The Bay is Better

In Praise of the San Francisco Bay Area

Crazy San Francisco: Adults Race Big Wheels Trikes Down the Curviest Street in America

Lombard Street in San Francisco is known as the "curviest in America," but city residents know that's a big lie. Local San Franciscans know that's a big lie. Vermont Street in Potrero Hill is the curviest street in San Francisco, and therefore in the world. Good thing too, because if it were in some other city they probably wouldn't spend every Easter dressing up in costumes and racing down dangerous curves on the tiny Big Wheels tricycles designed for Kindergarteners.

Before the event starts, officials ride down the hill blaring a siren to warn pedestrians. Here's an example of an "official" warning tricycle, this one carrying a girl dressed as Princess Leia. Note that the buns in her hair are actually big wheels.

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The race begins tame, letting actual children roll down the hill. So they don't careen into the crazy switchbacks of Vermont St., ending the race in boo-boos and tears, most kids were kept on a short leash

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 Or on a short sweater, as in this girl's case.

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There isn't an official winner of the Big Wheels race, but if it were up to me, the winner of the kid's section would be this little girl. After the tame rugrats on leashes rounded the curve, this whippersnapper came barreling down in first place, riding a big wheels covered in fur. Sorry the photo is crap; my tired old reflexes simply weren't fast enough to catch the likes of her coming round the bend, fearless and smiling.

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 We could hear the army of plastic wheels rumbling before the adults zoomed by. Big Wheels racing isn't a terribly dangerous sport, but collisions are common. Usually they result from vehicles that break apart under speeds and weights they weren't designed for or ergonomic difficulties when the rider can't figure out how to fit their body onto the tiny car.

 

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Some accidents were enabled by nosy pedestrians. In particular this drunken bafoon was amusing at first, constantly waving his flag or cowboy hat and seeking high fives. But I felt his actions were a bit too intrusive. For example:

One fine moment came when Elmo accidentally did a full forward-roll. This broke his pink tricycle, but he got back up. It took a minute for him to get oriented, and when he managed to get it all put together again the crowd was shouting "ELMO, ELMO, ELMO."

 

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This being San Francisco, most participants used the Big Wheels race as an excuse to dress in costume.

There were Easter-themed costumes:

 

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Costumes themed around transit:

 

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And several savvy racers who chose their ensemble to prepare them for the bumps ahead:

 

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My favorite costume was this guy with the pink dress and the parasol, mostly for his determination to stay in character. No matter what curves Vermont street threw at him, he continued to wave serenely like a beauty pageant winner.

 

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 The most amazing moment was when a woman's bike hit the edge and her wheels flew off. She was propelled into the air but just then this fellow came around the cornder and CAUGHT HER.

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 The force sent his Big Wheels spinning in circles but he neither dropped her nor lost his balance. Instead he restored her, bewildered and standing, and after receiving uproarious applause, continued down the hill. It was like how you feel when you drop something and catch it before it hits the floor, except the thing he caught was a person and he was riding a tiny car down a hill and there was an audience. Triple awesome. You can't plan a moment like that. The Big Wheels race is all about creating hijinks that make brilliant serendipity possible.

 

 

Decompression: Post-Burning Man After Party

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 At Decompression you'll find amazing costumes, interactive art, and beautiful people. I posted more Decompression pictures on the tumblog bayisbetter.tumblr.com.

I Love to Hate LA

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Ew, gross: Los Angeles.

As a resident of Northern California I take on the proud tradition of hating Los Angeles. There are many reasons to hate LA. It's filthy. It's superficial. The rats and roaches breed in abundance. The weather is hot and filled with foul smog but the ocean is still too fucking cold to dip a toe in. They put concertina wire around the freeway to keep out the graffiti artists. It's nothing but mini malls and freeways from end to end. Traffic, traffic, traffic, that never seems to end with nothing of interest to look at but maybe some palm trees that aren't native to the region in the first place. But who cares about that, no one is from LA, not really, people go there to fail at big dreams. It's a fucking desert; the only things that truly belong there are tumbleweeds and rocks. 
I first decided I hated LA long before I ever lived on the West Coast. In Hollywood I saw a bunch of homeless punks holding signs that said "Photos with freaks $5." I thought, these punk describe this place: everything is a commodity. Even the punks here are superficial: anarchist on the outside, capitalist on the inside. Further exposure only increased my disdain. Did you know that old Hollywood is in disrepair? They have so much land that instead of reviving it, they just built a new Hollywood further down the road. That's how people in LA think. No appreciation for history or tradition, even when it's for the thing that made their city a destination in the first place. Why fix up that dirty old hole where countless movie stars made their mark? Why bother? In their minds, newer is better.
But it occurs to me now that I take too much pleasure in my hatred. Truly, I love to hate LA. They are so counter to everything that Northern California stands for that we can hold them up like a gleaming beacon in opposition to our NorCal selves. When Stephen Merritt sings:

