Without a doubt, the highlight of my first visit to San Francisco was seeing (and then crossing) the Golden Gate Bridge. As famous architectural icons go, it stands with the Taj Mahal, The Empire State Building, The Statue of Liberty, The Eiffel Tower, and Sydney Opera House.
Not only that, the Golden Gate Bridge is an authentic color blindness test. You see, I could have sworn that the Golden Gate Bridge was red. In every photograph of it, scene in a movie, or opening TV credits of a San Francisco based sit-com or drama, the Golden Gate Bridge looks red to me…but no, it is apparently orange.
A pot of Golden Gate Bridge sits at the end of this rainbow.
I was told/misinformed that there was one man whose single job responsibility was to paint the illustrious bridge. He starts painting at one end, and by the time he gets across to the other side of the bridge, effectively finishing the job, it’s time to repaint the thing all over again. The painter’s name is Frank, and he is responsible for making sure that the bridge stays its famous color, which is apparently called International Orange.
When I heard of this, I told anyone that would listen that the Golden Gate Bridge was red, and I would not hear of it being referred to as orange—International or otherwise.
When I first traversed the bridge, it was near sunset and I wondered whether Frank the lone painter was still at work. Perhaps he was hoping to finish just one more little stretch of column before calling it a day. I imagined the monotony of such a lonely profession.
What did he think about, day in and day out? When he closed his eyes at night, did he see that same red-orange color?
Maybe he dreamed about coming into work and painting the bridge a different international color. I wondered how much of the bridge he could get painted before his boss, or the Five O’clock News, caught wind of his little game?
I imagined Frank going into the paint store holding a small book of color swatches, which yesterday—perched on top of the Golden Gate Bridge—he had held up against the San Francisco skyline.
“Ten thousand gallons of the usual today, Frank?” the paint store manager asked, happy to see his best customer.
“Yeah, I suppose,” said Frank firmly clasping the swatches. “Actually, instead of making that International Orange, have you got any Equatorial Turquoise or Continental Mauve?”
“Ooh, not ten thousand gallons, I’d have to special order that,” said the manager.
“Could you have it by Thursday?”
“I could try. Say—you’re not planning on painting the Golden Gate Bridge turquoise, are you?” asked the manager suspiciously.
“Me? No, no no, heavens no. The turquoise is for—another job I’m doing further up north.”
“Okay, Frank, whatever you say, but I’m going to need you to pay for this up front, since it’s not for the bridge an’ all.”
“That’s fine,” said Frank. He nervously opened his wallet and placed his credit card on the counter. The manager picked up the card, and the two men silently waited for the transaction to process. Frank scratched a larger fleck of International Orange paint off of his dark blue overalls.
The payment came through, Frank signed the credit card slip and left the store. The painter jumped into his truck and drove off. As soon as the store manager saw the truck was out of sight, he picked up the phone.
“Get me the Five O’clock News.”
******
Happy Birthday, Golden Gate Bridge, the Bay Area would be a lot less awesome without you.
So I was going to check out the solar eclipse yesterday afternoon, but you know I was in a bar at a show in a windowless venue, and this solar eclipse nonsense was happening, and it was like ALL the way outside.
“I suppose I’d better go and check it out,” I said to no one in particular, and I started to get up off of my seat to go, but right at that very moment, my attention span was distracted by a song, or was it a pretty girl, or maybe it was just those floaty things that move around under the surface of your eyeballs when you’re not really looking anywhere. Either way, I missed the eclipse because of a combination of laziness and a terrible attention span.
It all started at a young age, the teacher would be prattling on about what causes a solar eclipse and what Issac Newton, Britain’s most famous astronomer, wrote about them, and I’d be thinking about a song, or a pretty girl, or mentally chasing those floaty things under my eyeballs. Or maybe my mind would just go off on an unexplainable one minute tangent.
