Sweep It Under The Carpet

It may look like a standard vacuum cleaner. In fact, neatly poised in its upright state, against a finely polished hardwood floor, backdropped by some carefully chosen display items and essential cocktail wares, this hoover suggests that life we're all striving for. It purrs, "Look at what I've done to this home and I'd love to do it to yours. I'd love to caress it into  the same smiling, humming domestic bliss." The bastard is lying to your face. 

The swine you see before you played no part in the clean floor it rests on. In fact, should it move from its spot, it would vomit whatever god awful mess it had finally, after near endless backbreaking  to-ing and fro-ing, deemed to wheeze up into its incontinent paper bladder it feebly tries not to prolapse out of its rear. Nothing is more frustrating than a machine that fails to do what's it's designed to, failing to fulfill its one earthly function.

Every component of The World's Worst Hoover (TWWH) is poorly designed. The lever, that is supposed to adjust the height setting so it can fail to grapple with either a hard surface or a carpet, barely raises or lowers the limp-wristed bristles; so they collectively have a fey attitude toward the dirt as if it's an affront it their very existence to get involved.

 

Infuriatingly, a passing butterfly must have landed on the hook the power cord wrapped around causing it to snap off. Even whilst stored TWWH made a mess by flailing its woefully short cable length from its temporary mooring around the suction (I use the word generously) tube.  Storage became yet more farcical  with the complete failure of the designers to consider ensuring that the built housing for the "useful" additional cleaning attachments was both correctly sized and there was sufficient space available for all of them.

Note how the tubes Leaning -Tower- Of-Pisa-it away from the main body of TWWH

The suction tube itself was of course also woefully short. The limited cable length meant that the not-cleaning of each room involved repeated changing of power outlets to be able to not-clean or let's find the positive here,  successfully redistribute dirt and dust around the flat. You may also have noticed that the plug pins are made of inferior metal making necessary to readjust each before they would fit back into a wall socket. 

 

TWWH's lack of conviction, lack of enthusiasm or perhaps total lack of self-belief sunk to such low ebbs of despair that it became necessary to bypass the bristles altogether.  Detaching the suction hose from the lower casing meant there was an option to apply the ill-fitting attachments. Seeing as doing this meant listening to a depressed sigh of air lethargically huff out of the join the only option was to apply the tube to the surface in need of cleaning. Remember that both the tube and the cable were too short, so this meant getting down on hands and knees to scrape away at the dust and hope that something made its way up and into the inbuilt colostomy bag. This is where TWWH displayed its skills, infuriatingly either flouncing itself to the floor falling sideways and crashing noisely to the ground or more often, smack itself against its user. I hated this bloody machine. 

TWWH's colostomy bag

TWWH's had one final spiteful trick to play. One that got it so close to being thrown threw the window, down to the concrete four floors below. Perhaps it was its dying wish or death rattle but the little shit somehow found energy to suck in on itself so that the suction tube became its own black hole, collapsing in on itself at its base where it met the body of the cleaner. TWWH was never able to successfully draw one fleck of dust into its bag but it had the power to implode the diameter of its own plastic. What a git.

The bristles holding the dust they will merrily distribute back onto the next carpet they meet

Getting irritated with an inanimate object is made the more infuriating because you can't reason with it, you can't beat the crap out of it even if you want to. There's only one way to win. Get rid of the damn thing. That'll show it. It was a satisfying day when TWWH was frogmarched out of the apartment and down to the bins. There it was made to stand in the corner, in the bin, shamed for all to see until collection day. TWWH may you rot in landfill hell for all eternity.

Waste

I know how he feels

In These Modern Times We're Not Always So Forward Thinking

San Francisco, home of free love, hippies, the people society spurns and everyone in between. The city is accepted as the most liberal, the most tolerant of all US cities; perhaps even the world. Yet  its lawmakers voted to ban nudity in public places. On the same day back home in London, the General Synod, governing body of the Anglican Church, voted against women bishops. Now I'm not a nudist (I can't think of anything worse than going out in public with my dangly bits for all to see) nor am I a Christian but it seems to me that a few naked people and a few female bishops will neither corrupt society nor destroy faith.

