Showers of Hypocrisy

The older I’ve gotten, the more deliberately I make choices that are eco-friendly. Part of the reason is because it's easier than ever to know what the right thing to do is; for instance, when the garbage cans at the elementary school are labelled "Compost," "Recycle," and "LANDFILL" (the latter with skull and crossbones and death heads drawn on it) it's a fair bet that you want to reduce your inputs to that bin. 

I also happen to live in a part of the country where large scale systems have been put into place to make it second nature to go easy on the earth. Our curbside recycling takes nearly every kind of paper and plastic in a single stream, the county composts our food scraps, and bins at the local grocery stores collect used batteries and compact fluorescent light bulbs. So it’s an ingrained habit now to carry reusable bags to the grocery store, to store leftover food in reusable containers, and to read by the humming yellow light of a CFL. I have put my arm (gingerly) into the nasty morass that is our green compost bin to fish out a piece of errant aluminum foil for recycling, and I switched to a homemade green cleanser that makes everything in my house smell minty fresh.

I even put a bucket in my shower to collect the water as it warms up, so I can use it later to pour on my (drought-tolerant, native, organic) garden plants.Then I step into the shower and all my good eco-intentions rise up in the steam. 

I love a long, hot shower.

I know the numbers – an average shower uses 5 gallons water per minute. If you're going to stay in for more than 5 minutes, you may as well sink into a claw foot porcelain tub (30-50 gallons of water per bath, on average) and have a servant fan you with a palm frond. Here in Northern California we’ve had drought years where short showers can make a big difference in maintaining enough water for the things we really need, like toilets that flush and water to drink. So it’s particularly virtuous where I live to keep showers as short as possible. 

For those who want to stand in the shower longer, experts recommend stepping in, getting wet, turning off the water while lathering up, and then putting the water back on to rinse off – what my friend Andrea, a native Californian, taught me is called the Sailor’s Shower.

Me? I start off every shower thinking – “just a quick rinse off today.” Things start to go south almost immediately as the shower stall fills up with steam and that kink in my right shoulder blade, the one that tells me I’ve been sitting at the computer too long, starts to unclench. The jets of water against my neck act like a lever to lower my shoulders two inches, and I can feel the pinched wrinkle between my eyes start to smooth out.

I’m nearsighted and have long observed that when my glasses are off I don’t hear as well either, so being in the shower is as close as I’ll ever come to a sensory deprivation tank. Staring at the white wall of tiles, all sorts of ideas form, flit, and take flight. I think, “Ok, one more minute, then I’ll get out.” I think that 15 times or so. When I finally do shut the water off and step out into a bathroom that is like a nice Boca Raton steam room, I am filled with self loathing to the tips of my wrinkled fingers.

A few months ago I bought a shower timer at a store, something that I could just stick to the wall of the shower and watch as 4 minutes and 59 seconds went by. I've used timers before at various campsites, the ones where you have to feed in quarters every few minutes to keep the water flowing, so I know that even a three minute shower is within my capacity.

On the second use, the fancy timer fell to the floor of the shower and broke. I know I could set a kitchen timer. But it seemed as good a sign as any that in return for all my other earth friendly exertions, the universe has decided to give me a pass on the long showers.

Concert Crone Review: Lykke Li

The Concert Crone operates in a musical netherworld: too old for bouncers to ask her for ID, too young to give up the thrill of buying tickets using the secret presale code. In service to the mid-life music fans of the world, the Crone braves the Bay Area music scene and answers the question: Worth Hiring the Sitter?

The Band: Lykke Li, Monday May 31 2011. Indie darling Lykke (real name: Li Lykke Timotej Zachrisson, which would look terrible on a concert t-shirt,) may be the most under appreciated Swedish export since lingonberry jam. Sheer logic says that every teenage girl in America should love her: she contributed a song to the Twilight soundtrack, and Tina Cohen-Chang covered one of her tunes on the "Glee" episode called "A Night of Neglect." But she's nowhere close to mainstream. Tell people you are going to hear Lykke Li and they will nod and smile, then wonder what the hell you just said.

