Ride the bus.

If the bus were cool, more people would ride it.
If the bus were cool, car drivers wouldn’t be frightened
of the “dangers” of sharing their motorized transit
with folks they don’t know – delinquents and vandals.

If the bus were cool, less gas would be wasted
If the bus were cool, admit it, YOU’d take it
You could take it to work or take it to practice
You might even like it, if you tried it.

Sadly, too many see the bus as a joke
Say these serious people and snobberly folk:
“The bus is for others, they’re not for my kind!”
“I am too busy, I am far too refined!”

But the bus, you see, is actually awesome
When people move together, the city soon blossoms
with texture and energy of those with whom you share
your ride as you ride the bus from here to there

Sharing your seat is not always grand
and sometimes, it is true, you may have to stand
Sometimes, though, you can offer a hand
And help someone in need, a mother or elderly man,

And there are times when your ride on the bus has a moment of fright:
someone clipping his nails, or a theft or a fight
and the bus – damned bus!  – doesn’t  always show up on time.
But give yourself cushion, and all will be fine

The bus saves gas, it saves you from searching for parking
It gives you a reason to do a little more walking
You can read a book, or the paper, or look at the sights
Buses are safe, economical, they run day and night

So the bus, you see, is not for the poor and “those fools”
The bus – like the train or the subway – is a wonderful tool
To take you shopping, sightseeing, to work or to school

The bus, it is true, is truly quite cool.

——-

This poem was inspired by Amanda’s post lamenting the total lack of public discourse on the many benefits of public transportation, in particular as  great means to get around when you are out drinking.

[...] buses aren’t being used as much as they should be, but a large part of the reason why is the mental block of growing up in a car culture.  Making it easy on people is only half the battle.  The other half if getting people to realize how easy it is, which sometimes feels like an insurmountable problem.

She posits that part of the problem is our cultural taboo on discussing potential good decision that can be made while engaging in ‘bad’ behavior. All of our drinking and driving discourse simply discourages drinking. But, why not have a parallel campaign that promotes public transportation as a viable alternative? After all, the bus is cool.

Yet here I stand, at the dawn of a new year, declaring my abstinence from this old friend. An entire year without a single cup of joe.  Whether it will be a battle between time and force of will, a wonderful and memorable experiment, or possibly a well-intentioned but ultimately doomed enterprise – well, only time will tell.

Why am I doing this?

Coffee is not evil. It is not debilitating. On the contrary, it is warm and filling, and with a little bit of cream or milk, it tastes most excellent. But… coffee also is not a health food. In fact, it has a bunch of pretty negative qualities. It leaches calcium from your body. It dehydrates you. It’s a diuretic. These things are not good for you; they speed the aging process.  And, most important to me, over the past year coffee has become an unbreakable habit and, thus, a crutch.

To wake, each and every day, with the idea that my morning cannot truly be OK until I’ve had that first drink of café, well, it just doesn’t sit right with me. So at some point last fall, I started to ponder the possibility of quitting ol’ Joe. At first I thought I’d try a month without it. But then I started to realize that wasn’t going to do the trick. What I needed was a total break from the bean. I’d go whole year sans java. And as 2008 drew to a conclusion, the idea just kept germinating, until it sprouted green and true.

What is the upside?

the health benefits of tea, according to wikipedia.org

In the other corner, we have tea. Tea, tea, the magical elixir. Full of anti-oxidants, battler of free radicals. And tea, unlike coffee, is available in a mind boggling array of flavors and qualities. True, coffee also can be had in a vast array of formulations. And, yes, different beans have different tastes.

But tea itself is among the most varied and versatile foods there are. From black to white, green to herbal, hot to cold, spicy to sweet, for breakfast or dinner, to stimulate or to relax, to fulfill or to cleanse, there is a tea for that! Tea, it seems, is a wonderfood. And I aim to taste them all!

soy chai latte in a cup

So I plan on this: during my 365 days of coffee-free living, I will use the opportunity to explore and share as many new teas as I can! Just five days in on my trek, and each day has brought it’s own version. New Year’s Day, I took the easy way out, slurping a Chai latte from Starbucks. Then, a couple of green teas at home. And a pot of black China tea shared with my mom at the Kensington Cafe. Yesterday I downed a couple servings of home made Zhena’s chai tea. And today, it is Zhena’s Breakfast Bliss black tea. Yum.

morning tea. yumm.