The Danglies

The first time I heard about the nudists (sadly usually men) who regularly hangout on San Francisco street corners, I was only surprised that it went on. I was not appalled, insulted or corrupted. I was made aware of this phenomena in SF by a friend who passed by them each day as she went about her business and had to change from a bus to tram right by where the danglies hang. She told me with great glee what she saw. She's a happily married mother of two.

In fact the only thing that's offensive about the oldies is their direct insight into Mother Nature's ravages on the human body.  Age comes to us all and while we all know things tend to go south as we age, I now know that  a man's nutsack and elements held therein seem to grow both in density and depth as time goes by. On the plus side, at least it's the one place no one notices any new wrinkles. This offense though doesn't seem to deter the tourists who pose for photos or the majority of locals who just walk on by. So who really is offended? In recent years there's been a precedent of vocal minority in the US holding greater sway in the public debate than their tiny support base justifies. Yes, Tea Party, I'm referring to you.

True, there's an argument that nudism in unhygienic, which is understandable. Currently the city law states that a piece of cloth must separate their nakedness from any public seat. Sounds fair. Who wants skid marks on a bench?

Protesters against the ban outside City Hall

As of February 1st 2013 anyone '...exposing his or her genitals, perineum or anal region in the listed public areas" will be breaking the law. But are a small group of men hanging out in their birthday suits, reading newspapers, drinking coffee, chatting and happily posing for photos with tourists really doing any harm? San Fransisco has a chronic homeless problem with many addicted to drugs, denied medical care, unable to feed themselves and struggling to live day to day. There's significant crime in the city too. Both issues should be the focus of the city's attention and not a group of people who frankly look ridiculous but amuse many, baffle a lot and offend very few. 

Trolleys are a common on the streets; used by the homeless to transport their worldly goods

In the 21st century people still bicker about and are offended by the the naked human form as if the story from the Garden of Eden and its serpent was true. Whatever finally happens, the city has chosen to ban nudity but appeals may be successful, ultimately that's the way democracy works and people should accept its decisions. 

However, in the case of the Church of England, banning women bishops is ridiculous. It is backward thinking, small minded, sexist, misogynistic nonsense. It is an institution that has a woman, The Queen, as its head. It is an institution who's numbers are dropping dramatically year on year and who's very existence  or at least relevance is under threat. It is an institution that maintains its role in the government of the United Kingdom as bishops still sit in the House of Lords. For this reason alone, the Church should be obliged to admit women as bishops. 

The Archbishop of York speaks in the House of Lords

Most of all it is simply for sanity's sake that the Church should admit women bishops. It already has female vicars. There is no other group that denies women the right to progress amongst its ranks, at least none that will openly admit it. The West condemns extremist muslim regimes for its treatment of and its restrictions placed on women. This is not a dissimilar, albeit far less less extreme, oppression. 

It is ironic that on the same day in the 21st century,  one city decides to revoke its liberal tolerance of a small minority who are happy to exist in the world as God intended whereas another, supposedly representative of God on Earth, once again choose to endorse the suppression of women. Man was made in God's image. If that is literal and doesn't include women, then I challenge God on his wisdom. After all if we were all made in God's image, we were, according to the Bible, naked and unclothed. God's image is not a hipster in tight jeans, a golf pro in sports jacket, a rapper draped bling or  James Bond playing poker in a swanky Monte Carlo casino. The only image that unites as all is the gangly, dangly one that we all share, whether we're male or female. 

