Blog. B-L-O-G. Blog.

It was morning. It was the weekend. I needed pan dulce.

And as anyone knows, if you live in San Francisco and want authentic Mexican anything, you need to go the The Mission District -- a place you only go during daylight and in groups of 20 or more. However, this morning, I would be making the trek alone. I pre-dialed "911" on my Treo and set off on my quest to this exotic and far away (about 1/2 mile) land.

Would I survive? Unknown. But I would chronicle the trip with pictures as perhaps a record of the final chapter of my time on earth.

I left the safe haven early.

...and began my trek. The destination? The panaderia (mexican bakery) at 24th and Mission. Yes, deep into the Mission I was traveling...alone. As I began to get nearer the Mission, I noticed the streets were deserted...oddly deserted.
I was unnerved as one of the locals had raised an upside down American flag. The universal signal for distress.

I pressed on. Visions of sugary goodness can drive men to take incredible risks. Like the one I was taking now with this solo journey. I had second thoughts and seriously considered phoning a friend, but alas, the receiver was encrusted with ...matter...and stuck to the base.

After the incident with the phone, I pressed on, eyes glued to the sidewalk so as not to step in any...matter. As I looked up to get my bearings, I noticed an odd thing. Cars were abandoned. Right in the middle of the street. Obviously, these people had to get out of the area in a hurry. What madness could have happened here?

Already exhausted by the trek and running very low on supplies, I stopped for provisions. The shopkeeper seemed nervous and spoke a native tongue I did not understand. We traded some beads and I got the supplies I so desperately needed to continue my journey.

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.

The signs were clear. I was getting closer. I believe this sign, roughly translated, said "Welcome."

Confident in my compass bearings and by the look of the obvious signs I was seeing, it was clear -- The Mission was close. Dangerously close. I pressed on for what seemed like hours and then stopped to break out my binoculars and get a read on my position. "Grocery, Liquor, ATM." By George, I was near!

I considered asking the locals on the corner for information on my destination, but unsure of the native dialect in this region and thinking it was safer to avoid mingling too much with the native population, I circled around. I reached for my binoculars again. At first, I couldn't make out the sign. I increased the power and it slowly began to bring the sign into focus.

I began to sprint. Partly because I was so excited at being so close and partly because moving targets are harder to hit.

I rounded the corner and it was there. Sweet mother of God, it was there! Tears streamed down my face.

I ask you -- what says "Authentic Mexican Bakery" more than a poorly rendered Minnie Mouse window painting? I cared not. I entered. I purchased.

As I left the bakery, retracing my footsteps back to safe haven, I reflected upon my journey. The triumphs. The tradgedies. The dangers. The thrills. Those I had loved. Those I had lost.

It was the trip of a lifetime (or at least a Saturday morning). I'm happy to have been able to bring it to you and I hope this record will serve others who embark on this rewarding trek.

God bless you all.

Shades so sleek and hip

Set briefly on top of car

Alzheimer's is bad

I started taking flying lessons this week. Being in the Bay Area, a little extra care was in order to choose a place to learn that didn't have me dodging jets half the time. I did some research on flight schools, emailed a pilot I used to work with for suggestions, asked around and settled on going out of Livermore Muncipal Airport -- relatively good weather, just outside the busy air traffic area and has a school with the required quirk factor.

And actually, to be most correct, I started taking flying lessons about 17 years ago. I just ran out of money when I was young and dumb (dumber?). So, I took 17 years...off...to...think about it. Or something.

I'm learning in a Cessna 152. Now, I'm 6'4" and my flight instructor is about 6'2". However, the inside of a 152 is much more suited to Tom Cruise and the creepy lady from Poltergeist. We literally have to fold ourselves into the plane and then unfold ourselves out. Human origami. Hope no one has a camera.

The other thing about where I'm learning is that it's a school that specializes in unusual training -- quirk. For instance, I'm in a Cessna 152, which is about as basic a plane as you can find...but this particular version is modified to do aerobatics. That was made crystal clear when my instructor showed me the red handles dangling near each door. He told me not to pull them because they make the doors instantly fall off. "A few of the guys like to wear parachutes while doing some unusual things in this plane," he said.

Well, okay then.

So, lesson #1 was a blast. Lesson #2 coming up tomorrow.

I will try not to pull the red handles.