Sir Issac Newton
The famous English physicist and astronomer wasone of the key thinkers on the understandings of the principles of gravity. One day, while he was sitting under a tree, an apple fell on his head prompting his thought process………………
Huh…an apple?…that’s weird…lucky he wasn’t sitting under a cherry tree. He wouldn’t have even felt the little berry hit his head because of those big gray wigs that they wore in those days. He would have just had this bright red cherry sticking out of his wig like a traffic light indicating STOP! in a thick fog.
No one would have said anything to him about his cherry wig accessory to embarrass him, because he was a really famous physicist and astronomer—except that he wasn’t, because he SHOULD have been under a tree whose fruit bore a little weight, like a grapefruit or a coconut, although that might have hurt.
Could you imagine if a coconut hit him? He might have got a concussion or worse—instant death. Then we’d still be without this whole gravity thing sorted out; maybe we’d have to wear moon boots like the astronauts.
I wonder if Newton ate the noggin-bruised apple. Or did he run home clasping the fruit in his hand so that he wouldn’t forget what principle it was that he discovered?
Maybe Newton kept the apple like it was a trophy awarded for his genius.
How long would it be before the fruit decomposed and became an eyesore?
Or did he have the apple preserved forever? Whenever Mr. and Mrs. Newton had guests over for dinner and conversation got stale, would Newton say, “Lord Montague, have you seen my apple?”
“Oh God, he’s getting the apple out again…Yes, yes, gravity, we’ve heard it,” Mrs. Newton would groan.
Did it irritate Mrs. Newton that her husband was a genius? He must have been right about everything.
I think being right about everything would be brilliant. For one thing, you’d be rich. You’d win the lottery because you’d know all the numbers. I think if I were rich I’d keep all my money in a big room in a mansion I bought with my winnings. I would make sure that I didn’t have large denominations, though, just small ones to make it look like I had even more money, like the old One Pound notes that they had in England before they changed to the Pound coins.
Why would you have a Ten-Pound note when you could have ten One Pound notes? The One Pound notes were the best. What was the name of that famous English physicist and astronomer pictured on the One Pound note?
There are things you learn on this journey of life that make you say to yourself. “Wow. That can’t be right.” For example: Today is “World Naked Gardening Day.”
I know. It must be some sort of typo, right?
Pretty odd, but a less disturbing celebration than, “World Naked Iron Girder Welding Day” and arguably a more popular event than, “World Naked Slithering Over Shards Of Glass And Rusted Barbed Wire Day.”
I’m assuming all of these special days are slightly less celebrated than say Christmas or a Birthday.
Here are some gardening instruments:
The tools, although loosely based on primitive man’s first efforts to till the soil, also closely resemble devices of torture utilized in a Medieval Spanish dungeon.
So why, oh why would you have these implements of injury anywhere near you while you are naked? It’s bad enough that roses have thorns, but have you ever seen or held a pair of pruning shears? I mean, seriously!
Exposing your body to the dangers of Medieval weaponry and thorny plants is bad enough, but for good measure, let’s throw in the possibility of being stung on your naughty bits by a bee, or bitten by a few mosquitoes. There isn’t an insect repellent in the world that could be strong enough to make me mow the lawn wearing nothing but a cheerful smile. You think a bug spray called “OFF” is going to cut it?
I don’t think so.
My bug spray of choice would have to be called “Insect Restraining Order,” or “Get The Fuck OFF Of Me!”
So just why would anyone want to garden whilst naked? To me, this whole thing stinks of hippies wanting to get in touch with nature: Naked men and women with hair down to their bare asses showing off the kind of hideously under-groomed bodies similar to those depicted in the 1970s illustrated editions of “The Joy Of Sex.”
I’m just wondering, do these hairy horticulturists wear gardening gloves?
Yeah, hippy, for Christ’s sake, be sure to glove and protect those precious green thumbs. Oh, and while you’re pruning the roses don’t forget to trim that bush.
Ugh!
And if a talented gardener has “green thumbs” what does a talented naked gardener possess? Surely something that sounds like a dose of penicillin or a biotic (of the anti variety) might be in order. Or is modern medicine a second-rate tonic? Can’t we just go all Medieval and use a weed whacker?
Here’s a legitimate question: How does one go about getting your own day in which everyone celebrates YOU? I mean, come on, “World Naked Gardening Day???”
