s notoriously cold and foggy inner Sunset) and crossed over the Golden Gate Bridge into a different universe. We left and it was July. We arrived in Sausalito – just across the bridge – and it was, well, July. But I mean real July. The sun was out and people were outside eating ice cream and throwing things. James – my riding partner – says that when you cross the bridge it’s like transporting to a different universe. Sausalito is Norman Rockwell. San Francisco is Hobo-ville. Transportation complete.

Our ultimate destination was Tiburon, a contrived albeit gorgeous and homey town with epic cross bay views of The City. James and I actually acquired directions from a man claiming to “live” in Tiburon. Bullshit. Clearly a hired actor. No one actually lives in places like that. Dreams don’t come true kids.

My apologies for that cynicism. Unhealthy.

Tiburon was unbelievably (yes, unbelievably) gorgeous. We refueled at one of the many delightful eating establishments, then carried on. As we were transporting back across the bridge, we were treated to a San Francisco treat: a bridge jumper.

Someone was attempting – or had – jumped from the world’s foremost jumping bridge. It was a surreal scene filled with traffic, cops, and a huge audience. Not to mention frightening wind, ghostly fog, and the moans and groans of the big red suspension bridge. Surreal indeed. Cold as shit, too.

All-in-all it was a 5 hour adventure covering 45+ miles and innumerable micro-climates. And to make this whole thing come full, Steinbeck circle, I maintain that I will attend and own any open audition for the role of Lenny.

Bring on the rabbits.

A Stranger and Her Journal on the Train

A recent jaunt on the San Francisco Municipal railway (MUNI) at rush hour on a Thursday provided a little peek into a stranger’s life.

Tardy for dinner, I awaited the MUNI at 16^th and Church; restlessly updating the train status page on my phone as if it would somehow speed things up. I finally boarded the train and crammed myself between some hipsters and business fellows. I knew it was indeed a rush hour voyage as I had human contact on every side. Standing there, I recognized how fortunate I was to be able to see and breathe above the masses.

From my vantage point I noticed, squeezed into the front window seat with extraordinarily limited leg space and an American sized passenger in the accompanying aisle seat, a journaler. A young lady impressively and carefully writing in a journal while packed into a herky, jerky cesspool of grumpy nine-to-fivers, loud talkers, hobos, and the rest of us.

I couldn’t read what she was writing in her pint size journal and she was using a mechanical pencil; the softness of which made distance reading impossible (Aside: hotter commodity: the mechanical pencil market circa 6^th grade or real estate circa ’05? Tough). My appetite for hot gossip on the stranger’s life was clearly not going to be satiated due to the limiting factor of pencil. However, atop her journal page, distinctly written in black ink, was the only legible piece of this entry:

I’m Happy

This incredibly basic header – a conjugate and infant-level adjective – declared everything I could ever need to know about this stranger. In ink, at the top of her blank and open page – as if daring the empty page and ensuing pencil writing to change that permanent fact – the proverbial decision to be happy had been made.

What else really matters?