 

 The Castro Theatre manager objects

Obama Has It

It's been two weeks since the election finally came to pass. The race for the White House had been going since The Missus and I moved to the US and now at last, it's finished. Up to mid-October the Republicans and the Democrats spent a combined total of  $30.33 per second on their rallies, handouts and TV adverts. After over $1.7 billion spent, Obama was returned to the White House as statistician Nate Silver said he would be. Mr Silver's  near mathematical certainty was correct. The relief that Obama won has been expressed all over the city but so too has despair, exhaustion, disillusionment and anger at the process, the campaigns and the record breaking expenditure. It may not be any consolation to either parties but one thing that has been achieved, outside of Nate Silver's predictions,  is that this Englishman has reevaluated how he sees the US, the Presidency, and the process and politics back home.

Much has been made of the rivalries between Mitt Romney and President Obama. The campaign was  fought bitterly but the rhetoric from Obama himself was more often than not measured, calm and reasoned. Romney unfortunately chose a more partisan route and this may have been one of the reasons he lost. A striking example of the difference between the two camps' approaches came from Michelle Obama appearing on The Late Show With David Letterman. She deftly avoided the host's attempts at soliciting a disparaging remark at the Republican campaign and its vitriol, choosing instead to stress that watching as much as possible of both parties' conventions was what's important and encouraging all Americans to go out and vote, regardless of which candidate they decided to vote for. 

Having worked hard to prise opinion out of the locals there was and still is extreme anger levelled at the sniping between both parties and the lack of progress made at both state and federal levels. This anger could have lead to many deciding not to vote but when election day finally came around Americans queued to register their ballot.  It took me by surprise just how enthusiastic they were to do so. People wore their "I VOTED" stickers with pride. People engaged with the political process by waiving placard on streets, eager to convince any of those undecided to vote their way. Hundreds of volunteers headed to campaign headquarters to handout fliers and, at a Democratic centre I visited, volunteers, mainly twenty-somethings phoned battleground states to convince the key swing electorate to vote Obama. At the Democratic HQ in San Francisco, 32,000 calls has been placed by 2pm; over 6000 calls an hour. I saw people walk in off the streets to volunteer their time, helping the last push in any way they could.

The enormous campaigns ended up being decided by relatively small numbers of voters in the swing states of Florida, Virginia, Massachusetts and of course Ohio. Ohio, a state where for the majority of the time everyone just flies over, ignoring it's existence as it's just one of the square ones in the middle. Yet, come election time, the world's media descends and its good folk get to decide the fate of the nation, almost single-handedly.

 The importance of voters at grassroots had never been so apparent. The significance of  the exercise of voting, even in San Francisco, a city in  a state that both always "go democrat", citizens wanted to get involved. For an election that has not just a local or national but global impact, it was striking how almost lo-fi it was. Used to voting in the UK, a country at best apathetic to its own political process and used to voting in schools closed for the day, I was struck by how homely and local the US election felt. Not just because it was about the people but also for the physical location of polling stations. I searched for two near the apartment and headed down to take a look.

The first I visited was in a spit and sawdust gym. Booths had been installed down one side and as people pondered their candidate of choice on the other, children noisily took their taekwondo class. Giving out the ballots were two high school students and an adult supervisor.  It's odd enough walking into a school to vote, with the aromas of wood polished for decades and the faint smell of school dinner still clinging in the air, instantly transporting you back to your old school days. Voting in sweaty backstreet gym bring the process down to a different level again.   Whereas youth voters in the UK are disengaged with the political process, here we have those not even old vote getting involved. In fact it was the youth vote, along with women and the non-white demographic who secured the election for Obama. UK, take note.

One block over from the apartment, in a someone's garage, I found the second local polling station. Apart from running for office, I'm hard pushed to imagine a more direct example of involvement than giving up your house on election day. Still, people turned up to the surreal venue, casting their ballot amoungst the tools, drill bits and bikes suspended from the garage walls. The election, followed by so many people internationally, suddenly seemed quite literally, homely.