See them on their big bright screen
tan and blonde and seventeen
Eating nonfood keeps them mean
but they're young forever
If they must grow up
they marry dukes and earls
I hate California girls
I can take comfort in my suspicion that everything he describes is SoCal. LA is the Yin to our Yang. We declare what we are by pointing South and exclaiming that that is what we are not. 
If you don't live on the West Coast, perhaps you are unaware of this rivalry. You may associate all of California with New York and Vermont and the stereotype of the liberal elitist. It's true that we embrace our liberalism and drink lattes and eat tofu. But when Midwesterners accuse the left coast of being shallow, when they say we're obsessed with fashion and celebrity, San Francisco replies, "Oh, no--you're thinking of our sister, Los Angeles."
Not only do I love to hate LA, I shockingly discover that I am proud to have this den of iniquity within the borders of my great state. Because Hollywood is worshiped by the rest of the country. In some ways LA is like Texas--all the worst things about American culture, and proud of it. The Texans are proud of being big and conservative while LA is proud of fast cars, big budgets, new money, fake tits and tans. Though the rest of the US wants to roll their eye's at NorCal's dirty hippies chowing down on government subsidized organic produce, it's a plain fact that those same Americans are in love with California's nether regions. They read celebrity gossip on their lunch breaks and talk about TV at the water cooler. They blog about all that goes into making the next summer blockbuster. Children suckled on the teat of Teen Beat grow up to gawk at paparazzi photos in People. If LA were wiped off the map tomorrow, this celebrity-obsessed country would have little to talk about besides Saturday night football. 

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Haters Gonna Hate--I confess I love to hate LA

Of course, we NorCal types want nothing to do with all that. We watch more TV than we admit, and the stuff we see on the big picture is described as "films" which we scrutinize for underlying social messages. But I do like that the culture of California is subtly distilled in a nation raised by television. I love that The Lost Boys setting of Santa Carla is actually the NorCal town, Santa Cruz. I love that the Sunnydale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer is most likely based on the Bay's Sunnyvale. I laughed when Lafayette on True Blood slept under thick velvet blankets. In Louisiana he would bake snuggling under a blanket like that but leave it to a set dresser in LA to think they know what hot weather is. I don't want Americans to be obsessed with the fake lives of fake people. I moved here to get away from all that. But I get the best of both worlds. I've escaped the monster, but the place they keep it chained is a one-hour puddle-jumper flight away. 
Maybe that's why Los Angeles is most appealing to me when it is falling apart. It is only pretty when it's seedy, when there's a patina covering all that glamor. LA is only likeable viewed through the lens of David Lynch or distorted through the Raveonettes grungy guitars. Only when the swimming pools and shopping malls are empty and covered in spray paint will a new America be ready to be born. 

Bay to Breakers II: This is How We Run A Footrace in San Francisco

If you like to see sweaty people wearing costumes and running shoes, boy are you in luck: here's my second batch of photos from San Francisco's Bay to Breakers race. There's even more photos in this batch.

Here we have Towely, Elvis, Carmen Sandiego, Tellytubbies, Ghostbusters, (more)  Marios (and carts, actually saw a much better set of Mario Carts but didn't get a picture), three Divo heads (the fourth was crossing the street), bathroom boy and girl,a boyscout, Jesus Christ and his two wenches, and a magic lamp that wins any contest for "most phallic costume." And some other stuff...you can look at the pictures faster than I can list them.

Which ones are running to raise money for charity and which ones are just looking for an excuse to get very drunk early on a Sunday morning? I'll leave that to you.

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Bay to Breakers: This is How We Run A Footrace in San Francisco

Every city has their big charity race; in San Francisco it's Bay to Breakers. Folks run from the beautiful Bay, through the city and all the way through Golden Gate Park. Unlike most cities, San Franciscans like to do it in costumes. And unlike other cities that get dressed up, these gold rush kids take their costumes seriously.

My first experience with Bay to Breakers was being handed a paper cup while running, the typical side-of-the-road refresher offered to runners, only to find out the cup was filled with beer. This year I decided to be lazy and wait at the finish line to get photos of some of the fantastic outfits. Nostalgia was in full force this year, with more Mario and Luigis than you can squeeze into a hidden green pipe and so many red-striped Waldos that the irony of finding so many of them was completely lost. There were also a ton of Smurfs, muppets and Angry Birds.

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Here's some of the beauties my camera was able to grab, certainly not comprehensive.   This set includes Star Wars, Smurfs, Pac-Man, Scrabble, some very rambunctious American Gladiators and a dog in leg warmers.

The 800 Bus

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The 800 is my favorite bus in the Bay Area. This is the bus that goes back and forth from Downtown San Francisco to Berkeley and Oakland in the wee hours of the morning. You have your bar staff getting off work, one-night stands, forlorn lovers and, mostly, working-class partiers. This is the bus that runs only during the hours it is too late to catch the train. The evening is over and there are a lot of stories in those faces.
Most of the time I ride public transit I wrap myself in a book. But on the 800 I'm usually with a friend, and either too pooped or too pumped to read. Instead I find my plots in the desperation of the singles and the eavesdropped sarcasms of couples. I find my character in the swagger and slick coifs of the lovers and the heavy-lids of the night shift workers.
The first time I caught the 800 I sat behind the tall hair of a drag queen. The second time I sat surrounded by a tourist group from Eastern Europe. The whole ride home they sang Communist Party songs while a drunk hobo ingratiated himself into their clan. The most recent time I caught it was the worst. I caught it after a run-in with some bitches itching for a fight at the Denny's, post-party (Twelves at the Mezz), post-breakfast, indeed so late it was almost early. It seemed at that hour things were a little less festive, a lot more tired and wolrd-weary. But the stories were still there.