How long will it be before there is finally a “World Bay Area Brit Day?”
And on what day should that fall?
I mean, I wouldn’t want “World Bay Area Brit Day” on my birthday, that would be like having your birthday on Christmas Day. (Which must have been a really tough break for Jesus. Of all the dumb luck, the Son of God, born on Christmas Day: A lifetime of getting cheated lay ahead.)
“Well, little Jesus, this wooden mule toy is for both your birthday AND Christmas.”
Of course the three wise men, had all the angles covered:
“This gift of gold is for your birthday. This is frankincense, you know, for Christmas, and then this right here is Myrhh, a balm made from the Commiphora Myrhha plant—a thorny piece of nastiness that probably gave Adam and Eve some seriously painful puncture wounds while they were cavorting around in the Garden of Eden like a couple of hairy hippies.”
Picture if you will, a series of tunnels and tracks that run through the Bay Area, both underground and above it. A place where not everything is what it seems. A place known as…..
Who knows what creatures you might see lurking out the window, tearing at the engine of the train.
When I’m having a rough morning after a late night fight with my wife, I love to bow my head, inhale the “fresh scent” of a BART seat and cry. It smells like dirty hair and things I regret saying while I was drunk.
These ads are everywhere. I care about them enough to make fun of their “awesomer” ability to make up words, but not enough to actually look up the website to see what the bloody hell it’s all about. WORST BART AD EVER!
It’s late, and on the BART platform sits proof that (somewhere) a Chippendale’s dancer is out of uniform.
If “fragile” means, “The suitcase that will crush all other suitcases when coming into sight at baggage claim,” then, yes, this suitcase is indeed “fragile.”
“My bike!!!!!!”……………BART would like to remind cyclists that it is not responsible for bikes parked on BART property.
“I can’t believe this jerk just put his feet up on my seat penning in me in like this. I’m going to tell him off any second now…..I’m just going to give this rude piece of shit a piece of my mind…..Oh, boy he’s going to feel my wrath….I’m just gonna……I’m ……Meh, maybe I’ll just stare wanly into an open space wishing that I had the nerve to say something.”
At least this guy had the sense to keep his feet off the seat.
Get me Bert Goldstein in Hollywood and find out why he hasn’t got me an acting gig in 5 months.
I said, “Ma’am, I don’t think this train goes to Paddington station.” She looked at me like I’m crazy and shuffled away from me. Yeah, like I’m the crazy one.
Always pay attention to the signs on the platform; they often contain information that must be obeyed.
There’s a scene in the film The Terminator when the human-looking robot played by the former Governor of California is asked an inappropriate question. From his point of view, there is a computerized choice of options on how to respond. This is it:
I don’t think I’m special when I say that I do this also. Years of working in the service industry condition one to respond politely and appropriately, even if the question or demand made is inappropriate.
Extreme Example:
“Hey, bartender, who have I got to wave my dick at to get another drink around here?”
Response Choices:
a) “Sorry about that, sir. Same again?”
b) “It sounds like you’ve had enough, pal.”
c) “You’re cut off. Time to go.”
d) “Why don’t you shove it up your gaping ass, you rude motherfucker.”
One evening last week, after I had downed a couple of beers, I went to the Safeway to get some veggies. Before I could shop however, I needed to make a run to the supermarket’s restroom. The bathroom was occupied, and so while waiting, I checked my phone for hilarious Facebook updates. Then I heard a voice about 10 feet behind me say, “Hey, are you going to go number 1 or number 2?”
I ignored the man, partly because I felt 100% sure he must have been talking to his four-year old child.
Again came the question: “Hey, you, wearing the glasses, I said are you going to go number 1 or number 2?”
I slowly turned around.
There was no 4 year-old child, just a 40 year-old man wearing paint-splattered overalls and headphones. Much like The Terminator I quickly reviewed my brain’s “Response Options.”