Note the nice touch of a portaloo (portapotty)

 Not only were Californians asked to vote on the Presidency but, like a few other states, California has a form of direct democracy. This means that any motion can be added to the ballot as a proposition should its supporters collect a number of signatures on a petition equating to 8% or more of the amount of people who voted in the incumbent governor. This leads to the ballot being a numbing five pages.  Some chose to educate themselves on each proposition. Some, like two guys I overheard, devised more elaborate means, such as an intricate system based on their favourite Thai restaurant menu.

Being on the West Coast, it didn't take long on election night for the result to come through. In fact, polls were still open in California when it was called for Obama and plans of watching the results come through in a bar were dashed. If I could have voted, I would have voted for Obama so in a way, I saw my candidate win.

Suddenly the obscene rallies and flag waving; the hysteria when Obama is in town, made sense. Obama delivered a jaw-droppingly rousing and patriotic victory speech. He was the hero again. Two years ago, with a view from England, I thought there was something obscene about the US election rallies. There's nothing like them in the UK and so my only reference were the Nazis rallies in the 1930s. Yet looking at them from within the US, they're no different to the X-Factor. I would much rather people became worked up and near hysterical over their politicians than a group of pubescent teenagers singing karaoke. May be, just may be, the UK misses out by not having the same spark surrounding its political elite.

So, after watching my first full US election cycle, I hang my head in a little bit of shame for the times that I have jeered, sneered and mocked Americans for their elections. Americans aren't stupid, far from it. In fact it is almost as if tarnishing America as a country of ill-informed rednecks, hill-billies and hicks, is an acceptable face of racism. Perhaps their electoral system is not perfect but then neither is the UK's.  Certainly a lot more people in the US are engaged and passionate about their politics but theirs is culture where, however infuriating it may be, they choose not to discuss it. 
 

Riders Ride At Their Own Risk

Take a bus. Take the train. Get a bike. Walk. Whatever you do, leave your car at home. In London and San Francisco both citizens and local government have begun to transform their transport culture so that the car is left at home. Those that do insist on driving are, in some circles, becoming social pariahs like the smoking lepers at a party who raise eyebrows from their clean living friends as they head outside for a draw. 

After my bike was stolen getting around the city was either on foot or by public transport. The MUNI, SF's bus network, compared to London's red buses, provides cheap relatively rapid movement around the city. $2 for a two hour ride with interchanges compared to London's £2.30 ($3.70). Yet what's the real cost? Travelling on route 22 it would seem could cost you your life.

It's wise to pay attention to any natural instinct and after a couple of unpleasant experiences on the 22 I usually opt for the alternative more sedate, less incredibly-noisy-school-children infected 24 to take me to the sunnier microclimates of San Francisco. Yet as I headed to try out a new hairdressers, my barnet having grown back into its natural mushroom shape and my vanity winning out, I gave the 22 another shot (the irony) as the route took me a good 200 meters closer to my destination than the alternative. 

Loaded up with old episodes of The Thick Of It, I was looking forward to twenty minutes of "us" time with my iPhone. Disappointed but not shocked that the bus was already rammed when I boarded (so busy in fact that when fellow riders tried to get off there's a very disconcerting bodily brush). Still, I rhesus-monkeyed myself to one of the suspended handrails and bedded in. Let it be said that in London, no matter how packed the tube or bus, inadvertent intimate brushing never happens. Accidental foot clashes do occur and they are met with stoney stare, nothing more. It is testament to how much effort is exerted by each passenger that no body part should touch.

Standing room only

Having only just adopted my primate pose a lady at the back of the bus vacated her seat. Deftly swinging down I flipped my iPhone into life and began looking forward to some inspired Malcolm Tucker swearing

It was with some surprise that before the first f-bomb was dropped I internally launched my own, "Oh **** I've sat next to a tramp and now I'm trapped!" This may sound callous but sitting next to one of San Francisco's many vagrants is never a pleasant experience but can usually be born out unless they start shouting obscenities in your face, smell particularly bad or in this instance, spend the journey clearing out whatever a hard life on the streets leaves at the back of the throat and around the mouth.