I’ll be posting weekly updates and reviews of my teasplorations. Until the first one, just know that so far I am very encouraged that, rather than the fear and skepticism I felt just a couple of days ago, I am totally encouraged and confident that I really will make it through the whole year without a single drop of coffee! Yes, the old stimulant is being replaced with a new one, but it’s like going from eating a fast food burger to a organic vegetable. They are both food, but one is practically poisonous and the other is nutritious and delicious!

Panorama of Dolores Park

San Franciscans love gathering together in Dolores Park. Blessed with some of the City’s best weather, easy access via Muni, an ideal central location, and great natural topography, Dolores has become the center for San Francisco’s best free entertainment.

At Dolores, I’ve seen the San Francisco Orchestra, several movies, Aztec dancers, the World Cup, and stumbled upon other events like rock concerts, parades, and parties of all sorts. And with each passing season, it seems park events grow in attendance. Last week, for example, I headed out for a movie-in-the-park only to find myself sitting about 200 yards from the screen.

From my spot not far below the J-Church tracks, the audience could hardly hear a thing. Yet, almost nobody left. Why not?

My guess: people just enjoy doing things together. Despite emerging concern about the size and growing popularity, these gatherings bring out an amazing sense of community. It’s like watching TV with someone: you aren’t exactly engaged with them, but you are sharing a common experience. In the end these Dolores Park events are important to me in the way they seem to embody the spirit of progressivism and collective interest that are key values of liberal Democrats.

We could all go to smaller gatherings, or more exclusive environs. Organizers could spend their time doing other things. The city could start charging to use the park. But no. People come together in this incredible open space, in events that reinforce the consciousness of our community and enrich the Bay Area.

We should all be thankful that city planners generations ago had the foresight to establish these open public spaces, and Dolores Park in particular. It is a truly one of San Francisco’s undercelebrated treasures.

Recycling is good. Reducing is better.

Mayor Gavin Newsom gave Jones a glowing introduction, in which he also touted San Francisco’s enivornmental efforts and accomplishments: 70% of all our waste is recycled, with a city wide goal of 100% by 2015. The city has recently instituted policies like banning cheapo plastic shopping bags and a city government ban on purchases of bottled water. Powerful examples of how cities can lead the environmental movement, and people do not have to wait for the Federal government to act in order to start making battling waste and climate change.

Van Jones takes that mindset to the next level by adding to the mix the idea of a Clean Energy Job Corps – really, a way to affect social justice and bring the economic benefits of the blossoming green economy to a segment of our society and economy that is often overlooked and underemployed.

One key lesson I took away from both of their talks was the idea that collectively we can make radical changes to our own behavior and thus to our society, economy, and world, and we can do so in a way that enriches, rather than harms, our lives individually.

One small personal example: Last year I bought a non-disposable plastic water bottle. The idea was to have a permanent, portable water container – good for home, commute, office, and gym. It worked. Until a coworker schooled me on the horrendous side effects of some plastics – including especially the “No. 7″ plastic my Nalgene bottle was made of. Turns out, not such a great idea. In fact, a bad idea. Very Bad. I read up and decided that an unlined stainless steel canister would be the best replacement. So I got one, and recycled my old nastic one.

The new bottle ($15 Kleen Canteen) is awesome: Works with cold & hot liquids, easy to clean and drink out of, no toxins leeching into my agua. It is lightweight. I take it almost everywhere with me (including to Austin), and as a consequence I almost never use disposable plastic water bottles anymore.

This, of course, is a much humbler endeavor than the grand and hope-inspiring efforts Jones set forth. But every little bit we contribute helps. And I’ll keep trying and keep improving every day.

For some this would be torture. For me it is a joy. One of the things that has reformed my thinking about what is necessary for gracious living is the Apartment Therapy website. I have been reading the website for years and over time my notion of what constitutes a home has changed. I think we all have an idea in our minds about what we think our home should look like, a certain number of bedrooms and bathrooms, a square footage that will allow us to pursue dreams and hobbies, a Platonic ideal against which all things are measured. In addition we have ideas of ‘safety’ and neighbors and if we have kids we think of school districts. Probably many of our preferences are shaped by our childhoods and formative experiences. In fact with over half of the world existing on less than $1 a day, many of these concerns are just learned notions of what exactly a ‘home‘ is. Apartment Therapy questions our notions — our American, developed world notions — of what one needs to create a home. I have let go of some of my biases and embraced our current situation.