Because of the nature of the man’s personal question, and the aggressiveness with which he asked, I weighed my responses carefully:
a) “Number I or Number 2??? What are you still in Kindergarten?”
b) “I’m going to take a piss. I’m British, and we don’t do the other thing in public toilets.”
c) “That’s really none of your business.”
d) “Oh my God, I’m going Number 2 and I’m going to destroy that toilet. Pretty sure I shouldn’t have eaten sushi from what looked like a Taco Truck that had ‘condemned by The Health Department’ warning stickers all over it.”
I went with c).
Which, under the circumstances, was a fairly well moderated response.
He came towards me and past me and stood by the bathroom door and said, “No way. If you’re going to go Number 2. I’m going first.”
This was quickly becoming like a scene from Curb Your Enthusiasm: Awkward, confrontational, and the slight chance that fists might get thrown.
I said, “Take it easy, I’m just going to pee.”
The bathroom door opened and I claimed my right to occupy the restroom. As promised, I spent my time in there relieving my bladder. As I washed my hands, I wondered what was going to happen as I left; I could hear the guy badmouthing me to someone else.
“The guy in there’s got a smart mouth. Typical Cracker.”
“Cracker?” I thought. What the hell?
The man that confronted me was as white as I am…okay, I’m British, obviously he was not QUITE as white as I am.
I opened the door and he was slightly blocking the doorway and said, “Oh, can I use it now?”
“Sure,” I said. ”Enjoy,”
“I will,” he said.
I headed to the produce aisle in a state of stunned semi-amusement. Are we done? Or when I go and stand in line with my veggies to pay, will he try and push past me and insist that if I’m buying broccoli he’d better go first?
Thankfully I didn’t see him again.
Afterwards, I kind of felt emboldened for standing up for myself. The guy was obviously a bully, and years of service industry conditioning has made me kowtow to demanding people.
In situations like this, I invariably walk away thinking “I just wish I’d said…….this…….or that…..” Or later I would likely think of a response that would have been a clever and brilliant put-down.
But setting the man straight and letting him know that what he was asking was inappropriate made me feel pretty good. Plus, I didn’t get punched in the mouth, which is also a bonus when dealing with a bully.
I am compiling some of my stories into a collection called “Inappropriate Behavio(u)r” and this one may or may not make the cut. I already have a pretty good story about waiting in line for a restroom, and I surely don’t want to make it seem as if The Bay Area Brit spends his free time loitering around public bathrooms for material.
So I know that this kind of thing is always a sensitive subject, but I’m going to run with it and face the consequences of your opinions. In some cases I will be taken to task and enlightened, and in other cases I will probably be misunderstood. For the most part The Bay Area Brit avoids serious issues. I try and keep things loose, and ideally I like you to leave my little home here with a smile on your face.
So here it is: The New York Knicks have a player that has come from the sporting equivalent of nowhere to become a sensation. Jeremy Lin dominated February’s basketball headlines and became the darling of New York. In the biggest city in America, he rose above the pressures and created an overnight success story. Fans held signs punning Lin’s name. “Lin-Sanity” was popular, “Lin-credible,” “Lin-spirational” etc etc.
Some of them were funny and some were clever, but I didn’t see any that were offensive.
David Letterman even did a Top 10 List. However, things took an ugly turn when pun turned to slur. An ESPN headline writer penned the words “A CHINK IN THE ARMOR” when Lin’s winning streak came to an end.
Now I’m not particularly sensitive or “politically correct” for that matter, but using a derogatory word like “Chink” in referring to a player of Chinese ancestry cannot possibly be accidental—like the writer pleaded.
I’m guessing he thought he was being funny. He failed—miserably.
I know. I often fail miserably when trying to be funny, but then, no one and I mean NO ONE expects me to be serious or educate my audience. And since my audience is so much smaller, the expectations for me to be responsible are lessened.
Okay, so here’s a joke:
Jeremy Lin has come from such obscurity that if you Googled his name a month ago, a mid-level computer programmer at Microsoft would have popped up first.
Can I even say that?
Firstly, I think we can agree that the joke isn’t that funny. And it’s not, unfunny because it’s particularly offensive. It’s just not funny because it’s not funny.
