You Are Here is Here!

Hey All,

In a mere ten days I will be performing my hour long solo piece based on my travels around the U.S. The three month journey was an interesting one. Attempting to create a performance of it has proved to be even more interesting. And challenging.

Thank you to everyone who supported me along my trip, whether you put me up, followed my blog, or provided me with material.  Please join me at the Biograph Theatre on April 19th and 20th at 7:30pm for You Are Here. 

The press release!

TRAVEL THE U.S. IN THIS POLITICALLY CHARGED TIME, AND WHAT DO YOU GET?

YOU ARE HERE

PRESENTED BY VICTORY GARDENS FRESH SQUEEZED, APRIL 19 and 20
CHICAGO, April 7, 2009 – Victory Gardens Theater’s Fresh Squeezed Series presents You Are Here, a funny, poignant new one-woman show inspired by Margot Bordelon’s recent road trip across the country to wrap her head around different experiences and perspectives.

You are Here debuts Sunday, April 19 and Monday, April 20 at 7:30 pm at the Victory Gardens Biograph Theater, 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue, Chicago. Tickets are $20. Call the Victory Gardens Box Office, 773.871.3000 (TTY 773.871.1682) or visit Bordelon’s travelblog and purchase tickets online at http://www.victorygardens.org/youarehere

Chicago writer/performer and acclaimed storyteller Margot Bordelon dropped everything last fall to spend three months breaking out of her liberal bubble to explore the country during this politically charged time. She documented her journey with digital audio, photography, and video then shaped the material into a multimedia one-woman show that is witty, insightful, and very entertaining.

Bordelon is a Chicago based writer, director and performer. Hedy Weiss of the Chicago Sun-Times called her “pretty, funny, observant, fast-talking and knowingly sexy – with a 1950’s girl-next-door allure that disguises a mischievous, naughty-girl persona. Highly recommended.” Bordelon certainly demonstrated her many talents last Friday night when she performed a comedic monologue about a sexy encounter at a dance club, in Victory Gardens’ current Fresh Squeezed late-night variety show Literally Sexy (returning one-night-only, this Friday, April 10 at 10:30 pm.)

Bordelon is a founding member of Theatre Seven of Chicago, an Associate Artist at Collaboraction and was previously the Literary Associate at Lookingglass Theatre Company. She has worked for such companies as Steppenwolf, Victory Gardens, Collaboraction, Timeline, Serendipity, Pavement Group, Live Bait, Around the Coyote, Bailiwick, Hell in a Handbag and Appetite Theater. Before moving to Chicago in 2004, she lived in Seattle where she worked with Seattle Repertory Theatre, Empty Space, University of Washington PATP, Live Girls! And DoubleShot Productions.

You Are Here is written and performed by Margot Bordelon, and directed by William S. Rogers. Dramaturg is Christopher Devine, Stage Manager is Michael Caloia, Video Design is by Sean J.S. Jourdan and C. J Arellano, and Sound Design is by Mikhail Fiksel.

The Victory Gardens Biograph Theater is located in the heart of Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood, at 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue, ½ block north of Fullerton. Discounted parking is available one block south at Children’s Memorial Hospital. Metered street parking is available (but mind the neighborhood restriction signs.) By CTA, take the Red, Purple, and Brown lines to Fullerton. Walk east on Fullerton, then north on Lincoln ½ block. The #8 Halsted, #11 Lincoln, #37 Sedgwick/Ogden, and #74 Fullerton buses all stop at Fullerton, Lincoln, and Halsted, ½ block south of the theater. See
http://www.transitchicago.com for times and routes.

(Note to calendar editors: The Sunday, April 19, 7:30 pm performance of You Are Here follows the Sunday, 3pm performance of Victory Gardens’ newest mainstage production, Class Dismissed, written by Jeffrey Sweet and directed by Dennis Zacek.)
This project is partially supported by a Community Arts Assistance Program grant from the City of Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs and the Illinois Arts Council, a state agency.

ABOUT VICTORY GARDENS FRESH SQUEEZED SERIES

You Are Here is presented in association with Victory Gardens’ new Fresh Squeezed series of late night and offbeat performance-based events targeting younger audiences, part of a New Audiences for New Plays initiative funded by a Wallace Foundation Excellence award.