Another factor in my release of the notion ‘bigger is better’ is the long running column, Shelter by Toni Schlesinger, in the Village Voice. In one of her earlier columns she documents a family who share 500 square-foot apartment. At the time Wade & I were living in a 425 square-foot duplex near the beach. I remember looking around the space, which I had only gotten to work comfortably after many iterations of furniture moving and stuff organizing, and thinking, ‘ZOMG, could Wade & I raise a child here?’ I never found out the answer to that particular question, but here in CasaWeX, I am pursuing the factual actual question ‘can 2 adults and 2 kids share less than 1,000 square-feet and enjoy it’. One of the reasons that Wade & I have always embraced this house is that everything is very close together. One can be cooking in the kitchen and the other geeking on the computer and a conversation can be held at reasonable volume. We like being close to one another. But when two kids (and all their stuff) are added to the mix can it be made to work? The answer to that question remains to be seen, but suffice it to say so far, so good.

In ninth grade, I had a friend named Erin (Rick was friends with her younger brother, Dana). I’d known Erin for a few years in junior high, but right before our freshman year Erin and her family moved about a block away from our house near Leigh High School. One day I was walking home from school with Erin in my cheerleading uniform and instead of heading straight home I went home with Erin. We were cautioned to never do anything unbecoming of cheerleader while in uniform under threat of being kicked off the squad (some girls did some very risque things, however, since they weren’t in uniform none off them were ever relieved of their positions). Once at Erin’s home, we listened to music and ate some snacks. At some point Erin offered me a cigarette as she had been smoking for a while, stealing smokes from her mother. Dressed in my cheer uniform, I hesitated, but then not wanting to be a square I said sure. Since Erin was still hiding her smoking from her mom, we went outside in front of the garage to have a smoke. I was nervous about breaking a taboo and also afraid of being caught smoking — even though we had a smoking section at school for the students. That cigarette made me so sick and dizzy that I couldn’t even finish it, but still there was something seductive about the ritual of inhaling.

I never have been a ‘smoker’ even though I have occasionally enjoyed a bidi, a cheroot, or a nargile. So I don’t think that the root of the problem is smoking in and off itself. I think that the problem is our gluttonous society wherein a person smokes a pack or two or three a day. If a person smoke two packs a day that is forty cigarettes per day. Assuming 16 hours of wakefulness and 2.5 cigarettes per hour at approximately 7 minutes per cigarette smoked, over 17 minutes per hour are given over to the smoking habit. Sure you can smoke and make breakfast at the same time, but ew, gross, ashes & eggs do not the best menu make. And what to do with the refuse of a habit that takes up almost 1/3 of your waking time? Is anyone gonna walk around with 40 butts in their pocket? A few years ago I was acquainted with a person of European extraction who smoked. I was surprised when I accidentally discovered xir habit. This person never stank of old astray or spewed smoke tinged breath in my face. I tried to give hir a hard time about hir habit and xie defended hirself saying, ‘I smoke 3-4 cigarettes a day. One after lunch, one or two in the afternoon or evening and one before bed. I run and am active, so give me a break. It is just a past time and I don’t over indulge like you Americans.’ I learned that in many European countries, smoking is not a competitive sport (although I am sure there are individuals who over indulge there). It is more of a pleasant way to end a meal or to sit and contemplate the passing of the day. Just as one drink does not make one an alcoholic, one smoke does not make one an extreme smoker.

So while I despise the visual clutter and environmental pollution as much as the next person, I think that unless smokers start taking responsibility for their habit i.e. not throwing their butts into the roadway or people’s yards, smoking far away from children, not smoking near doorways or places where their smoke impinges on other’s ability to breath, local governments will enact more and more laws restricting smokers and their ability to smoke wherever they damn please. Instead of complaining and whining they need to band together to show the world that in spite of their addiction, they can be considerate, conscientious, and clean. Bwahhhahhha! Who am I kidding? The vast majority of those who indulge in this lethal past time are never gonna do this. So government will keep extracting extra dollars from smokers and continue limiting their habit and time will keep on ticking into the future.

Origins of Street Butts

They come from smokers, who have come to the collective conclusion that our world is their garbage can. How did this happen? Is there any other type of refuse that our society thinks is OK to casually toss onto the ground? People don’t throw their used kleenex or toilet paper on the street. Receipts go in wallets, pockets and purses. Coffee cups go into trash cans. But cigarette butts end up on the sidewalk.

The lack of consideration fits well with the willingness of many smokers to pollute the air with the fumes of their pleasure sticks. Luckily, many smokers smoke the healthy American Spirit brand, which is good for you.