Also, the thing about a joke like that is that while the Google search statement might be true, it might be deemed as offensive because it hits on a stereotype: Asians are smart.
Okay, admittedly not a very negative stereotype but one nonetheless.
So how far is too far?
I thought I had a rough idea, but when I saw the story below, I realized I just don’t know, any more.
Last week, Ben & Jerry’s felt they had to apologize for their latest Ice-Cream Flavor. Here’s a breakdown of my immediate reaction: “Uh-oh what did those dopey stoners do now?”
Then after reading more, I discovered that they called their new flavor, “Taste The Lin-Sanity.”
So I thought, “Did Ben & Jerry’s offend an advocacy group that works for the rights of the mentally ill? Is that why they had to apologize? No, that can’t be it.”
Then: “Ooh, what about the ingredients? Maybe the ice-cream contains some of that bright red, shiny, dead duck that you see hanging in the windows of some Chinese markets and restaurants.” I half expected to see the words: “Shiny, Red Duck Bits and Plum-Caramel Swirls.”
That wouldn’t be the worst ice-cream flavor I had ever heard of.
So it turns out the ingredients were: “Vanilla frozen yogurt, Lychee honey, and fortune cookie chips” I was still kind of at a loss…yeah, I guess that could be a little offensive…then I thought, is that really the reason? Is there more to this? Maybe they were apologizing because the flavor (much like my joke earlier) wasn’t any good.
Now here’s where I may be offending my Chinese readers. Are Chinese people really offended by the use of fortune cookies in an ice cream flavor? Or is this the work of politically correct, white people that think Asians would or should be offended? Which, in a way, if that’s the case, actually offends me.
I really don’t know. I guess I’m asking…throwing it out there…waiting to be informed. Why is this so awful?
There are Chinese-owned restaurants all over the world with the name “Fortune Cookie” in it. I still get fortune cookies when I order Chinese food. And sometimes they’re actually clever.
Please bear in mind my philosophy: I try to poke fun at everyone, and I do it as much as I make fun of my people, and myself. I openly embrace the modern British stereotype that we are beer-guzzling, soccer hooligans that have bad teeth. I get it.
The Asian community has embraced Jeremy Lin with pride…and rightly so; he’s the ultimate underdog, and he is the first American basketball star of Chinese descent, but his success has nothing to do with his race or his ancestry.
The gray areas of racism are just that: caught between the black and white. It’s just such a touchy subject, and people’s opinions differ so strongly on it that it’s difficult in that gray area to truly know what is right or wrong.
I know in my heart I have to feel comfortable with what I say or what I think. I have my own boundaries, but I don’t like being censored or told “I can’t say that,” but at the same time, I am willing to listen to both sides of the argument, and especially if it is done articulately and intelligently and without any name-calling.
Meanwhile, here’s a young man who went back to work this week. He already has enough nicknames, but whatever, he’s the real deal. Go Giants!
Ladies and gentlemen, friends and enemies…It’s time to be baffled and amazed as The Bay Area Brit takes you on a quick journey of San Franciscan self-deprecation to lows you’ve never seen before, unless you’ve spent time kissing the rain gutters of this fair city.
Picture if you will, a sprightly jaunt, two blocks downhill on Fillmore Street to my former favorite haunt, (what was once) the greatest English pub San Francisco has ever seen: The Mad Dog In The Fog.
The days were daring, my friend. I saw myself as single and carefree. Nothing concerned my idle ways. Beer was my love during these saddest of times. Sure, I loved my female, beer-buddy sidekick, as I always do—whoever fills those shoes. The female sidekick allowed me to have the feminine companionship I craved without the complications that came in a “relationship.”
If one staggers around alone after a few too many pints, the chances are quite high that a bad choice in decision-making is around the corner. The female sidekick deters you from such moments of poor judgment—especially in the amour department. Because ultimately, one of the jobs of the sidekick, is to call you on your drunken shit, like when you’re in a darkened corner with what you thought was a hot chick but turns out to be an ATM machine.
Armed with a stack of cash, I told the bartender that I wanted to drink one of every single one of the 21 different varieties of beer on tap. I would start with the first tap and make my way around. If you think I’m kidding, you do not know The Bay Area Brit.