Check out the Fresh Squeezed blog – http://www.vgfreshsqueezed.wordpress.com – to tap the juice and interact with Victory Gardens throughout the season, pulp lovers and non-pulp lovers alike.

# # #

Press contacts:

Jay Kelly jkelly@victorygardens.org or (773) 549-5788 ext 2136

or

Shannon O’Neill soneill@victorygardens.org or (773) 549-5788 ext. 2131

Sent by:
–
Jay Kelly
Director of Marketing and PR
Victory Gardens Theater
2257 N. Lincoln Avenue
Chicago, IL 60614
773.549.5788 x 2136 (phone)
773.549.2779 (fax)
312.315.3935 (cell)
jkelly@victorygardens.org
newsfromvictorygardens@comcast.net

Long Island: the Texas of the East Coast, Part I

My last roommate was notoriously cheap.  Or rather, in polite terms, extremely good at budgeting himself. When I was last unemployed I looked to him for lessons in frugality: buy a flask, shower at the gym, make beans and rice a staple dish. For an agonizing month I followed in his footsteps while living off my savings.  But soon I found a job and quickly adjusted my lifestyle to my income.  And now, three years later, I am once again plugging in the rice cooker.  And so, when the opportunity arose to visit New York last weekend to see a performance of piece I wrote, I began the FUN FILLED task of carefully comparing airline prices. Obviously I was going to go, but after three months of travel, I am completely broke. So: Southwest. The Walmart of Airlines. The catch: they no longer fly into La Guardia, just Long Island.  Ah Islip.  I’d never done this before, but my friend Jordana assured me it was a piece of cake.

Cut to:

Me, clutching my armrests, audibly breathing, and reconsidering my atheism.  Our 737 had hit a storm and we were going down.  And then back up. And down.  We bounced through air pockets, rattled through rain clouds; a woman three rows ahead of me yacked into her barf bag.  Luckily, I wasn’t flying alone.  My friend Kim, who also wrote a piece for the NY show, sat next to me, seemingly calm among a sea of gasping passengers.  “Talk to me Kim, talk to me,” I begged, “tell me a stupid joke.”  “A joke?” she asked. “Now?”

Okay, here’s the thing: earlier this spring I was flying home from Vegas when my plane encountered a milder, though still frightening, bout of turbulence.  In an attempt to relieve the collective tension permeating the cabin, the flight attendant got on the loud speaker, and in a questionable Scottish accent announced “she can’t take it any longer, she’s going down Captain!”  I let out a half laugh, a hiccup of air and sound.  This comment was not totally comforting, but I appreciated that he found humor in our impending doom. Just two weeks ago, I was flying back to Chicago from Seattle, when again, we hit a patch of turbulence.  This time, two of the flight attendants got over the speaker and began a vaudevillian-like call and response, that ended in this joke:

Once there was a family of potatoes.  A mom potato, a dad potato and a 18-year-old girl potato.  One day, the girl potato, who was a freshman in college, came home to her parents house for a visit.  “Mom, Mom,” she said, “I have something to tell you! I’m in love!  I saw the man I’m going to marry!”  “Who is it?” the mom potato asked.  “It’s Bill Walsh,” the daughter potato answered.  “You better go tell your father,” the mom potato said.  “Dad, Dad,” the girl potato said, “I’m in love!  I saw the man I’m going to marry! It’s Bill Walsh.”  “What?” the father potato cried, “no daughter of mine is marrying Bill Walsh.” “But Dad, why not?” the girl potato asked. “Because he’s nothing but a commentator.”

Get it?

This joke is so stupid, but it totally did the trick.  Suddenly, we were no longer imagining our own fiery deaths, but groaning out loud together, united in the embarrassed pleasure of a bad joke.

Both of these were Southwest flights.  Clearly, the turbulence comedy hour is part of their schtick.  You know the Southwest shtick, right?  They say “clever” things during the safety speech like “secure your safety mask before securing your child’s, if you have two children, pick your favorite!” And when you land: “Thank you for flying Southwest. We know you have many options when you fly, we’re glad you can’t afford them.” Stupid, cheap, but sometimes, USEFUL.

And now, as we lurched and lunged through the storm: silence. Which of course meant that we were in actual danger.  The flight attendants were strapped down into their safety seats, unable to reach the loud speaker.

