urban psy-ops: half-smile

Living downtown, I see hundreds of faces every time I leave my apartment. Mostly the only people who make eye contact are asking for money. The others are mostly staring at the ground or staring into the blank distance. We seem to all have learned the avoid-eye-contact standard behavior that goes with New York City. Here's the thing: I live in the middle of a small community. The same couple of hundred people walk down New Montogomery Street to offices each day; the same couple hundred art students lug portfolios between Academy of Art classes; the same MUNI drivers maneuver the 30 and the 45 up third street every day. We don't have to all ignore each other.
So here's my project, which I've been practicing for the last few days: endeavor to be present and available and positive as I walk around the city. This is a simple matter of three physical postures: head up, eyes open, half-smile. And, if I happen to meet someone's eyes, I smile a bit more, and nod. That's all, but it feels really good. Try it; it feels like making friends with the city, or at least, deciding not to reject the whole population without even seeing them. Try it, and let me know how it goes. Be brave! Change the world! Stop spreading fear! Spread pleasure!

heart of the city

I was getting ready for bed around ten tonight when I heard a ruckus outside. I live at Third and Mission, in the heart of San Francisco, along the corridor between the ball park and union square, with views of the Bay Bridge, the financial district, and Market Street from my living room. When something starts to happen, I know it before KRON-4 has a chance to get reporters on the scene. First there was a roaring crowd; waves of cheering and shouting that roused me from my cozy bed to peer out the windows searching for the source. Mission Street jammed up, and New Montgomery got gridlocked. Third Street was taken over by pedestrians; cars couldn't get through the crowds. Sirens and police cars converged a few blocks south of here. What was going on?
I tried the tv, thinking maybe local news would know what's up. Nope, just the same annoying sports guy talking about boxing. Was it the Giants? Did Barry Bonds just do something actually worthy of celebration? Nope, the Giants are in Miami tonight. Okay, can the local papers help me? Nope, their news feeds have no mention of
"right now." How can you google for "why are people yelling outside my window?" I heard chanting -- what were they saying? It wasn't "peace now!" and it wasn't "impeach bush!" or "out of iraq now!"
Mystified and curious, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs. On the way down, other building residents asked each other what was going on, but no one had answers. Not even the concierge knew, and he could see the traffic piling up just beyond the rotating doors.
Finally on the sidewalk, I entered the stream of people, and start demographing them: mostly 20 somethings, not hipster, not sporty, more middle-American than we usually see in these parts, gaggles of straight kids with a distinct smell of beer. The first guy I approach has fresh stitches in his eyebrow and a bruised face. He ignores my questions and walks on; it's kind of a "28 days later" moment. Next I approach a girl who probably can vote but can't drink, with sweaty curly blond hair. "What's going on? Where's everybody coming from?" I ask. "Concert," she replies. "Who?" "Rage," she answers, and I know she means Rage Against the Machine. The light changes and the pedestrian stream is interrupted for a minute while a few cars progress through the Third and Mission intersection. I ask the next group of people, again, "What's going on?" Again the reply is "Concert." "Who?" "Rage." Why is everyone speaking in single-world sentences? Come on, I have a faux-hawk and I'm wearing a hoody and surfer shoes, you can talk to me! At least they assume that I know who "Rage" is.
I do, in fact, know who Rage is, and I'm a little worried. Rage is nothing if not political. If they drove a stadium full of drunk Californians to cheering that rivals Critical Mass, well, I bet some Starbucks windows will get smashed tonight. Lord knows there are plenty of candidates in this neighborhood.
Half an hour later, there are more sirens, less shouting. Law and order is reasserting itself. More honking; the cars are taking over the streets again. I want to be here for the revolution. I don't think the smell of the crowds or the sound of gridlock will be televised.
UPDATE: The concert was Rock The Bells an all-day hip-hop/funk/punk festival at McCovey Cove Parking Lot, and included Rage, indeed, but also Wu-Tang Clan, Public Enemy, Mos Def, Nas, Cypress Hill, and other bands I'm too old to know about.

Philz Coffee

This coffee is insanely good. This coffee is so good that I have taken a bus across town for a single cup. This coffee is so good that upon taking the first sip I have to yell repeatedly about how fucking awesome it is. This coffee is so good that I'm willing to pay $2.75 for a cup. Hell, I'd pay twice that. This coffee is a different beverage entirely than Starbucks and Peets or even IntelligentsiA and Cafe Trieste.

Philz Coffee is the wonder of which I speak. There are three locations, all in San Francisco, and I recommend that everyone make it a point to once in their lives have a cup of Philz, even if it means driving two thousand miles across the desert in the summer. (Okay, that's a bit hyperbolic, even for me.)