 My fellow rider was making the kind of deep hacking, gagging noise Premiership footballers like to make before they take a penalty kick. This thorough personal mining was followed each time with a slow half-regurgitation half post dental-work spit and drool into a newspaper. The process was constantly repeated to be occasionally interrupted by a quick brush around with a dry toothbrush. Feeling horrified at these kinds of encounters is always balanced out with a sense of shock and pity. How can someone eventually find themselves in such a position? "There but for the grace of God go I."

I turned up my iPhone and pretended it was happening. Fourteen years of Tube travel has at least taught me something.

My orally conscious back of the bus companion was nothing to what was about to transpire. Commotion by the bus stop only encouraged me to turn up the volume still further, dismissing the noise as nothing more than excitable kids letting off steam after lessons. Noisy yes, mildly irritating too but not even the hardiest of curmudgeons can really deny a group of kids having a bit of fun.

The noise got louder and the shouts filtered over the paid-off ranting I was trying listen to on my phone. Natural instinct kicked in again as the muscle of noise sounded less fun more fight. Flashes of movement out the corner of my eye rung true with what I was hearing. The unmistakable flail of a real fight, of long, swinging, over reaching limbs as arms and legs fly forward, heads and torsos seemingly pulled back by the unseen gravity of fear. The bundle of arms and legs moved around the bus and was suddenly behind, in the middle of the road. A boy, no more than 16, was pushed to the ground face carved into the concrete by determined hands. "School bullies are here too," I thought.

Another passenger, one that had brushed their teeth before boarding shouted, "That kid's got a gun" and sure enough as I looked closer those mass of limbs were not attacking the boy but trying to force him down, extend his arm and take out of his hand what I could not believe to be true but was, a handgun. A handgun pointing straight at the back of the bus. Let it not be forgotten, exactly where I was sitting.

Girls screamed to the movement of a panicked run up the street and the bus pulled away. Not soon enough for my liking. All I could think of is drive, drive and keep driving. Sandra Bullock would have kept going, why couldn't this driver?

I left the bus not long afterwards and just as the adrenaline had flooded every part of my body. I stood shaking on the street. I called The Missus. I needed to talk to someone about what I'd just seen. Five years of living in the East End of London and I'd never seen anything like this and in the middle of the afternoon. I wondered was it a real gun? What if it had fired? Would the shell of a bus absorb a bullet? Who would have gotten shot? What if one of the kids who tried to disarm the other got shot? Did I see their faces? Could I make a statement? Should I have called the police?

Like a true Brit and like everyone else on that bus, I carried on my day. I got my haircut.

I explained to the hairdresser what I'd witnessed. It was both infuriating and comforting that he was nonplussed. Comforting because his matter-of-factness let the adrenaline leave my body and brought me back down. Infuriating at first not only because I was in shock and wanted to be treated accordingly but has America really come to a place where gun crime is a part of every day life? Where a child with a gun is accepted as just one of those things. Where everyone has a story to tell about a gun incident? This is what the hairdresser argued. Refusing to bring politics into the discussion as so many deliberately and depressingly do, he insisted that guns are part of life and that, the gun was "probably from Oakland anyway!"

I shall be asking around to see if the hairdresser's opinion is shared by others. I hope not. In the meantime my brief experience has changed my view of the city. Made me more aware of those around and, more nervous. I can only imagine the feelings of anyone who's been involved in an actual gun crime. Those people have my sympathy now more so than ever.

As a parting thought, the hairdresser reminded me that you see all sorts on mass transit in the city and suggested I watch this video. I'm not sure who I'm more afraid of, the kid with a gun or ninja-bus-lady. I'm just pleased I've got a new bike and I take my own risks.