The bartender knew me, and while my statement of intent was met with a raised eyebrow, she wouldn’t have to decide for an hour or two just when she would have to cut me off.
The plan (excuse for trying this) was to assess each of the beers on tap and review them. There were many that I had never tasted. The smart thing to do would have been to sample the beer I had never tried first, so I would definitely know if I had discovered a new favorite brew. Scratch that: The smart thing to do would be not to attempt this dumb feat at all.
I ordered the first beer and took a sip and felt my phone buzz. It was my female sidekick: a feisty, pretty, young sparkplug named Corie. I told her what I was attempting.
“This I’ve got to see,” she said. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”
“You had better hurry then,” I laughed.
Corie showed up sporting a massive grin, and hopped on the barstool next to me.
“So what beer are you on now?” I raised one hand with some fingers extended.
“Four! You’re only at four?”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“They close in six hours, you’d better pick it up a bit.”
The funny thing was, Corie made no attempt to talk me out of this. For her, this would be fun, well at least until I became indecipherable. The bartender knew at this point that she wouldn’t have to cut me off. Corie and I lived a few blocks apart and she would make sure I got home safely. Although in retrospect: I had eight inches and probably eighty pounds on Corie. How would she carry me two blocks uphill?
In my mind, having Corie there with me somehow legitimized what I was doing as fun and not insanely stupid. Had she not been there, I would have been just another sad and depressed drunken Englishman, hell bent on self-destruction because he could never find a girfriend that would a) put up with him, or b) that he loved being with as much as his favorite sidekick.
For the next few hours during The Tap-To-Tap Challenge, Corie and I laughed, while I sank further and further into inebriation. As she always did, when she’d had a few beers, she would try and stick a finger in my ear or try to put a digit up my nose or grab my hand and make me slap myself. I never knew why she would want to do this (or put her finger in these places), but the wrestling that would ensue would make sure we burst into foolish drunken laughter.
After a while, (I was trying to choke down Beer #15) I could sense Corie was getting bored, because I hadn’t made any progress from Beer #14 to #15 in half an hour. I believe #15 was a hearty, brown bitter served at room temperature. There was no way this was going to go down and stay down.
I wasn’t feeling so great. I slurred to Corie that I had trained my whole life for this moment. How was it possible that I couldn’t do this?
Corie said, “Come on let’s get you home.” I vaguely remember taking a long route back home falling upwards, while Corie guided me laughing hysterically as she negotiated a comparative giant noodle of a human up the hill.
The next morning, through the cobwebs of a brutal hangover, I knew what Corie had done. She knew that I needed help, and she knew that she could never talk me out of my foolish attempt, and so she came down to the pub, not just to keep me company, but to make sure that I was going to be all right at the end of it.
A few weeks after the Tap-To-Tap Challenge, Corie and I would be side-kicking it together at The Mad Dog when I would be introduced to my future wife: A woman who has now become my ultimate partner and sidekick. A combination I didn’t think was possible. Corie was also with me a couple of months later when my future wife and I negotiated our “first-date” situation.
Corie told me later that while she was happy for me, she was sad, because she knew that it was the end of “us” as we knew it.
Not only was it the end of “us,” it was the end of me needing a female sidekick to save me from myself.
Two weeks ago, at the age of 34, Corie Woods suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. I don’t know how or why it happened. At the time of writing this, I don’t believe there are any definite answers.
I have a hundred wonderful memories of time spent with her. The Tap-To-Tap Challenge was perhaps the silliest. She was as special to me as she was to everyone who knew her.
About a year ago, I was coming home on the BART late at night and witnessed what most people would characterize as unusual behavior: A young man was animatedly acting out two sides of a conversation. There was no one else in that particular car except me, and I immediately felt uncomfortable.
He occasionally looked over at me with a stare that said, “What’s your problem?”
Or it might have been: “Why are you eavesdropping on my conversation?”
Or…perhaps it was: “This is a conversation between A and B, so why don’t you ‘C’ your way out of it.” He, of course, was both “A” AND “B.”
