In my continued Manifesto, which seems to lack that seething passion that the french or the communist manifestos have, I have to list something GOOD which is the San Francisco Public Library. Double plus good!
I'm all for public shame. Seriously. If your momma didn't teach you right, if your teacher never gave you a sideways glare, if no one chased you around a chair with a wooden spoon because you pillaged your grandmother's bread basket to feed the ducks in the backyard (guilty!), then your community needs to let you know what's not gonna fly.
I've come to terms with cell phones on the bus. Loud personal conversations. Make out sessions, public drinking. Even the application of a full face of makeup, although it is far too personal and indicates a slovenly character. Live and let live, and I'll just judge you with silent, withering scorn and hateful glances.
However, I must speak out about a behavior I witnessed last Wednesday, at 8 a.m., on the way to work.
An otherwise professional looking twenty-something white woman pulled a bottle out of her Coach tote and applied lotion to her legs. All the way up. As in, if we were pricing a half-leg vs. full-leg waxing, this would be the more expensive one.
I'm talking two full palms of Lubriderm, rubbed into calves, knees and thighs. Yes, thighs. Up and over the knees.
What the hell is wrong with this woman? Doesn't she have any sense of privacy? Not to mention, as my friend Baby pointed out, the next person who sits on that seat will get a nasty, greasy surprise on their pants. That stuff stains.
The world is so far gone past not wearing white after Labor Day. I don't even know what to say, except, "Stop doing that! Please!"
Woman 1: They touching all my stuff, like "Where'd you get this blanket? Where'd you get these sheets?" Like they gonna buy it. Please. You know they get their check and be right off to the crack house.
Woman 2: Don't doubt it.
Woman 1: Then it get all quiet, and I realize they're in my bathroom, smoking crack.
Woman 2: Shoot. Secondhand smoke kill my hair. I would drop kick them.
Last week I took the Folsom bus downtown to meet my friend Dave for lunch in the Tenderloin, my favorite dining destination. Just step over the lipsticked, methed-out near-corpses to find the best Vietnamese in SF.
The Folsom line is one I had not taken before. I was surprised when I climbed aboard the shiny new bus and noticed it had two levels. You heard me right, the bus had a balcony. So it's just like opera, only the bus is the opera of LIFE. All the actors were there; I had an excellent view with no need for little glasses.
I was so excited to write about the gun show. Even more excited to take pictures, until I found out that Cow Palace doesn't let you bring in cameras. No matter, I would take copious notes, inconspicuously, and share the mystery with you, the curious world.
Except I didn't get to go. For a variety of reasons that are best left unexplored (Chief's fender bender = no car for WEEKS while it's in the body shop, coughcough) we stayed home on Sunday.
But I can't let go of the gun show dream. So here is my imagined gun show experience in the form of the semi-rhetorical questions I would have whispered to Chief during the day:
Did you see her-no, wait, him?
Oh my god, are those real?
Whoa, are they a couple?
I thought Nazi stuff wasn't allowed?
Where do you think that tattoo ends?
Should you really eat that?
What crazyhead issued him a permit?
Is it wrong to buy this if I only have it ironically? No, are you sure? Please?
Did he really tell you he killed a goat?
Next time I'll rent a car if necessary. Shoot, I'll rent a bike. But I won't take Muni. Buses are for chumps.