Upon walking into Philz, the customer is greeted with a list of twenty coffee blends. A loving description is available on the menu, or the bouncy hipsters behind the counter will help you choose the right one. I asked for something like Kona or Jamaican Blue Mountain, and they steered me to the "So Good" blend. It's not necessary to call these kids barristas... "angels" would hit the mark better. The angel takes a single scoop of whole beans from one of several dozen tubs, grinds them, pours them into a puffy paper filter, then pours super-hot water over the beans. She adds cream and sugar to my specifications, then hands me the glorious product of this endeavor. The top layer is a thick froth; the liquid is exquisite. It has all the beautiful rich coffee flavor with none, zero, none of the bitterness. The lack of bitterness is what separates Philz from everything else ever. This is when the yelling starts; I spend a few minutes unable to contain my astonishment and joy at the deliciousness of this coffee.

...all of which explains why, at 11 am on a Sunday with the New York Times delivered to my door, I'm contemplating a trek across town to purchase another heavenly concoction. My god. Go drink this coffee, then tell me I'm wrong.

Philz Coffee, 24th at Folsom, Fourth at Berry, or 18th and Castro, San Francisco. www.PhilzCoffee.com.

Sleeping Dead Man

I found this man sleeping, or dead, on Second Street this afternoon. I just finished reading The Great Deluge by Douglas Brinkley, who told the story over and over of white people with options and money ignoring poor brown people in trouble. Brinkley’s Deluge was the story of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast; looking at this man, I thought of corpses abandoned in the floodwaters of the Lower Ninth Ward, and of Bush and Chertoff, going about their business in air-conditioned comfort while thousands of people awaited rescue in the Superdome. “Suffering of biblical proportions” indeed.

I took the photo, because, well, please, what a shot. Then I was ashamed of myself. Here was a person who was obviously in some sort of trouble. If everything is all right, we do not fall asleep in the middle of the sidewalk at two in the afternoon. If he was (just) homeless, he would have been dirty, and he would have been huddled against the side of the building. He wasn’t dirty, and he had shaved recently, so something other than homelessness had led him to pick this spot for his nap. Or his death; I really did have to look closely to see whether he was breathing. He was probably just nodded out on heroin, and not in much trouble, I told myself. I told myself that checking on him would involve waking him up, and that he would probably be angry. I told myself that he was probably in a delightful heroin haze. I told myself I would be much better off leaving him alone. Still.

I am white, and I am healthy; I have options and I have family and money and an education and a job and an apartment. In this neighborhood, I pay attention to the Web 2.0 companies, Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, conventions at Moscone, traffic on the Bay Bridge on-ramps, the organic cafés, and the fine arts bookstores. Things below knee level are literally beneath my notice. Still. I had noticed this man. I wasn’t going to be able to walk away unless I knew that he was okay. I was willing to risk his anger or even violence because I didn’t want him to die.

So I knelt next to him and asked, “Are you all right? Do you need help? Do you want an ambulance?” His eyes opened and closed, opened and closed, unfocused. His lips parted but he wasn’t really there. I was reaching for my phone to call 911 when he came back to himself. “Why you gotta bother me? I’m sleeping, leave me alone. Stop bothering me!” I was relieved; he was alive. I apologized and walked away.

We get a few chances like this, I think. I’m not going to head to Mississippi the next time the river floods, I’m not even going to work in a soup kitchen anytime soon. Maybe I should. But yeah: when it’s this easy, I won’t just walk away.

personal geek security pack

I always carry these items, in a tiny Pelican case in my backpack:

• Prepaid phone card


• BARTticket (or the local equivalent)


• Cash. $20, $50, or $100 is all good, but in twenties or smaller denominations.


• 4 quarters(Think parking meter.)


• Duct tape, in a flat "roll"


• Gu Energy Gel! Food goo with caffeine


• Painkiller of your choice. I like ibuprofen, but if you've got an extra vicodin sitting around, throw that in too. Most 911 first responders can't give you morphine, you know. So if you live the kind of lifestyle where (say) dislocating your shoulder or dropping a couch on your toe is not unlikely, it'd sure be nice to have real painkillers around. Your mileage may vary!


• LED Flashlight. I use an Inova


• USB thumb drive with recovery software for your favorite OS's. The Sony USM-H Micro Vault is 1.5cm x 3cm x 2.7mm.


• Pocketknife. My dad turned me on to Columbia River Knife and Tool. IMHO, a single tough blade beats the leatherman on weight vs utility and volume vs utility for civilized situations. (I don't go to Borneo much, do you? Although it is a pleasure to answer in the affirmative when someone says, "anybody got pliers?" If this matters to you, put a small pocketknife if in the emergency pack, and carry the leatherman in your pocket.)


• A lighter. When the power goes out, a flashlight is nice, but I dare you to find a lighter in your apartment in the middle of the night aided only by a flashlight. This item pairs with a stock of candles in a well-known location in your apartment.

Don't keep this in your wallet! One of the use cases for this packet is "I lost my wallet." (Or, more likely, "someone stole my wallet.")
Any suggestions for other things to add?