“Any joke, I don’t care, but preferably a stupid one.” I said to Kim. There’s something about imminent death that makes the racist/sexist/pedophile/dead baby joke less appealing. Just in case God exists, you need to know that your last moments in life were redeemable.

“Okay, okay, I got one” she said. “ A mushroom walks into a bar.  He goes up to a pretty girl and says ‘would you like to dance?’ ‘NO!’ the girl laughs. ‘why not?’ asks the mushroom.’ ‘Because your a MUSHROOM,’ she says.  ‘Yeah,’ he answers, ‘but I’m a really FUN GUY.’

The woman on my left pulled her coat tighter over her head.  I let out a nervous laugh. “Good, good,” I said, “keep going.”  Kim laffy-taffy-ied my way through that turbulence. And for that, I am forever grateful. Especially because it went on for our entire thirty minute dissent.  I kid you not.  It was hands down the most terrifying flight I’d ever been on.  When we touched down the cabin burst into applause, the universal sign of a very bad flight.  Little did I know that our trip was just beginning…

See Power Love for Kim’s take on our adventures.

I Am Here

I’m home. Chicago.  It’s good to be back.  Well, it’s good to be in one place, but to be honest, I’m a little shell shocked.  I went from balmy fifty two degree Seattle weather to a frigid seven degrees.  But, as I walked home from the train station shivering in my thin travel coat, my heart soared with feelings of love and affection for my city.  I turned down my snow covered street, smiling openly, barely able to suppress a skip. Then, in true slap stick fashion, I fell on my ass.  My first winter wipe out. 

Today I decided to document my neighborhood by camera.  During the past three months I’ve spent a fair amount of time snapping photos of cool buildings, signs, and street art in the cities I’ve visited.  I wanted to see Wicker Park with fresh eyes.  There’s this scene near the end of Public Eye, maybe you remember it.  Joe Pesci’s character, a 1940s crime photographer, achieves fame and notoriety by catching a huge mob hit on camera. As he walks through a cheering crowd, we see for a moment, how he views the scene around him: a series of snapshots, different angles, emotions, frames.  Everything around him is a potential work of art. 

          

Take the girl out

if this was a…

beauty contest…

she’d win.

Everett is like a hot Eastern European woman wearing an ugly scrunchie.

Flanked by the Cascades and the Puget Sound, you couldn’t ask for a lovelier landscape. And yet, driving downtown is a depressing venture. Everywhere you turn flat, rectangular, postwar buildings with absolutely no ornamentation or character, jut out from the concrete. It’s as if the city’s developers deliberately sought to thwart the gorgeous green farmland, the blue/white mountains, and the sparkling water by building strip malls and warehouses.

This is my hometown.

I left Everett ten years ago. I couldn’t wait to get out.  In my opinion the only good thing about the town was that it was a half hour outside Seattle.  For a long time, I couldn’t even appreciate the landscape, it was simply background since I knew nothing else.  Now, going back, four years gone from the Pacific Northwest, I am surprised by its beauty.  Taken aback even.  Which, consequently, frustrates me even more.

On my 1st day in Everett, my mom and I stopped at a drive-through espresso stand (I’ll admit it, I miss these living in Chicago).  I asked her “why don’t you think the people developing Everett tried to create architecture that would compliment the landscape?”

“I never really noticed that,” she replied.

“What do you mean?!” I asked. “If you’re not paying attention to that, what are you paying attention to?”

“The people,” she answered, “after all, relationships are the most important thing in this world.”

I don’t disagree with this sentiment, but I imagine my relationships, though not consciously per say, are partly based on shared aesthetics.

I worship the hustle and bustle of the big city.  Living in a hip, busy neighborhood, with countless coffee shops and music venues, restaurants, and boutiques makes me feel like I’m in the center of a destination. I love the snug feeling of the Chicago brownstones hugging the sidewalk one after the other.  Who needs a driveway?  We’ve got a public train system!

What strikes me most about returning to my old neighborhood is how spread out everything is. People have big yards.  You can see the sky. The sky, and power lines.  And I find it sort of ironic that I’ve literally grown bigger and yet my neighborhood seems more vast. Which is the exact opposite feeling I have when I enter my mother’s house.