Why is it when people talk on their cell phones in public places, they feel as though they are sitting in their own sound proof living room? This guy was sitting next to me at the Las Vegas airport the other day. I was tired, on my way home from a work trip (in Denver, not Vegas -- Vegas was just a stopover. Too bad) and wanted to punch him when he took out his phone and started talking...loudly.

Instead of punching I decided it would be great sport to see if I could break out my Treo and video Mr. Annoying Businessman sitting right next to me without him knowing. All so I could show you, my loyal reader(s), just how effing annoying this guy was. Please note how clearly you can hear him. And that's through a crappy Treo microphone. The video is short and doesn't do the experience justice. Hope you get the idea.

I may need to start a blog dedicated entirely to BART. Yogi here, was part of my ride home tonight.

And yes, that's my shoe.

If I were to choose a place to play my trumpet, a cramped BART car during my evening commute would perhaps not make the list. This fellow, however, had other thoughts.

It's been a tough week.

So, I've been doing various things to make sure I take care of myself mentally and physically. This morning I thought it was a good time to start running again. So, I strapped on my trusty Nike Air (classic, but still my favorites) shoes and dressed for the second mile.

San Francisco is not a place built for novice joggers. In addition to being terribly out of shape, I found myself struggling up hills that would be better suited for rock climbing gear than my pitifully equipped running shoes. Then, you crest the hill, breathe a quick sigh of relief/victory, only to have to hold on for dear life as you try not to let your rubbery legs buckle beneath you as you amble down a grade equal to the one you just climbed. I shortly looked for a place to stop running, but it was breakfast time and I was now in an area with shops and bakeries. I couldn't possibly let these bacon-eating breakfast diners see me quit, so I forged on, trying not to show the fire that was in my chest and the rubber that was my legs, quite certain that I would collapse at any moment. Then, sweet salvation.

A couple in a little green Miata pulled over and beckoned the struggling jogger to the car. They needed directions. Now, a Miata is a small car, so instead of just leaning over, I took the opportunity to kneel next to them. Ahhhhh. They asked me how to get to the 101 (In Northern California, we just say "101," but they said "the" so, obviously they weren't from around here. But I digress.), which is an answer I knew, but enjoying my kneeling respite, I drew out the conversation as along as possible. Just long enough to get wind back in my lungs so I could run the next couple blocks until I was safely out of the sightline of the breakfast-eating public. I finally stopped jogging in front of a homeless guy who I think was sleeping in this morning.

I walked the remaining few blocks home. All in all, though, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had exercised, for oh, probably a good hour. I had conquered at least one hill. I had helped the tourists. I was triumphant.

I struggled up the steps to my flat. Never had the steps seemed this daunting. Coughing profusely (can one cough profusely?) I stagger into an area where I can sit. I sit down coughing and wheezing, look up at the clock.

I had been gone 15 minutes.

I'm standing in the Orange County airport this afternoon waiting for my flight home when I hear over the PA system, "Will the passenger who left their hearing aid batteries please return to the security checkpoint."

Wonder how that turned out.

Tell us a little something about your first car.  Do you have any photos you can share? 
Submitted by tamara.

Oh man, I wish I had a picture. It was a green 1974 Ford Pinto. It's apparent to me now that my parent's were trying to get rid of me.

I was at a going away party for a co-worker last night. It went fairly late and by the time I got my somewhat inebriated self to a BART station, it was midnight. I have never taken BART after midnight. I had visions of empty cars with just me and Angie Dickinson inside. But no, there were other people besides Angie.

I sat across from a rasta dude with a guitar case. As soon as the train got moving, rasta guy opened his case and pulled out his guitar. I winced, knowing that I had about 25 minutes on this train and I really didn't want this guy playing the guitar and asking for money that whole time.

But he didn't want money. He just quietly played the guitar, as if only for himself. I was sitting 8 feet away from him and could barely hear him. He was in his own little rasta world. So, he played, through the MacArthur station, he played. On past 19th street, he played. 12th street still playing. West Oakland? Yup, still strumming softly in his own little world. Under the bay we go and rasta dude continues to slip deeper into his own subconscious. If he wasn't playing, I would swear he was peacefully sleeping.

After 25 minutes being on the train together but not even acknowledging each other's existence, we pull into Embarcadero, he puts his guitar away, looks at me and says "It's hot in here." And walks off the train.

Rasta dude, I want to be you.