The Venue: The Regency Ballroom in SanFrancisco, which looks like a dance hall from the 1910s, which is what it is. The Crone tried not to think about earthquake retrofitting during the show. Also somewhat nostalgic was the ladies' room, which had three seats and a line that was infinity miles long. Best to bring a Stadium Gal, or leave your beverages until after the show.

The Company: Maria, the Crone's best friend since the first day of college who is of Swedish descent and quick to support anything that comes from the mother country, including Ikea's pressboard furniture. In fact upon hearing that the Crone got tickets for the show, her immediate reaction was: "Maybe this will be like that Flintstones episode where the Swedish band rents Fred and Wilma's house!" Yes, Maria, it will probably be just like that. Have another meatball.

The Crowd: Chicks dig Lykke Li. Asian chicks, gay chicks, chicks with Cleopatra eye makeup and Olivia Newton John headbands, chicks so young they look newly hatched, and chicks leading good-natured smiling boyfriends behind them. There was a smattering of gay dudes, also dudes with manscaped facial hair who could have played for either team. The Concert Crone's point is, if you are a single, straight man at a Lykke Li show and you do not hook up, you are simply not paying attention. You should signal your straightness with a plaid shirt and a look of confusion; that seemed to be the most common hetero marking.

Age Humiliation Factor: Medium. 
The Concert Crone purposely did not remove her ID from her wallet on the way in, and the bouncer purposely did not ask for it as he attached the venue wristband. Then the elderly deaf grandma routine started.

Bouncer: "I need to look in your purse. Do you have gum?"

Crone: "Do I have a gun?" That seems like a strange question.

Bouncer: "Gum." This woman is an idiot.

Crone: "A gun?" What the heck is he saying? I can see his lips moving.

Bouncer: "GUM." Motions to giant stack of confiscated gum. Evidently, those Regency Ballroom folks do not want you Macgyvering your way into the men's room with some gum.

Crone, relieved. "No! No gum, no gun."

Behind the Crone, Maria is having a plastic baggie of contraband chocolate chip cookies confiscated and added to the gum pile. Who needs a gun? We rollin' with Tollhouse, bitches.

Cool Factor: Medium. 
The opening act was Grimes, a Canadian singer whose real name is Claire Boucher and who was evidently quite the buzz-generator at this year's SXSW. She is a lovely girl with a Kewpie doll voice and a ready giggle. Saying you've seen Grimes perform live could provide some real indie street cred.

The problem is that when Grimes performs, she constantly diddles the knobs on various synthesizers, all while singing in a made-up language that, according to one reviewers, includes references to Dune.  In fact, she kind of acts like a busy toddler at a water play station. Unfortunately, it was not long into Grimes' performance that memories of Gilda Radner and the Judy Miller Show on SNL bubbled into the Crone's brain. All hope for indie street cred was lost as Maria and the Crone guffawed into their drinks, just waiting for Grimes to put a skirt on her head and sing, "I am the most beautiful bride in the woooorld! And this is my showowowow!"

Worth Hiring the Sitter? Definitely, but good luck because she's already got tickets. 
You know why chicks dig Lykke Li, and why their boyfriends agree to see her play? Because she is girl power personified and made irresistible. Her YouTube clips, like "Dance, Dance, Dance" below, are full of soulful melodies and ballads. But she is not afraid to turn the volume up to 11 and shake her hair during a live show; this song had the whole joint jumping. It took two drum kits, not to mention the single drum stick that Lykke wielded at whatever percussion instrument was within reach, to keep up with her distinctive voice that absolutely overflowed the hall. Maria says, "What surprised me most was how much better she is in concert than her recordings would indicate. Lykke is a born live performer and her sound is a ton richer live than recorded."

The Crone has saved the best for last. Being of Northern European stock, Lykke's show ran like clockwork. Doors at 7. Grimes at 8. Lykke at 9. Bed by 11:12, still plenty of time for the Crone to bank some REM sleep before making school lunches on Tuesday morning. Skål!

Lykke Li is touring the coasts and Europe for the rest of the summer - catch her if you can at http://www.lykkeli.com/shows.htm. Did you see her play? Do you understand Grimes' made up language? Do you think the Regency Ballroom should lighten up on the chocolate chip cookie restriction? Let the Concert Crone know your thoughts in the comments section. She could talk music with you all day long.

As the Rapture Approaches: No Regrets

I don't know if it's just in the Bay Area or nationwide that garish yellow and black billboards are telling us the Rapture is upon us: specifically, sometime Saturday, all the good folks are going to be sucked up out of their shoes to ascend to heaven in a burst of radiant glory, and the rest of us flawed sinners are going to be stuck down here wondering why it just got so easy to park.

Can't say as I'm too worried; the atheist billboards assure me it's not going to happen. Anyway I certainly would not be one of those transported to the heavenly beyond. I'd rather take my chances down here with the losers who will be in no position to judge one another. Wouldn't it be awkward if you were the only person in your circle who turned up missing on the day of the Rapture? "Oh, that Mary Louise, she always thought she was better than us. Now we'll never hear the end of it."

All the Rapture talk does, however, make me think about regrets. If it really all goes to Hell in a handbasket in a few days, what unfinished business would I wish I'd wrapped up first? Herewith, a partial list.

1.) I should have come out and told my neighbor, nicknamed "The Troll," that when I give her a friendly wave and a greeting, the proper response is not to grunt and turn away. Pull your lips back and grimace, lady, it's close enough to a smile and it's the civil thing for you to do.

2.) I should have donated that bag of dried beans in my pantry to a food bank two years ago, before they expired. As if a food bank recipient will have any more interest than I do in soaking beans in water overnight. What am I, a professional chef?

3.) I should have learned to play bass guitar with my band, the Moist Deluxe, instead of just thinking about what our concert t-shirts would look like.

4.) I should have worn large, line-of-sight-obscuring hats more often. The Royal Wedding really drove this regret home.

5.) I should have pulled out the artichoke from my garden and just bought some at the grocery store. At the rate I've nurtured that thing with fertilizer, insect spray, and backrubs, each of the 5 chokes it produced cost me $27.53 each.

6.) I should not have stopped dancing at Rachel's bat mitzvah party last weekend, just because the 7th grade girls were beginning to point at my friend Andrea and I dancing to "Shawty Got Low" by Flo Rida. Everyone has to die of something; it may as well be embarrassment.

So - Rapture. What song does it conjure up? This one. Enjoy your early Music Moment, I'm bumping it up for those readers who don't read Normalarkey until the weekend, which may not arrive.

Shoot - I regret never wearing a tube top and shorts while dancing with a man in a white top hat, add that one to the list.

Mother's Day: Actions, Not Words

So the big joke around these parts is that for Mother's Day, my family is going to take me to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk for the day so they can go on the rides. Yay. What mother doesn't dream of her special day being spent amongst the screaming masses watching her kids getting alternately jacked up on sugar and grease and then reaching the precipice of vomiting as they stagger off each loud and disorienting ride? Let's stop at a bike store and an Abercrombie on the way home too!

If I didn't know they were kidding - and take it from me, Andrew, you are kidding - I'd have to explain that Mother's Day is about doing something for MOM. Something you might not normally do, like attend the big Craft Fair in Napa or take her to dinner at the Beach Chalet in San Francisco. But because you love the mother in your life so much, you can suck it up for 24 short hours and do what she wants.

Those greeting store cards with their insipid poems really get under my skin for their vague odes and promises: "Mother, You Are The World To Me, And I Bless The Day I Was Born to You." "Mother, You Are An Angel To Me." "To A Perfect Mother Who Loves Unconditionally."

You know what your mother would love unconditionally? Not the card, but rather the scenario of waking up on Sunday morning to see her family hard at work putting away the shoes from under the piano and behind the ficus, weeding in the vegetable garden, and sorting through the clothes in the dresser to make a neat stack of outgrown clothes to send to the Salvation Army. Mother loves to hear you say, "We already made our breakfast, and cleaned it up too (emphasis mine)!") Mother loves when her husband hands her the remote and says "I can miss a day of basketball. What do YOU want to watch?" Actions, not words, people.

It is in that spirit that I am giving this week's Music Moment over to my mom, who is an angel to me, loves me unconditionally, blesses the day etc. After considering Marty Robbins and Kenny Rogers, I'm asking Gordon Lightfoot to sing her very favorite song, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." Gets her weepy, in a good way, every time.

C'mon, altogether now on the "…great lake they call Gitchigoomee…"

Auntie Liar

My niece and her college roommate are coming out to the Bay Area this week for a visit, and we are all excited to show her around. I can only hope that Shannon will be a little less skeptical of her aunt this time than she was the first time she came to stay with me.

That was in 1995 or so, when she was four and Andrew and I were still childless and fancy-free, living in Washington, DC. My brother drove his family down for a visit, during which we ran them from the National Mall to the National Zoo and stopped at every museum in between, proud to play tour guide in our adopted city.

Shannon's older brother Zach, age 9 at the time, was totally on board with whatever Aunt Nancy and Uncle Andrew suggested. That's probably because the time he visited before, sans parents, Andrew let him drive our car. Only around the circular driveway of our apartment building, true, but still he was actually operating our Acura before he was legally allowed to sit in its front seat. Zach was ready to follow us anywhere. (The family had yet to be joined by its baseball-announcer-in-residence, my nephew Tristan.)

Huh. Mom, why is Uncle Andrew holding my braids?

Shannon, on the other hand, was at that stage of childhood where there is one authority and one authority only: Mom. Throughout the visit, as she sashayed and skipped alongside us with her Pippi Longstocking braids and purple dresses, she'd see something unfamiliar and ask, "What's that?" or "Why is that?" For instance, "Why are there so many pigeons here?"

I'd take her soft little hand in mine and motion to the sparkling white federal buildings and the food carts along the street, and say, "Well, Shanny, pigeons like to live in cities where they can find lots of food and places to build nests. They're city birds."

To which she would smile politely and say "Huh!" while fixing me with the same wary look you'd give someone wearing scrubs imprinted with the name of a psychiatric hospital: maybe staff, maybe not.

Then she would turn to my sister-in-law and say, "Mom, why are there so many pigeons here?"

My sister-in-law is indeed awesome, but the fact remains that she never lived in DC. Nonetheless, Shannon only wanted her answers from her mother. "What's that building with the white dome?" "It's the Capital, honey, it's where the senators work." "Huh. Mom, what's that building with the white dome?"

It drove me crazy, but how can you be mad at a kid whose parting words, as she departed in the family car, were, "I will come see you again to visit the baboooooooons!" an animal which we had neither seen nor discussed at any point during her visit.

Anyway. Now she's a grown-up college girl studying creative writing, and I am determined to show her the best the Bay Area has to offer: Union Square, Alcatraz, Dave Eggers' Pirate Store, a visit to the ocean, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Oakland hills, City Lights Bookstore, North Beach…the question is whether she'll believe anything I tell her, given that her mom isn't going to be here this time. 

So today's cheery Music Moment, from Philly hip-hop duo Chiddy Bang and called "Truth," is dedicated to Shannon and Sarah. (How can you not love a rap that includes the line "Periodically, I’m in my element, phosphorus," that isn't even by Flight of the Conchords?)  I swear, girls, if you have questions about the Bay Area, like why Happy Meal toys are banned in San Francisco or why Berkeley is a nuclear free zone, I am not making the answers up. The crazy here is for real.

The Other Woman Has Two Wheels

Because I'm very busy this week laying around on the couch while I try to keep cookie crumbs and wine stains out of the pages of the books I'm reading, I'm going to reprint an oldie but (hopefully) a goodie - one of the first essays I ever had published. This piece first appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on Feb 25 2006 and is responsible for my delusion that I have something compelling to say in print. Wishing you all a relaxing week and, as they say in Germany, a good push into the New Year!

My husband has a French mistress, and she is a beauty to behold -- a Look 585 road bike. Silver and black and weighing only 16 pounds, she was built for speed in a way I never will be. 

Andrew's affection for her is evident whenever he recounts, misty-eyed, their adventures on his Saturday group ride, and he is forever shopping for little gifts -- new tires, a jersey for himself that complements her coloring -- to show her how much he cares. 

It wasn't always this way. When we met in graduate school in Arizona he was strictly a recreational cyclist and a noncommitted one at that -- when his mountain bike was stolen from his apartment balcony, he expressed remorse but quickly moved on. 

Once we were married he began the drift into road biking, and I was an unwitting accomplice. When he took me to see my first professional road race in Philadelphia, I was captivated by the spectacle of these graceful athletes and their gleaming cycles. Soon I, too, was reading pro cycling magazines and watching the Tour de France while Andrew explained tactics and strategies to me. But his relationship with biking was still strictly platonic back then. 

Eight years ago we moved to the Bay Area, and that's when things got serious. With temperate weather year-round and access to some of the country's best bike routes right out our front door, he was able to indulge in his passion with new fervor. He joined a group of like-minded cyclists who have formed a support system for their biking co- dependencies. They're a competitive bunch, jealously commenting on one another's bike components and merciless when it comes to flat tires, winter flab or poor road handling. This crew has been on high e-mail alert for the past month, plotting optimal viewing spots for the Amgen Tour of California, the 700-mile race that concludes Sunday and saw some of cycling's superstars ride the same roads that the group follows every week. 

Taking care of Andrew's bikes -- the Look and her predecessor, a Belgian Ridley relegated to "rain bike" status when she arrived -- requires a phalanx of specialists. My husband spends a lot of off-bike hours perusing catalogs and visiting bike shops, searching for just the right component, tire or winter bibs. Walking into a local bike shop with him is akin to walking into Cheers with Norm. "ANDREW!" comes the cry from the bike mechanics and other shoppers. 

At one point I succumbed to the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality. It was mostly a punitive decision, made one sunny Saturday when Andrew pulled up a few minutes late from his five-hour ride. "I'm going to buy myself a bike, back in an hour," I screeched through clenched teeth as I gunned out of the driveway. It was the only way I could think of to make him understand my jealousy over the time and money he spent on Mlle. Look. 

I went to one of his favorite bike shops and uttered the words its owner longed to hear: "I want a bike, shoes, helmet and riding kit, and money is no object." They set me up with a beautiful rig and the latest-model helmet and riding shoes. My husband's jaw dropped when he saw my purchases. 

But then I had to ride the damned thing. The last time I'd sat on a bike was 15 years earlier when I lived in Germany, tooling around Munich's wide, flat bike paths on a rickety three-speed that I'd bought at a hardware store. My idea of a biking challenge back then was to ride all the way from one Biergarten to the next without sliding drunkenly off the seat. 

But where we live in the Oakland hills, a simple bike ride out the front door involves either a harrowing drop or a thigh- busting grind uphill. After a few months I'd progressed enough to take a one-hour ride and come back exhilarated -- but most of my elation came from surviving the hills and the traffic, not from having any fun the ride. When the winter rains came I put the bike away, and when spring returned, I kept finding reasons not to get on again. By July I was still giving the bike wide berth, and I had to face the facts; I just didn't love my bike, and it was time to end the relationship. 

So I put an ad on Craigslist and within a week was handing over the bike, helmet and all, to a buyer who lives out in the suburban flatlands east of Oakland. My flirtation with cycling was over. 

I do recognize all the good things that Mlle. Look brings to my relationship with my husband. He never goes out carousing at night for fear of showing weakness to his riding group. During the month of July I can count on him to be available to watch our kids anytime because he doesn't leave the house if Versus is showing anything related to Lance Armstrong. When he gets a good ride in, he shows his gratitude to me in a number of pleasing ways including, but not limited to, yard work. (Did I mention that his physique is as good as or better than when we met?) 

In the end, I found a way to make peace with Mlle. Look. Meet Mr. Toshiba. He's got a 17-inch screen, wireless access, excellent graphics and loves the caress of my typing fingers. With him I can pour out the stories that I've been meaning to write all these years, bringing me a level of satisfaction and accomplishment that is, I imagine, like completing a tough Saturday ride. 

He's the perfect companion for when Andrew's out with his French mistress, and has added the balance we need to keep our marriage rolling along.

Friday's Music Moment: Sisters of Mercy by Conspiracy of Beards

Did I make this up, or is it true that in the 70's the radio stations used to play little fake interviews where the interviewer's question would be answered with a snippet of a popular song?  You know, the deep male voice would say "How is the weather out there?" and in answer you'd hear "It never rains in southern California" by Albert Hammond?

Either that really happened, or it's a project that Mary Beth Fitz and I cooked up with a cassette deck and record player to while away the hours on Branford Road when we couldn't get enough kids together for a game of Ten Sticks. Let me know.

Regardless, as I was choosing a song that would encapsulate a midterm election week for Friday Music Moment, I got thinking about those old interviews, and which songs answer the question of what it all means.

Is the right answer "Change is Hard" by She & Him? I hate to see all those blue seats turn red, and worry about what it means for health care and climate legislation and financial reforms. Is it "A Change Would Do You Good" by Sheryl Crow, shifting pressure from the Democrats to the Republicans to find ways to not just criticize the government but to try to make it work better?

Maybe it's "You're a Rich Girl" by Hall and Oates, going out over the airwaves to Meg Whitman, free-spending Robotron who lost the California gubernatorial campaign, or "Once in a Lifetime" with its "same as it ever was" refrain for her opponent Jerry Brown. He manages to be both the youngest and oldest California governor in modern California history with this third term.

And there's always this Patsy Cline song for Christine O'Donnell. (By the way, Patsy, big ups on incorporating the sweatband for everyday fashion. Who knew Olivia Newton John and Jane Fonda were mere imitators?)

In the end, whether you're red or blue, it's been a long, bruising political season with no clear winners, with a lot of us screaming for mercy at the end. No matter how sweet it sounds when the Avett Brothers sing it, there are boatloads of "Shame" to go around. So I take comfort in what really matters: motherhood, apple pie, and BASEBALL. In honor of the World Series Win and our magnificent hirsute Giants, what's more fitting than the all male a capella choir "Conspiracy of Beards" singing Leonard Cohen's "Sisters of Mercy" on the steps of San Francisco City Hall?

"Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me their song."

The Real Emergency Kits of Alameda County

When I first moved to the San Francisco Bay Area thirteen years ago, I had to come to grips with a constant state of expectation that the world can, and indeed will, flip upside down at any time. One of our first house projects was an earthquake retrofit that would bolt the house to its foundation and attach plywood shear walls to stabilize the structure. Later when we moved to the house in Oakland in which we currently live, from which I can actually see the Hayward Fault, we had pillars sunk beneath it until they hit bedrock. As our contractor said, "The hill might slide into the fault when the Big One hits, but your house will still be standing on the pillars." Sort of a jaunty beach house effect, I suppose.

Aside from stabilizing the house, I've also poured a ridiculous amount of energy into the careful assembly of our Emergency Kit. Bay Area natives scoff at me when I tell them how much thought I've put into assembling supplies that would keep us afloat in our newly revealed beach house for three or four days, but I'm sure no one in New Orleans was expecting Katrina to punch out the lights for two weeks either.

Twice a year, I try to haul out our big plastic tub from where it's stored in the garage - Daylight Savings Time is a pretty convenient reminder, or the anniversaries of the 1989 Loma Prieta and 1906 San Francisco quakes (October and April respectively,) or whenever there is a sale on cans of stew at the local grocery store. You'll understand the latter in a minute.

Here's a shortlist of the key components of our kit, and an explanation:

1. Two first aid kits and a tiny medical handbook. Trying not to dwell on fact that my medical knowledge extends to applying bandaids and kisses and not much more.
    
2. Flashlights, new batteries, and a hand crank radio that doubles as a flashlight. Expecting that children will be fighting over who gets to use this one, and wondering whether even the emergency frequency will be overplaying Lady Gaga.
    