There is STUFF everywhere. Stacks of newspapers, Christmas decorations, books from the goodwill, junk mail from the past year piled by front the door. She’s a hoarder, and I’m here to help her clear it out.  I COME IN THE NAME OF ORDER.

I haven’t spent three weeks living with my mom since I was seventeen.  Obviously, this is going to be a blast.

A few of my favorite things

you are here

neon abounds

market wall art

Liz caffeinates pig

you are there

Visiting Seattle is an exercise in prioritization.  Having lived there for six years I have a list of favorites, bars and restaurants I simply MUST hit up before I leave.  I spend weeks before each short visit dreaming of Vivace’s white velvet mocha and the Eggs Benedict at Glo’s.  I can’t leave without eating the No-Meato burrito at Bimbo’s Bitch’n Burrito Kitchen and I curse myself if I don’t chug at least one cheap cocktail from Linda’s.  And of course, there’s people too.  Many of my college friends have gone the way of New York, L.A, or Chicago, but I still have a few tried and trues. There’s Darren, a fabulous, balletically-built actor who works at a fancy baby clothes store, and Emily one of the funniest actresses I know (she’s currently playing a pirate in a Children’s Theatre show), and of course, Chris and Richard – my mentors/”theater parents”.  Oh and Liz!  My bestie since preschool.  A free spirited blonde who lives on a houseboat.

Since I’m spending the last three weeks of my trip in the Pacific Northwest, I decided to mix some old with some new.  After patronizing both Vivace and Glos, Liz and I headed down to the Pike Place Market.  I occasionally stopped by the Market when I lived in Seattle, though I went there often as a child on weekends I visited my Dad.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been away for so long, but the Market felt more charming and vibrant than I remember it being since that time. The signs seemed brighter, the crowds more bustling, the goods more colorful.  After visiting so many unfamiliar cities, I’m able to see more clearly what makes Seattle unique, and the market is one of its gems. It hosts stand after stand of fresh local produce and sea food.  There’s a huge bronze piggy bank that I was obsessed with as a child, and a petite candy shop that smells like caramel corn and happiness. The market is labyrinthine in its structure, a staircase here, a ramp going down there, oblong shaped shops and secret nooks with views of the Puget Sound.  Everything is wooden and creaky and… authentic.

The only way to properly celebrate my revived affection was to go to The DeLuxe, the best damn happy hour in town.  Cheap wells, tasty bar food, Bloody Mary’s. Yes And.

Okay, so new stuff.  Since every visit is about my old haunts, I rarely go to places that opened after I moved to Chicago.  But in true contemporary American fashion, I made a change.  My favorite Seattle nouveau:

Licorous – small plates and fancy cocktails in a swank atmosphere.  The idea is you order a signature cocktail and then order the food pairing.  Think ginger infused vodka with lemoncello, ginger and ginger ale paired with duck prosciutto, candied ginger and pistachio.  I did my own thing and drank champagne.  Bubbly. Then ate pretzel dots.

Caffe Presse – a little French bistro that serves really affordable wine by the glass, carafe, or bottle.  And good eatin’.

Stumptown Coffee – Seattleites resisted this Portland import for months, but the amazing product won them over.  I just got an Americano and it was AMAZING. Dark, rich, perfect.  It gave Vivace a run for its money…

En Route

I met Paul on my train ride from Portland to Seattle.  He sat across the aisle from me, a beer bottle resting between his thighs.  Drinking your own booze on the train is strictly prohibited.  

I liked him at once.

I answered a phone call and when my conversation was over I took out my computer to do some typing. 

“Are you getting any power over there?” he asked.  I had plugged my computer in but when I looked at the battery icon on the lower right hand side of my screen, I realized I wasn’t. 

“No,” I answered, “that’s odd, I wonder why there’s no juice.” 

“I couldn’t get mine to work either,” he said taking a swig of his beer, “so I just gave up.” 

I would’ve placed him in his mid to late forties, a good looking salt and pepper haired fellow wearing a wedding band on his left ring finger. He was lean and precisely dressed in navy slacks and a crisp collared shirt.  “I’m Paul,” he said extending his hand. 

“I’m Margot,” I responded, “nice to meet you.” 

“So I couldn’t help overhearing your phone conversation,” he said, “sounds like you’ve been traveling for awhile.” 

“Yeah, a little bit over two months now.” 