Had he actually said that, I would of course have said, “I would be ‘D’-elighted.” and moved to the next car on the train.
I witnessed this man do this on seven or eight different nights in the space of three weeks. However, after the first time, I knew better than to sit in the same car. When I saw that same bright red Cincinnati Reds baseball cap sitting atop the young man chattering away to himself (sometimes quite angrily) I strategically sat in the next carriage over, although, I could watch him gesturing as if playing out a scene or confrontation that had just occurred.
If you’re thinking to yourself, “Mr. Bay Area Brit, have you never heard of a bluetooth headset? Maybe he was talking to another person on the phone.”
I can assure you this wasn’t the case.
Around the same period this was going on, a string of violent, armed robberies had been taking place in the East Bay. One store clerk: an Asian man in his sixties was in a hospital in serious condition after receiving a blow to his head from the butt of a handgun. There had been around six or seven robberies all committed by the same young man.
Police believed the robber would hit stores in different towns near BART stations, so he could leave the area quickly. Police described him as a male, African-American, mid-to late-twenties wearing a red Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. He also had a scar on the right side of his face. The consensus of the employees that had been working when he struck described him as having an “agitated manner.” He was also considered “armed and dangerous.”
If you can imagine a visualization of the word “agape” that was me, as I stared at my computer screen. Heart pounding out of my chest.
I had to know if it was the same man. Did my schizophrenic-conversationalist have a scar on the right side of his face? There was only one way I was going to find out.
Later that night, I waited on the platform nervously. Would he be on my BART train? Some nights he hadn’t been. He didn’t seem to have a set schedule, and I was rarely waiting at the exact same time on the platform. The train’s headlights were drawing near and I was getting antsy.
Dare I do this?
The train arrived and slowed to a stop, and there it was: the Cincinnati Reds hat. The doors opened and I got on. I swear my heart was about to explode. I looked over at him. “Excuse me, is this the San Francisco train?”
He glanced towards me, irritatedly. “Yeah.”
And there it was: a scar on the right side of his face. As I sat there (choosing a seat far away from him) I suddenly got scared. What the fucking hell am I doing? I’m like the COMPLETE opposite of courageous. This is nuts! But I had to know whether this was the man that had been terrorizing innocent people.
I knew, with a gut feeling that I cannot explain, that THIS was him. Maybe he had committed another robbery this very night. Maybe by not contacting the police this man had hurt, or maybe KILLED someone tonight.
Oh my God. Why had I waited? I had read the article almost a week earlier and this was him. Could it be possible, because of my hesitancy, a family would be grieving the loss of a loved one? Because of ME!
Oh FUCK!
I rushed home and wrote down the police contact number at the end of the article. The next morning I awoke with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and reached for the phone.
“Yes, I’m calling because I think I have seen a suspect in a series of armed robberies.” I was nervous. I might have to be called to identify this man, maybe be a witness of some sort. What was I doing? I didn’t want to get involved with this. But I had to. I had already waited longer than I should. I was put on hold while they located the detective on the case. I was patched through. I explained my story to the detective.
“Got him.” the detective said.
“Oh, you did?”
“Yeah, three nights ago.”
“Oh, my God. Oh wow! Thank God for that. So it’s definitely the right guy then?” It wasn’t my guy on the train after all.
“Yep, definitely him. So if you see your guy on the train again, you can sit next to him without worrying.”
At the time, the detective’s comment didn’t register. I was just so relieved that they had got the guy and that my inaction hadn’t led to a tragedy. I thanked the detective and got off the phone.
“you can sit next to him?” What’s that about?
And then I realized what he was saying. The detective misunderstood my relief. He thought that I had been scared for my own safety.
I wanted to call him back and explain myself. “No, you don’t understand. I genuinely BELIEVED this was the guy and I had DELIBERATELY put myself in harm’s way to discover whether this was the right guy.”
I of course didn’t call the detective back.
Under the sense of relief and the feeling that I had done the “right thing.” It bothered me that I had been thought of as a coward because I was so relieved. But then I noticed that the sun was shining and it was a beautiful Bay Area morning.