From Sea Level to 4,000ft: Part II 4,000ft

Mount Diablo Summit

Having spent the best part of Saturday at sea level, Sunday took on loftier heights. Whilst there had been aspirations to ride high with a new kite down at the beach, these didn't quite take off. The day was divided into two halves offering two of my favourite things. Firstly, a trip outdoors for a picnic as the temperatures soared in the East Bay. Secondly, another tick-off in the bucket list, a flying lesson. Many thanks to The Missus for an excellent Christmas present. 

Mt Diablo State Park but could easily be the Glastonbury boundary 2010

Reaching 3849 ft, Mount Diablo offers views stretching some two hundred miles. Mount Diablo State Park is 20,000 acres of rolling hills topped off with the mountain's double pyramid. The terrain in April, still lush green from the winter rains, took me straight back to the early morning annual Wednesday pilgrimage to the Glastonbury Festival. I could have easily been in Somerset driving (car full of tents, booze and gazebos) to that haloed land. For the first time in a long time, I had a real knot of homesickness for the English countryside as strains of "Jerusalem" and Elgar's "Nimrod" flooded out from my mind's left and right speakers. 

The actor Patrick Stewart, ham that he is, once described how, on hearing "Nimrod" while driving in LA, had to pull his car over, so overcome with emotion was he for England. I didn't cry but at that moment I knew exactly how he felt. 

                                         I have to admit I am welling up watching this video

The beauty of the state park was breathtaking in all its Northern California/South West England glory. As the car thermometer touched 90f, The Missus and I pulled over for some fresh air and a spot of lunch at a lookout point. The US does many things well. Not least, plenty of picnic areas in beauty spots and, because the country is so vast, these are rarely thronging with people. With wildflowers growing behind and a jaw dropping view in front, the leviathan lunch sandwich was served. 

Never in the field of human picnics was such a large sandwich consumed by so few. Backed by a quinoa support salad The Missus and I only managed to eat half of the monster, but this sturdy bread mountain was going to keep on giving, providing both a lunch and a supper snack as it matured the next day. 

A sandwich with a view

Even this giant sandwich was a warm up for the headline act. Though it may be geeky for some, I've always loved aeroplanes. As a child my babysitter would take me to Manchester Airport (then "Ringway") to watch the planes take off and land. The beauty of Manchester is that it doesn't have any snooty Southern prohibition, preventing a decent vantage point of the runway. Aviation enthusiasts encouraged. There's even a pub with a beer garden where the jets threaten to topple your pint. Ever tried watching a take off or landing at Heathrow? Impossible. The miserable powers that be have deliberately obscured all views, the spoilsports. 

Up close and personal

Now, watching is one thing, controlling a flying can with wings is quite another. Though I'd longed for this moment I can't say that I didn't feel a touch of apprehension mixed in with the excitement.  As the instructor walked me through the pre-flight checks with many, "check to make sure that's not going to fall off" comments, I tugged and checked obligingly. "Make sure the dents aren't too big" is not something anyone really wants to hear.

Safety checks are largely "tap tap tap, tap tap tap"

Once I'd strapped in, put on my headset, primed the engine, entrusted my life to a stranger, I started up the puppy by....turning the key. The engine cleared it's throat as it spat into life. I'd been told that I'd be in control whilst taxiing, take off and most of the flight but was relieved that the instructor navigated us onto the taxiway thereby avoiding the chance of careering into the stationary aircraft.

Learning how to operate the filanji

Taxiing is controlled by throttle (a large British Leyland type choke) and the foot pedals which control both left and right via the rudder and by breaking using the top of the pedals. Initially I forgot about the breaking part, swinging left and right of the yellow guideline as my subconscious "academic" mind considered that, because the word "rudder" was involved, left must mean right and right must mean left.  From careering down the taxiway like a driver searching for that last toffee he was sure he'd seen on the passenger side floor of his car, my flying skills appeared to improve dramatically.