“Why?” He asked.

“Because I always wanted to.” I said, “and the time was right.” 

“How old are you?” he asked, “twenty-one?” 

“Ha, ha!” I laughed, “ugh, no, I’m twenty-eight, I wish I was twenty-one.  Well, not really but, you know…”

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“Oh, so Obama territory.” I tried to decipher his tone of voice, was it reverent or critical?

“That’s right,” I answered, “hometown boy done good.”

He smiled with relief.  “What a blessing,” he said, “I wasn’t sure if we were going to make it.”

“Totally,” I said, “finally America made one good decision.”  We went on politely chatting for awhile and he shared with me that he too had traveled across the U.S., twenty years earlier.  As he told me an anecdote or two about hitchhiking through California and being homeless in O’Ahu I sensed he was leaving important details out of his story.  To be candid, my gaydar was going off.  He spoke vaguely of romantic liaisons but was careful not to specify gender.  He feared I was homophobic. I needed to put him at ease.  “Have you ever read any David Sedaris?” I asked.  He hadn’t.  “Oh he’s my favorite! He’s written a lot of stories about hitchhiking America.  In his latest book there’s this great story about him getting solicited by this truck driver and how it’s very awkward for him because he’s just coming to terms with his sexuality, you know, coming out of the closet.”

“Oh, that is exactly what was going on for me!” Paul said and suddenly the walls came down.  He told me about his husband the Canadian preacher and how essentially he’s supposed to be a preacher’s wife, but he doesn’t know how well he’s doing because they just moved from Hawaii to BELLVUE, Washington (Chicagoans – think Evanston with newer, tackier money), and how everyone at their church is so rich and yet SO CHEAP. And on and on. 

I’ve engaged in the delicate dance of “are you my kind?” on countless occasions as I’ve traveled.  What is the magic word you can say to make people believe you’re worth investing time in and divulging personal information to?  What subject matter can bond two strangers?  Politics has been a major connector, though approaching it is always so dangerous. I’ve connected with people over authors, and books, and cities I’ve visited. And pets.  People LOVE to talk about their pets.

“And so what do you do?” Paul asked. 

“I do theater,” I said.

His nose crinkled.  “Theater?” he asked, “what are you ever going to do with that?  Not to sound judgmental or anything but…” He raised his hands and made a I’m-just-warning-you sort of face, which is when I noticed his chipped front tooth.  He set his beer bottle on the floor and I saw he had an opened bottle of white wine tucked into the front pocket in the seat in front of him. Later I would be in the dining car reading and he would come in and have a hysterical phone conversation about “why wasn’t my appointment set up on time?” and “I’ve called three times for you and I keep getting a recording,” and “yes I’m upset, I just don’t know if I can live this way.” But that wouldn’t be for another few hours.  For now, I just admitted to myself that perhaps we weren’t the kindred spirits I thought we were and said, “Well, I AM doing that. I’m living the dream.”

Motor city

In Portland I attended the premiere of indie movie Cars III in the back room of Kelly’s Olympian.  It was… funny.  Apparently the creators got funding to make it based on the wild success of their Funnyordie video featured here. On YouTube.

Totally brilliant.

BFF

Katy and Fiona

Brian and Fiona

she also enjoys a good food table

Katy was always the leader of the pack.  She was an only child and had a cool, young mom.  Everything Katy liked, I liked, be it Janet Jackson, the Seattle Sonics, or Peppridge Farm Mint Milanos. Katy and I met in Mrs. Pennywell’s 1st grade class and remained friends through high school graduation. That said, I was always a step behind.  When I was playing with Barbies, Katy had a Michael Jackson doll, when I was reading Sweet Valley High, she breezed through John Grisham, when she played shortstop, I was stuck in right field.  While the rest of 6th grade suffered from cringe-inducing Awkward Stage (picture me with A LOT of hair-sprayed bangs and inch-thick glasses), Katy remained perfectly poised and attractive.

It was she who first introduced me to all the great Black Films of the 90s: Boyz in the Hood, Poetic Justice, Dead Presidents.  We watched South Central, and cooed over Larenz Tate – but she definitely had claims on him – I mean, she was the one who discovered him in Menace II Society.  

Katy was the coolest.  She supported the AIDS crisis by wearing a red ribbon, and gave $10 a month to child in Africa.  She was SO socially aware. 