Solutions

I understand that it can sometimes be difficult to find a proper waste basket for your butt. And, that unlike, say, a receipt or a tissue, that a butt is not appropriate pocket or purse material. That shouldn’t make the street your next option. Instead, anybody who smokes owes it to all the rest of us to carry, along with their lighter and pack of ciggies, a small butt tin. A little asher. A compact, light weight container to serve as your personal trash can. If no suitable garbage can is available, pull out your mini trash can and stick your butt in it.

Failing a smoker’s willingness to carry another accoutrement, smokers should be offered the ability to purchase butt-free cigarettes. True, this might mean that there would be no filter, but it would enable them to smoke the entire cigarette, thus reducing the orphan butt syndrome.

Conclusions

As Christians like to say, “hate the sin, not the sinner”, right? Absolutely. I know many littering smokers who aside from this, err, challenging behavior, are downright great people, some of whom I love and admire. But, as we have with drunk driving, society should clamp down on the harmful and poisonous behavior. Laws should be enforced, tickets should be issued, and smokers should learn to think about how their butt, so casually flicked and forgotten, contributes to a dirtier, more inconsiderate, and uglier world.

After a breakfast of bacon and eggs and the usual prep required before venturing away from camp, Nicole and I hopped on our bikes, rode down the dirt avenues through the dusty sunlight, partially clothed – but totally sunblocked, natch – to the bazaar-like entrails of Center Camp. A large, circular tent rose 30 or more feet into the air, surrounded by hundreds of parked (and locked) bicycles, and within it pulsed a writhing collection of yogis, singers, exhibitionists, naturalists, ravers, shamans, bloggers, families, jugglers, naked people, dreadlocks, tattoos, and – incongruously – a cafe.

The center of center camp was a circular space surrounded by pillows leaning against short walls, people lounging and stretched out upon them. Inside the circle was a random collection of individuals, couples, and tiny groups of people doing yoga. Beyond the circle stood the cafe, where gobs of folk stood in a slew of achingly long lines, looking for a fresh brew of java or whatever.

Also surrounding the inner circle were a stage and seating for an open mic; various collections of people debating karma, reading shakras, holding signs about the future, doing more yoga, perusing books, or posing in revealing duds. On the stage, a guitarist strummed and sang beautifully, as a few dozen people soaked it in, lounging on sofas and bean bags. We strolled around, trying to figure out where we fit in here.

We looked for but did not spot any particularly inviting seats. So we circled once or twice, until an open bench presented itself and we claimed it for ourselves. Nicole grabbed a couple copies of Piss Clear, and I pulled my MacBook out from it’s ziploc and got to twitterin‘. Well, for a little while until a young woman approached, gently asking if she might be able to use my mac for a few moments to check here email. Attempting to adopt the giving spirit of BRC, I kindly obliged.

Twenty or more minutes later, I got my cha-puter back. Meanwhile, I had been joined ‘pon the wooden bench by a kind, if desperate-seeming woman, who, I learned, was also at her first Burning Man. Having been told that she needed to bring something to share, she decided to bake a couple thousand cookies and bag them up, carry around several dozen at time (in her backpack) and then beg fellow Burners to take them, “Please help me, take them I still have 300 bags left and its already Friday oh thank you thank you thank you”. I wanted to tell her that she might want to tone down the desperation and lay off the guilt trip for those of us who kindly declined. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I typed in silence. She loved to share, so I soon learned that yesterday she had shaved the nuts of over 75 men. Then, that people had been giving her so many drugs the she did the only thing she could think of and turned them in to the Help Desk. “What am I supposed to do with all of them?” she begged. “Swallow them,” I said.

Later, she told me that I hold a lot of stress in my shoulders (she said that she reads shakras). That I don’t have to be so macho; it is OK to cry (oddly, it is true: I almost never cry (except for movies!)). That my heart is not open because I have not healed from my last relationship. Hmm. Then she gave me a long long hug.

Meanwhile, an unending parade of people living the BM mantra of Radical Self Expression streamed about, dusted and tanned, old and young, flabby and fit, dorky and unbelievably cool, clothed and nude, happy and – no, only happy. At one point, the sound of a digery doo began to emanate from just behind the bench where I was seated. A young man had simply walked up and started playing amongst us, adding to the atmosphere and delighting all. After a minute or two, he took his instrument and moved on.