Taxiing

Once positioned on the runway, the throttle we teased the up to 7,000 rpm, trundled, stumbled then skipped off the tarmac. As the aircraft left the ground the wind jostled it from side to side and for a moment I had a fear that a "paff" into the ground moment was imminent but it climbed steadily and, dare I say it, professionally. I had been told to head towards the wind farm, roughly west, maintaining a gentle climb and keeping the plane level. Never have I paid so much attention to a dashboard, to my actions and to everything going on around me. The little plane, like a person with a new nose job, was sensitive to every slight, no matter how appropriate or deliberate. As we levelled out at 2,500ft and the instructor seemed none too concerned in getting involved, I took a moment to relish the experience. I was flying.

As we turned over the bay, maneouvering from left to right, right to left, I fell into a common trap, fixating on one instrument. Now, I remember the Krypton Factor and alongside the assault course, the flight simulator round was just as good. I distinctly remember the instruction was to pay attention to the artificial horizon. Not so, or at least maybe that's the case for a passenger jet, but the damage had been sown at childhood. I found it hard to take my eyes off it. This day I learnt it's not accurate. Oh how illusions can be shattered. As I got to grips with the four different instruments that all corroborate each others' evidence, I couldn't help but wonder, "..but where's the iPod dock?" I had reasonably resigned myself that I wouldn't be able to crank up my own playlist for the experience but to have my faith an the artificial horizon undermined, this was a lot to stomach.

The hour passed by, fortunately, without incident. One of the most fun moments was getting the instructor to show me how to do a 45 degree "steep" turn and, as we lost altitude, he pulled on the throttle. The resulting g's, pulled when we went both left and right, were better than any rollercoaster.

From now on, just call me Captain. 

Terra firma with a California Veer from the yellow line

From Sea Level to 4,000ft: Part I Sea Level

Some weekends can drift by, washing over us in a pool of laziness, while others can wash over us as we gently dull our senses in whichever way we see fit. For some folks in San Francisco April 20th, or in local parlance 4/20, would have been an excuse to get horizontally stoned. Not that, judging by the smell in any local park, down on Market or 50% of passing cars, this would be have been different from any other day. They do like their weed in California. 420 is US slang for the stuff and so on that day Twitter was alive with gleeful stoners. Well when I say alive, I mean there was some slurred bro-ing and dude-ing going on. A local wine bar marked the day after with....

"Here all week, you must try the veal"

It's a shame I don't smoke weed, for my weekend was full of gourmet munchie material. Starting with my first visit of the year to Off The Grid at Fort Mason, the largest food truck rendezvous of the SF weekly calendar. Last years hit, chicken and coriander gyoza from Happy Dumplings, was ignored this time for some new experiences. The two standouts were extremely food filthy "Mac 'n' Cheese Spring Rolls with Hot Fondue Sauce" (dirtier than a Game Of Thrones outtake) and the "Sexy Fries" from Curry Up Now - waffle fries smothered (this is the US so definitely smothered) in surprisingly spicy chicken tikka masala. Again, not so much "sexy", more "dirty" in a Christina Aguilera way. I was high on carbs - I must be getting old. 

Courtesy of http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/pop-up-shops/

Saturday brought the real heat. As if the mayor had suddenly remembered where the thermostat was (he's about as good as controlling the heat as the super is at controlling the central air to my building) temperatures soared over the weekend. The change was well publicised and the whole of SF made plans to enjoy the first real sauna blast of the year.  Another reason why SF is like London, when the sun comes out, so too do the summer dresses and every patch of open space is full of basking people. Why is SF better than London in this case? You don't have to become a pompous Londoner in Brighton to enjoy the beach, just stroll down the hill. It doesn't matter which one, there are many.

The Marina in The Marina who'd have thought it?

The Missus and I decided to brave the bros and head down to Crissy Field. Plans for a Nigella Lawson style picnic went out the window as time ticked on, so a quick trip to Whole Foods rendered enough provisions to see us through. A spell at the beach for me is governed by a) how long I can put up with sand in my food without throwing a hissy fit (I hate that odd crunch on bite down - "Is that a tooth disintegrating or just a bloody piece of beach") b) Have I accidentally burnt myself again? or c) I've run out of BBC Radio 4 podcasts to listen to. While a) was touch and go for a while, we did well to stay until the Pacific wind began to whip in. We'd also run out of cheese. 

