some people just love san francisco and berkeley.
bay bridge-- connects bezerkley to sf... did i mention that i'm also kinda scared of bridges?
i do not count myself among them.
i tolerate sf. (i mean i’ll venture there to catch a show at the warfield or at, my favorite, the fillmore. the fillmore hands out these kick-ass art
some guy described these as "purple jellyfish." good description, guy.
posters of the band you just saw as you’re leaving and the interior is wallpapered with history. it’s worth the hassle.)
and i’m even more tolerable if someone else is driving… unless it’s my dad driving and my mom in the passenger seat. my whole life my parents have rarely fought, like a real fight with yelling and cursing, etc. but put them inside a moving vehicle and wait 30 minutes and )))kaboom!((( you will, without fail, witness a fight ranging anywhere from mild to moderate, unless the subject of following directions or the “right” parking spot is involved, then it escalates to severe, as in multiple f-bombs (always from mom– it’s inherited) and palpable tension, while those dudes from npr’s “car talk” try to lighten the mood (unsuccessfully) as i squirm uncomfortably asking god and jesus to please, lord, just get us [insert destination here] before i go for the ol’ tuck-n-roll. i do admit, though, that i admire their ability to move one once desired destination has been reached. i mean they’re not saints, first they have to each plead his or her case to me while the other isn’t within earshot. once they’ve vented to their daughter, all can return to normal… until it’s time to go home. but, to their credit, trips home are less dramatic because our house is always on the same street and there is always parking right in front. but i digress.
see?
my point is that while i am able to tolerate negotiating the city of san francisco if the proverbial pot at the end of the rainbow (not a gay joke) is awesome enough, downtown berkeley is tolerable only by car and completely intolerable on foot. berkeley, the one you see in documentaries about the 60′s, is today teeming with with bums and hippies, and ex-hippies driving their priuses and then, during the school year, droves of kids with ridiculous dreadlocks or shaved heads armed with their white bread, mainstream socialist/marxist/anarchist ideologies, topped off with a che guevera t-shirt and an ipod loaded with bob marley. the rest are asian. at least the asian kids aren’t confused about
the boyfriend's berkeley-- the nice one
which “subversive” niche they want to endorse. the asian kids mainly hang around smoking cigarettes that hang precariously from their lips as speak to each other in rapid-fire [insert language here]. now you may be thinking that since i, too, am in college that i shouldn’t be calling these cal students kids. but, you see, these d-bags are mostly18-22. now that i’m coming up on 25, i have (in my mind) earned the right to refer to these poseurs as kids, even toddlers or infants if i so choose. i am aware that part of my distaste for those children stems from jealousy that a) they’re much richer and/or smarter than me and b) that they will already have graduated by the time they’re my age (at which time they will remove the nose rings, throw out the bumper stickers, break the bongs, and cut their hair for their new jobs at fortune 500 companies where they will inevitably rake in six-figure salaries (plus bonuses!) with nice benefit packages (with dental!) and a 401-k plan.) instead of trolling the internet looking for a job that will pay at least 18 bucks an hour. then i will hate them for a whole new set of reasons.
i, on the other hand, live here, on the island where the mean folk are. it’s a little crowded, but the weather’s nice.