I adored her, but somehow, as childhood friendships often do, we lost touch after graduation.  We went to different colleges, and I eventually moved out of state.  Every once in awhile I’d receive an email, or we’d exchange a myspace message or two, (always containing gratuitous exclamation points communicating how excited we were to hear from each other!!!!!), but we hadn’t made actual physical contact for years.  That is, until our High School reunion.

WHICH IS A WHOLE OTHER STORY, THE IMPORTANT THING IS:

Katy and I reconnected and she was kind enough to host me on my trip through Portland.  It’s incredible how little has changed in ten years – she’s still fashionable, articulate, and extremely liberal (thank God!) But now, she has a husband, a house, and a kid.  And a dog.  And is about to graduate with a degree in Interior Design.  So basically, she’s still Wonder Woman. 

Katy and her awesome husband Brian may be living in bliss domestica, but they still know how to rock it.  They took me to an awesome martini bar in The Pearl district, then to a famous local brewery, then to the Matador, a delightfully divey bar with a photo booth, DJ, and dance floor (add a food table and I’m in heaven).  And then, my friends, as a salute to our hometown of Everett, Washington, we went to Taco Bell. Nachos Belle Grande!

We spent the next day nursing hangovers.  We cured them (slightly) by dining at the McMenamin’s in The Kennedy School, a former elementary school that is now home to a restaurant, hotel, brewery, movie theater, etc. Go there.

Anyway, I suppose the point I’m driving at is that I think I’m prone to unfairly judging the Married With Children.  That kind of life feels so far away from my Chicago existence and I tend to assume anyone in their twenties who chooses to go that route is boring, uneducated, or had a shot gun wedding. Not true. Both Katy and Brian fiercely love baby Fiona but were really honest about parenting.  There was no wide-eyed “we’ve never been happier, our lives are now complete” crap. “It’s a lot of work,” Katy said, and “I never sleep.”  How refreshing. Now Katy’s the cool, young mom.

And now a word from our sponsor: Victory Gardens Theater is proud to partner with Margot Bordelon on her exciting travels around the county.  Don’t miss hearing about the adventure in her show You Are Here, April 19 & 20, 2009.  Part of every tickets sold before December 1st, 2009 will help fund Margot’s trip, so buy your tickets now! After December 1st, ticket sales will help us put on her show so that’s a good time to buy too.  Call 773.871.3000 or order online here.

San Francisco’s treat

Davey on the Golden Gate

Homeless man with pet Sylvester.

The man at the Fortune cookie factory was not amused by my antics

San Francisco’s dirty secret is its aggressive homeless population. I was out for drinks with my college buddy Ramiz when a homeless man came in the bar and stole the dollar I’d left as tip for the bartender.  “Hey, hey, hey,” Ramiz said, “that’s not for you, put that back.”  The man mumbled incoherently and dropped twenty seven cents on the counter in exchange for my crisp GW. “No man,” Ramiz said, “that’s for her.”  He was just about to get up and confront the man when the bartender waved it off with a sigh and said “it’s fine, I don’t care,” and the man shuffled out.  “Sorry,” she apologized, “I don’t know what it is, but we just get the weirdest people coming in here.” The bar was completely empty except for Ramiz and me. “Do you work this shift alone?” I asked.  She was a pretty, young Asian woman somewhere in her early to mid-twenties. “Yeah,” she said, “it’s the only way to make any money.”  “Do you ever get scared?”  “Sometimes,” she said, “but what are you going to do?”

Yikes. A number of people I’ve met along my trip have inquired about Chicago’s crime scene.  Its history as a notorious gangster town gives people the impression that it’s one of America’s most dangerous cities.  Maybe I’ve just been lucky, but Chicago is butterflies and lollipops compared to San Francisco. 