Let's ALL go to the beach

Being a people watcher, going to a crowded beach is a lot of fun. What people bring, what they do and  how they interact is fascinating. It can maintain anyone's interest long after the podcasts run dry. The dude who uses his admittedly very cool "I'm going to dig for china" dog to chat up non-plussed women in their bikinis. Even though the mutt would play dead when the owner gestured to shoot it with his hand, still dude went home accompanied only by his canine.

There's the "are you really twenty-ones" flying on their first ever drink in the sun. The couple bickering over who forgot the mayonnaise (no that wasn't me and The Missus). The super prepared who bring enough food and utensils to make Jamie Oliver blush. They all provide excellent entertainment. Also astounding, the variety of beach activities that must take a packhorse to bring. My favourite, a mini trampoline that a group of people use to bounce a ball off. The game looks like  inverted volleyball and seems like a lot of fun, albeit hard work in 90f heat. 

The local yacht club race...spinnakers at the ready

When The Missus and I finally traipsed back up the hill, for all that goes down must go back up, the reward was a stop at Cultivé Frozen Yogurt. Here you can indulge in serve yourself healthy froyo treats. Healthy that is until you slather your pot with offerings from the racks of toppings available. If M&S did pick and mix...

FroYo Smug

Let's All Meet Up In The Year 2012

Outside The Warfield

Missing out on Coachella this year was tough especially when James were added to the bill. To make matters worse, The Missus and I couldn't score tickets for Pulp. The advantage of not going to the festival is that most acts play in the Bay Area around festival dates. As this year Coachella is spread over two weekends the chances of seeing choice bands are doubled. 

Pulp's gig at The Warfield was the hottest ticket in town. The gig sold out in under five minutes. It makes you proud. The Missus and I had to swallow our pride and buy our entry via StubHub. 

It's confession time. Though I know Pulp's big hitters the only album of theirs I own is of course "A Different Class".  Not having that would be akin to not owning "Definitely, Maybe". Ridiculous. So last week James played the tiny Independent while Radiohead played the "enormodrome". This week it was Pulp, at the midsized, Brixton-Academy-like, Warfield. The size, the layout and the smell transported me back to the legendary London venue.

Now, while I'm confessing - I don't like Radiohead. There I said it. If I'd been at Coachella, I would have stomached ten minutes of that self-indulgent, "I'm not going to play the songs the crowd wants" nonsense. Everyone knows the festival rule. Play the hits. Play the songs everyone knows and keep the new stuff to a minimum. No more than two. 

Back to Pulp. Jarvis Cocker, the man who famously mooned Michael Jackson was more of an entertainer last night than Jacko ever was. His between songs banter had the crowd roaring with laughter. He owned the audience and the stage with his charm and his unique gangly dancing. though I'm not sure Mr Cocker has a career in drumming. His fey attempts at playing were less Animal and more Oscar Wilde, but all part of the act.

The band did not shy away from their back catalogue, they embraced it. As the now retro light show flared into the audience for, "Sorted For E's and Whizz" it could have been 1996 all over again. "Reach for the lasers. Safe as ****!" Before "Disco 2000" Jarvis reminisced on the 90s but was delighted that, "..we're all still here." Without the time limit constraint of a festival set, Pulp played for two hours not ending with the obvious, though still brilliant, "Common People".  They even made time to go all Fleetwood Mac on us.

"Thank you to the electric heater...and good night"

Not sure I've been in a room with more British people since I was last in my East End boozer back in London. Still, the SF hipsters were out in force to worship their Pied Piper, the man that started it all. It might be nearly twenty years behind the curve, but it's time to don some horn rimmed specs and dig out the Pulp back catalogue.