You know what… if I see that Cincinnati Reds baseball cap tonight on the BART, maybe I WILL sit next to him.
BART continues to be a source of amusement for the pic-and-caption team at The Bay Area Brit. I hope that you feel the same way.
The BART station agent’s financial woes are aired for everyone to see. However, if BART paid him more money maybe he would stay in his little booth the whole shift like he’s supposed to.
I keep seeing these ads on the BART platforms everywhere. I know when I’m scraping together the $2.75 to take BART in the morning, I often think to myself: “I should just donate my luxury yacht to some page 3 pin-up dressed like Donald Duck.” Really?
Speaking of ads: Why did the people that paid for the Judgment Day Warning posters pay to have their ads run through the end of July? Silly rapture-wanters.
This young man takes a heroin nap during the evening commute to San Francisco. He will wake up three hours later in Richmond and will have somehow lost his wallet, his ID, his sunglasses, and his Nikes.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen this happen, people.
A Female commuter regrets her decision to partake in “Take A Convict To Work Day” when he tells her that he’s never really known true love before…until now.
You know I just couldn’t resist
If you missed the first one, click below, and don’t be shy with a comment if you liked it, hated it, or are in one of the pictures and want your silly face blurred.
A few years ago, I was on the N Judah returning home after a Saturday night of drunken debauchery out in the avenues. It was a bright, Sunday June morning, not unlike any other beautiful San Francisco day. I was trying to remember the name of the woman I had woken up next to…Svetlana? No…maybe it was Caterina…something Russian. I think. I remembered that much at least.
As the train approached the tunnel to head downtown, I noticed a large, colorful crowd of people waiting to get on at Church and Duboce. At the time, the only people on the N Judah was your hungover Bay Area Brit (sporting a silly grin), the driver, and an old Asian woman.
As we drew closer, I could see that there had to be 200 people eagerly waiting. Although they were 100 yards away, I could sense their excitement.
We’re gonna need a bigger train!
The N Judah pulled in to the stop and suddenly the Asian lady and I were inundated with 100 or so gay revelers. Of course! Well that would explain why it was such a beautiful day: Gay Pride was happening this weekend…. and not only that, it was happening on our train.
I love Gay Pride. It’s a great time to celebrate the many diversities of life and love.
After about 2 minutes of riding, a chant came from the back of the train: “WE’RE HERE, WE’RE QUEER, GET USED TO IT!” A hundred grown adults chanting in unison.
These gay brothers and sisters seemed angry, and were doing that fist-pumping and pointing thing. I’ve been to soccer matches in England where hooligans were less intimidating. I looked over at the Asian woman and thought, are they chanting at us? What did we do wrong? And if they’re not aiming it at us, then who are they chanting at?
I thought of Lisa Simpson’s smiling response while watching the Gay Pride parade in Springfield:
“YOU DO THIS EVERY YEAR, WE ARE USED TO IT!”
Was it that obvious that I was straight and not “one of them?” I thought about chanting along with them and encouraging the old Asian woman to join in. What I really wanted to offer was an alternative chant:
“I’M STRAIGHT. I WAS OUT LATE. STOP YELLING AT ME.” Quickly followed by: ”I HAVE A REALLY BAD HANGOVER….BUT I SUPPORT YOUR RIGHT TO CELEBRATE!”
I got off of the train at Powell and felt kind of strange. Because I was not wearing the colors of the proud, did they think that meant that I was against them? Maybe the driver was their target?
Either way, that moment stuck in my head because for the first time in a while, I felt like I was the conservative guy that wasn’t cool–an outsider. I thought about it and realized that many of these people moved to San Francisco so that they could safely express themselves without fear of being targeted, and so for a brief minute I didn’t mind appearing to be the straight, uptight outsider that wasn’t part of the cool gang.
Happy Gay Pride Weekend To All My Brothers and Sisters!
Memorial Day: In Britain we have the BBC In the U.S. we have the BBQ. Once again, two countries separated by a single letter of the alphabet 1 week ago
