Spectre Collie

Yesterday was my 33rd birthday. Took the day off (says something, when I consider not working on Sunday as “taking the day off”) and did a bunch of nothing. I invited a bunch of friends over to The Crow Bar for some good old-fashioned binge drinking. It was supposed to be a joint birthday for me and a co-worker who I found out was born on the exact same day (eerie). He never showed, so it ended up just being me and most of the people I’ve managed to collect over my eight years of living out here.

I don’t think I’ll ever do that again. For the most part, it was just great, being reminded of my friends, and having that many people who’d take time out of their day just for my sake. But it also reminded me that I’ve got a bunch of circles of friends with not a whole lot of overlap. It was weird having so many people in the same place who had nothing in common except me. I guess I really don’t like being the center of attention.

So I ended up not being able to talk to everyone I wanted, or for as long as I wanted. But I kind of think that was expected. And I did get way too drunk, but I think that was expected, too. On the whole it was a great reminder; not that I was getting older, but that I must be doing something right to be able to know such cool people.

And it didn’t even occur to me to do my usual birthday ritual, of plucking gray hairs out of my beard and chest. So that’s a step forward.

This weekend was the San Francisco Cherry Blossom Festival, of which I saw a sukoshi. Saturday night, the San Francisco Taiko Dojo had a show at the Kabuki theater. I’ve seen them twice now, and they’re just amazing.

The first time I saw them was last year at Zellerbach Hall in Berkeley. That show literally knocked the wind out of me, from the spectacle of the drummers and the sheer power of the sound. It’s not just about the drumming, as the performances are highly choreographed with all kinds of jumping from drum to drum and waving the sticks around in Tai-Chi-like movements, but not dull. Both of the shows I’ve seen combine contrasting elements: traditional Japanese culture with modern spectacle; eastern rhythms with western rhythms; Asian with Native American culture; celebration with reverence; group unity with individual personal expression, percussion with dancing; and discipline, order, and control with wild, abandoned, banging the shit out of some big-ass drums. I can’t recommend them highly enough.

Sunday, I walked up to Japantown to see the Grand Parade. This turned out to be an awful idea, mainly because the weather was ungodly hot (for SF) and I’m not used to walking farther than down to the corner to get cigarettes. By the time I got to Japan Center, the sweat was rolling off of me like I’d just been hit by a tsunami. I saw all the Japanese women walking with their breath masks on and finally understood that it was probably to avoid the overpowering stench of overweight hairy gaijin who’ve overexerted themselves. It was also really crowded.

The parade itself was kind of cool, but it was more of a community thing than a “taste of Japan” thing. The SF Taiko Dojo had a float, though, which rocked. They really are spectacular.

As I was driving back from Walnut Creek today, I saw that someone had put the words “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL” on one of the freeway overpasses. I couldn’t tell if it was intended for a specific driver or if it was just a general bit of good-will graffiti, so I decided to take it personally. It took a minute for my cynical mind to kick in, to be reminded of the hundreds of “Practice Random Acts of Kindness” bumper stickers that I used to see every day in Marin and Berkeley, how the drivers of the cars were almost always unrepetent asses, and how the sheer repetition of seeing the same pre-printed message on car after car sapped any meaning from it. I also began to suspect that the message was inspired by that Christina Aguilera song.

But before that, I was just struck by the idea that someone would go the trouble of making a sign just to make total strangers feel better about themselves, that kind of completely altruistic carpet-bombing of good will. It was done with yellow tape on the fenced sides of the overpass, in huge, sloppy letters, and with the sun going down behind the hills, the words glowed like neon. Driving over the hill, the first thing you could see were the words glowing as if they’d just popped into your brain, before you could see the bridge or the tape or have any idea how it was done. And then after you’d passed under the bridge and gone on through the tunnel, the words lingered if you closed your eyes: “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.”