When I was in SF a year ago I accidently turned the wrong way into a dark alley and, I shit you not, saw a full on BLADE lying on the ground.  A man stared menacingly at me a few feet away.  I promptly turned around and half ran out the way I came.  Did I mention I was totally blazed?  Yeah, from drugs I bought off the street. No kidding.  This time around I’ve yet to come into contact with any back alley weapons or street pushers, (although there was an aging hippy whispering “psychadelics?” to passers-by on upper Haight), but I’ve still had a number of run-ins with delinquents. My top three:

1. I was walking with my former Chicago roommate Dave when a homeless man started catcalling me – freestyle:  “Hey cutie, one love, Wayne’s World!”  He got right up in our faces and continued his free association, “you know Sylvester? Sylvester the cat?  He had to get Tweetie, Tweetie Bird, you know?!”  This was the middle of the day right outside China Town.  We both laughed and inched closer to the curb praying for the light to turn green.  This was especially ironic because I’d immediately just finished telling Dave about the tip thief from the night before and expressing my surprise at the fearlessness of some of the SF homeless. I did appreciate that this one quoted Wayne’s World however.  Fifteen years later and I still quote it myself.  (If you haven’t watched it lately, I suggest you do, it’s aged well.)

2. A couple days later Dave and I took the bus to Golden Gate Park.  We were chatting about our upcoming bridge tour and the young man sitting across from us overheard and joined in, “you going to the park?” “yes” we answered. “Were you there for the rally against police brutality?” “No,” we both said concerned “we didn’t know about it.” Police brutality too?  Oh the aggression!  “Yeah,” he said, “I got arrested and was tortured for hours.”  Hmmmm… really? “They cuffed me and now my wrists are all torn up.”  His wrists were perfectly healthy.  “That sucks, man,” Dave said and we gave each other the “engage-this-person-no-longer” look. Dave took out his phone, and I pulled my hat down and pretended to look at my chucks. Really, I was subtlety giving this dude a once over.  He wore a Raiders baseball cap, puffy grey coat, baggy black jeans and overpuffed sneakers.  Definitely sketchy. Anyone proudly sporting early 90s fashion is suspicious if you ask me. “Hey man, can I use your phone?” the man asked Dave. He hesitated for a brief second and then said, “sure,” and handed it over.

I was surprised.  But then again, it made sense.  Dave is The Cool Guy.  He’s super laid back and gets along with everyone.  When we lived together I made him deal with our landlord and bills – he’s just such a smooth negotiator.  Even more importantly, he gave the best boy advice.  If the flirty text message is an art form, David is one of the Great Masters. Whenever I hemmed and hawed over how to respond to a guy, Dave always dictated the cleverest and most perfectly worded reply .

Oh how I miss thee roomie, return to me!!!

ANYWAY, we listened in on the man’s conversation: “yeah, I’m on the 71 and I’m heading near your place, so can I drop it off?  I’ve got to drop something off at the Safeway too, so I’m gonna to be a minute.” Drop something off at the Safeway?  What, are you returning a defective box of cocoa krispies?  The man hung up the phone and handed it back to Dave, “thanks man,” he said.  When we got off the bus I said “I’m surprised you let that guy borrow your phone, that’s awfully trusting of you.” “Yeah,” he replied, “that’s the third time someone’s asked me here, believe me, I was contemplating all the ways I could go after him if he ran off the bus with it.  I just gotta start lying about my minutes.”

3.  The best is when you’re an innocent bystander and you get to observe.  The best is not a homeless person harassing another civilian, but Crazy on Crazy.  I was walking down some hill in the Financial District watching a visor-wearing Asian woman frantically dig through garbage.  A short drunken man approached.  “I decided I don’t want you going through the garbage can.”  She looked up quickly, rapidly blinking.  “I decided I don’t want you going through the garbage can,” the man repeated.  The woman nodded but it was clear she didn’t understand what he was saying.  “I don’t want you going through the garbage can!” he said and then he began to wrestle a grocery size bag of garbage out of the woman’s hand.  They pulled back and forth until it exploded.  “Now look what you’ve done!” The man said and started to go for another bag.  I picked up my pace and passed them, as entertaining as they were, I didn’t want to get hit by San Francisco garbage.

And now a word from our sponsor: Victory Gardens Theater is proud to partner with Margot Bordelon on her exciting travels around the county.  Don’t miss hearing about the adventure in her show You Are Here, April 19 & 20, 2009.  Part of every tickets sold before December 1st, 2009 will help fund Margot’s trip, so buy your tickets now! After December 1st, ticket sales will help us put on her show so that’s a good time to buy too.  Call 773.871.3000 or order online here.

San Francisco has bitchin’ street art

One of the many amazing things about SF is that there’s art on every street corner. Literally.