I spent a good amount of time writing in my journal, during which I was once asked if I had found reality. “No,” I replied. It was hot and I was sweaty. Nicole had wandered of shortly after we first sat down, so I was by myself (so to speak). I gathered my things and made my way through the madness, looking for my cousin. Ten minutes of meandering and I found her. We shared our wonderment at the eclectic collection of people, all unique and endearing (except for the really smelly ones). We decided to move on, drop the ‘puter back at camp and go look at art.

So we knew that Crude Awakening and The Burninator were going to be there, offering massive explosions and interactive fire shows. We saw previews of the Steampunk Treehouse and the Temple of Forgiveness. In fact, up until we attended that preview show, I had become so focused on the challenges and unknowns about our pending expedition that the main emotion associated with the trip had become anxiety, rather than excitement!

Once I was reminded of the grand spectacles we’d soon be feasting our eyes on, my enthusiasm spiked. And once we were really there and got to see and experience the art installations in person – wow. Each view of these spectacular pieces of art (Big Rig Jig, The Monkeys, Flowerhead, Crude Awakening, Steampunk Treehouse, the Temple, the Cubatron, and The Burninator) was an emotional delight, and another reminder of how lucky we felt to be in BRC.

High expectations aside, I was never once let down or disappointed at Burning Man. The music was louder and better than I expected. The art cars were huger, more ornate, and far more numerous than I could have known. The art installations were gorgeous, huge, and involving. The costumed hoards were happy and flamboyant. Even the dust was neat (if super annoying at times). Comfort was not a focal point, and the lack of rest was a bump in the road, not a major discomfort. Yes, it was too hot to do anything – rest or move – at times. But as soon as I made it through that challenging part of the mid day, I could feel the energy and anticipation welling inside me. And to no one’s surprise, it was even better than I’d hoped.

The city was already packed, teeming with RVs, campers, trailers, vans, bicyclists, nudists, costumed peoples, tents, geodesic domes, wig wearers, tarps, ropes, bungee cords, and of course, lots of dust. Thanks to the neatly organized infrastucture, it was no trouble orienting ourselves and finding our desired lot. We ended up on a patch of dirt near the corner of 3:30 and Jungle, in a small open space between a geodome and an encampment known as ‘In Dust We Trust’.

The neighbors said sure, you can set up here, so we did. A borrowed tent, a rented tent, and a recently purchased shade thingy went up and were battened down with stakes, ties, rope and rebar. The sun set was greeted by great cheers and whoops from across the playa.

Darkness settled in and the fun began. I knew I’d be tired soon, given my 3.5 hours of sleep the previous night, but the adrenaline and excitement of finally being here squashed any sense of weariness. Here is an excerpt of my journal that documents the night:

We spent a couple of hours setting up our space: the van, two tents, shade thingy, light poles, lights, coolers, organizing. Et cetera.

I drank three beers while we did that. As soon as I determined our basics were up to snuff, I said ‘let’s get on our bikes and go explore’, so we did. We rode up our street, 3:30, to the center of the camp, known as the Esplinade.

Holy Mackerel. It was already after 10, I believe but thanks to the fullish moon, it is not pitch dark. But still, nothing could have prepared me for the anarchy of lights, sound systems, circus freaks, and general chaos in which we found ourselves engulfed.

There was an endless horizon of displays, attractions, flickering and flashing light shows, neon, strobe, structures, signs, tents full of dancers, flame eaters, Buddhists, costumed people of countless styles, all ages, and in general beyond description.

We, like hundreds of others, chose to explore the landscape by bike. The playa is vast, and with little or no idea of where we wanted to go, bikes provide the means to meander easily. Arrive somewhere you like? Just lean your bike down and head off. Come back … whenever, and your bike’ll be there. Really.

Art cars beyond imagination. Massive burning and exploding sculptures. 200-ft Oil Derrick. Immense temple – attached to a rave club. And, admidst all this, a squirrelling sea of bikes traversing the lanes and open spaces upon the playa, most lit with some form of neon, blinking, or other bright light. That part – so chaotic! – was a little scary at times, but also loads of fun.

We stopped by a dance club, danced to some fantastic progressive house. Surrounded, mostly, by costumed people. Then to the jaw dropping oil derrick. Then to some sort of ice mountain. Then to the Temple of Forgiveness.

Between the anchored attractions, the oddest assortment of Mutant Vehicles ever assembled. One was the Mobil Landfill. Funny. Also, a giant bicycle with a kite-like roof. Lots of double-decker rolling nightclubs. A UFO. And on and on.

Finally called it a night, came home and made a sandwich. Now — some sleep, maybe?