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November 4, 2012
Flying In / Walking home - 10/22/12
10/22/12
Flying In
I think about my bike at SFO in short-term parking. I don't have my rain gear on it because I don't have my Givi case on it because my aftermarket rear-fender rack broke. I went and had it repaired, but I haven't gotten around to reinstalling it just yet. So, no rack. No case. No rain-gear.RAK 10/22 9:05:30 AM At 5:30 a.m. the alarm clock pulls me in from some insane dream that I can't recall. I awake alone in an enormous house. Toss some things into a suitcase and I'm rolling to the airport. I know that the flight will be late. It's raining in San Francisco. After a 6 month drought, the rains have finally found us.
As I'm walking through the metal-detector, the TSA terrorist cuts me off and demands to see my photo ID.
I just stare at him blankly. Like..."dude...I do this every week. Y'all never ask for my id at this point."
That's what my eyes say, but my mouth doesn't move.
I'm just too stunned. Too shocked. I know the drill. This isn't part of it.
Annoyed, he motions me aside and I realize that he's addressing the guy behind me.
The young man behind me is wearing the standard urban-camo U.S. Army uniform.
And he's demanding some ID from the guy. Which is funny. I mean...what are the implications of that?
Is it illegal to dress like a soldier? I don't think so.
I've heard of impersonating a police officer.
But never heard of impersonating a soldier before.
We're delayed due to fog, of course. And when we finally board, an enormous man sits down in the middle seat beside me. Thumbs the size of sausages.
Somehow, he wedges himself between the armrests. I have my seat fully reclined because I just learned about the "Knee Defender" this weekend. Knee Defender is a product that you can buy online. Essentially a little lock and key that you attach to the seat in front of you so the guy can't lean his seat back.
I have my seat fully reclined the second my ass hits the seat. I'm going to get the drop on the bastards. If they try to lock my seat, I will murder them.
The flying waitress goose-steps up and down the aisle, searching for infractions. Anyone using an iPhone is flogged mercilessly.
There is no risk from these devices.
It's all just a charade. "Security Theater". Just a display for the fatted calves. Those aren't blades. All is well. Go back to sleep, citizens.There are no Federal Air Marshals on this flight. I checked when I boarded. Just an illusion. A lie to sell to the housewives so they feel like they've truly traded their freedom/privacy for security. But they've traded their freedom and privacy for nothing.
We take off and land at SFO. The rain is gone. It's clear and sunny as I drive into work and park in alley behind my office.
This time is different though. This time, a dickhole comes up to me when I park.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"Who are you?" I reply.
"You can't driver here," he explains.
"If you don't like the way I drive, get off the sidewalk," I offer.
"Look...This is private property,' he explains, as he draws an imaginary line with his toe across the cement sidewalk."
"So? Who are you to care?" I ask.
"I live here. The noise these motorcycles disturbs the occupants."
I just look at him. "I'm sure," I laugh.
"You can't leave this here," he whines.
"Do what you're going to do, dude." I offer as I turn and walk away.
He follows me to my office building, but they won't let him in. Won't tell him who I am.
They are good friends. We talk every day. They lie and tell him they've never seen me before.
He is a volcano. And my bike has no plates.
Walkn home
At night, the homeless take over.
Like rats, they bed down on cold concrete sidewalks, wrapping themselves in filthy rags, papers, cardboard.
Anything goes.
Survival is the name of the game.
Worker bees pressure-wash the sidewalks as the occasional office worker scurries for safety of a garage, a warm bar or restaurant.
At California Street, the underground cable snaps and grinds, pulling cable-cars across the city's hills.
Always at the bends in the streets - where the slope changers - they make the most delicious racket.
The homeless, shivering in wet socks, carefully weave their cardboard castles.
I study the leaves of the Red Gum trees and wonder how long they can last.
Fall is Fall and its approaching. It can't be steered away or torn asunder.
This is this.
I duck into an empty pakistani restaurant for a Chicken Vindaloo dinner.
A woman wails in a language I've never heard before.
A sign says "Gulab Jamun $1.99", but I'm not sure if that's a good deal or not.
I have no idea what a Gulab Jamun is.
Posted by Rob Kiser on November 4, 2012 at 11:29 PM
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