On Sunday morning, I woke to the sounds of strange huzzahs. Turns out it was the San Francisco Marathon running through my hood.
The cheers came from a throng gathered at the southeastern corner of Stanyan and Haight Streets. There was a very large speaker providing music. Weird 1980s stuff like the Smiths, with a little funk thrown in for good measure. How this mix pertained to running was anyone’s guess. But I supposed it gave the runners hope, urging them to press on. I joined the folks frozen in place, cups of coffee clenched in their hands, joining in with cries of “You’re doing a great job!” and “I’m an out-of-shape bastard! You are more glorious than me!”
The above-mentioned corner crowd can be seen on the right-hand side of the frame. They were apparently gathered there for “Lorie,” but they let out enthusiasm for several people who weren’t named Lorie. It was good to see the Marathon people providing arrows. I’m sure it helped the runners. But for a spectator such as myself, I took the sign’s advice, looked up, and saw merely a foggy sky.
Whoever organized the biker-runner escort service was very kind. They were there by regular bicycle..
…and by motorcycle.
Strangely enough, this is one of the few times I’ve paid attention to the Milkbar during the day.
The minute that this colorful gentleman ran by, a flurry of activity occurred among some kids at the corner that involved the transaction of green pieces of paper for a green substance I couldn’t quite identify housed carefully in a plastic bag.
A typical assembly of frozen spectators in place. I hadn’t seen so many frozen standing people since last standing up for the Star-Spangled Banner at a ball game.
These bikers were prepared to step in if anyone did anything. I trusted them more than the cops.
This guy’s going to have a major backache tomorrow.
Aside from the cheering crowd, this gentleman raised his bear at anyone who passed by. Unfortunately, nobody paid too much attention to him, which was a shame. I suppose applause is a steadier measure than a hapless teddy.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (