Loosing It In Lala Land

November 15, 2012

(Note: If you don’t eat anything that casts a shadow and have no sense of humor, I’d really advise not reading this.)

We used to live on the Peninsula south of San Francisco. I’ve been traveling to California for pleasure and business since the 70s.

But it’s starting to get really crazy out here.

I don’t mind the people in San Francisco staring, like laboratory bunnies, at the “don’t walk” countdown displays, even though there isn’t a car in sight all the way to Fresno, not moving until Big Brother has the count down to 0. I’m only mildly annoyed when a guy in CVS asks if I want a paper bag, which costs ten cents, when I have 16 items in front of him. Does he think I’m a marsupial with a pouch, or a chipmunk with flexible cheeks? Where would I put all the stuff? (I asked him how much a plastic bag would be and he reached for something vaguely threatening, like a fire alarm, until I assured him I was kidding.)

Plastic here is like dog poop on the carpet, or courtesy in New York. It’s simply anathema.

There are signs everywhere warning you of everything. In the restrooms of public buildings there are signs warning about raw foods, alcohol, sugar, and reality TV. There are food warnings if you’re pregnant posted in the men’s rooms. Is that because of the possibility of a woman, deprived of real food, poisoned by poi, and staggering under 30 items that she didn’t want seen in a bag, wanders inside the wrong rest room in her confusion?

The ferries that take you to Alcatraz have wind turbines of some kind, solar panels, and an army of rodents running inside wheels. The captain of the ferry has to inform you of the origins and use of each. Alcatraz looks very liberal in comparison to some local laws.

Paper dissolves in your hand because it’s made of recycled lint.

When the cigar bar we sought was unexpectedly closed and the limo driver called the concierge on his (of course) hands-free set, I asked her if we could just come back and smoke in the hotel lobby. “I’LL FIND YOU A PLACE!!” she pleaded. (I’m a VIP out here, but known to be reckless—people suspect me of chewing sugared gum and I was seen sneezing into my handkerchief and not the inside of my elbow.) She found us a nice bar where I felt my colleagues and I were secretly being watched by undercover cops. I could swear every 50^th frame on the TV screen said, “Listen to the green.”

In a city where there are crème caramel stands (I am not making this up) there is a fastidiousness about life that takes the zest out of things. Yet there is also a permissiveness that would never be allowed in New York.

Cyclists routinely ride on the sidewalk, which I find dangerous as well as annoying. They have their helmets, approved safety colors, six lights, illuminated vests, and water in skin from naturally deceased goats, but what the hell are they doing at my elbow? There are homeless people camped out with cardboard, blankets, signs, and personnel possessions three feet from street vendors, and they can be quite aggressive with customers buying food. I don’t find that very reasonable or safe, and an enlightened society should find a better way to deal with this. I’m wondering if they’ll be scared away if I wave plastic at them.

The hotels give you the option of changing your sheets every other day, or never during your stay, or using the last guest’s sheets. The amenity products are plentiful, but so safe and friendly that they have a few minor drawbacks, such as not cleaning hair or creating lather. I guess no one every checked to see if naturally uprooted rhubarb would create an effective toiletry product.

Ah, well, the scenery and restaurants are striking. I don’t want the kitchen tours I often receive, not because I’m afraid of finding unsanitary conditions, but because I’d rather continue to delude myself that I’m actually eating real meat.

I drove an electric car out here, a Fisker. Like San Francisco, it’s gorgeous, a show-stopper, and very original. And it has very little pickup and is in deep financial trouble.