3. Big plastic bottles of water. I once asked an emergency response trainer if we needed to change these out periodically, since I've heard they can take on a funny flavor over time. He answered, "I've just explained to you how in an emergency, you can drink the water from the reservoir at the back of your toilet. Do you really think you need to worry about the taste of your bottled water?"
    
4. Cans of beef and turkey stew. No one would ever eat these on a regular day but I am counting on fear to make us hungry. I keep meaning to put turkey jerky in, but every time I buy it, my husband finds it on the kitchen counter, says something like, "Mmmm, turkey jerky!" and it is gone before I can move it from the kitchen to the emergency kit.
    
5. A plastic bag of dog food to last 3 days. However since the dog recently taught himself how to flip the latch on the kit and pull out this bag, he may be eating beef stew. Which has probably been his plan all along.
    
6. An envelope full of $5 bills. It used to have $20 bills in it, and then I read somewhere that in an emergency, if all you have is twenties, then suddenly everything costs twenty dollars. One problem with this envelope is that whenever I'm in a rush to head into San Francisco and don't have the bridge toll on me, I make a pit stop at the Bank of Emergency Kit.
    
7. A big bag of Jolly Ranchers. Have heard that the act of sucking on a candy can be soothing in times of stress, so want to have these handy for the kids. When doesn't a watermelon Jolly Rancher make everything better?
    
8. Single shot bottles of tequila. See #7, Adult Version. Also, as a woman in the grocery checkout line once pointed out to me, they could come in handy for pouring into a wound.

A few weeks ago we had a friend over for dinner, a Midwesterner who had recently moved to the Bay Area. He started asking very detailed questions about the contents of the emergency kit, eventually saying, "But what, exactly, will you DO with it? Are you going to set up house in the front yard in your tent and live there until help comes? Or are you going to leave? What is your actual plan?"

There, of course, is the rub. Having seen the scenes of looting and mayhem in residential areas of Chile after their recent quake, scenes that looked disturbingly replicable in a city like Oakland, I think lounging around the front yard in our 4-man tent and roasting wienies until order is restored is probably not a plan. We'd have to head east, up over the Oakland Hills and into the much less quake prone Contra Costa County, where we have plenty of friends to bunk with.

The highways will be out of commission, I assume, so that leaves the surface roads. Luckily I'm married to a biker who has ridden every one of them and described them to me in jaw-dropping detail, so I know the route. The kids are old enough to do some serious hiking, though not without a healthy side order of bitching. But what about my elderly neighbor whom I've sworn to watch over? (And not just because she gives me a box of See's Candy every time we drive her to church.) 

I'm picturing the Grapes of Wrath - The Khoads, half in the bag from tequila, pushing along Dad's two fancy bikes laden with the earthquake kit, an octogenarian balanced on the handlebars like a Dutch schoolchild, two kids alongside saying, "How much longer?" with every third step, and a dog wondering when the stew will be served. Not ideal.

But I can tell you this from experience - having some plan, any plan at all, feels a lot better to me that waiting to be a victim of whatever Mother Nature is going to hurl at us next.

Friday's Music Moment - Let Them Knock by Sharon Jones

Travie McCoy may want to be a billionaire so he can end up on the cover of Forbes Magazine (what up, Oprah?) but I have a different plan. When I'm a billionaire, which should be soon, I'm following in Big Daddy Hellman's footsteps.  That's Warren Hellman, San Francisco private equity investor, philanthropist, and banjo aficionado.

Seems about nine years ago Warren decided he'd like to do a little banjo jamming. But when you're a rich guy, "jam session" takes on a slightly different aura.

Hellman basically rented Golden Gate Park and threw the inaugural Hardly Strictly Bluegrass music festival. Now in its tenth year, it's a generous gift from Mr. Hellman to the city and to roots musicians everywhere. Six stages in Golden Gate Park and wide open to the public, not even a penny to attend to see artists like: Elvis Costello, the Indigo Girls, Richard Thompson, Patti Smith, Jenny and Johnny, T-Bone Burnett, Conor Oberst, Trombone Shorty, and Jackie Greene. Mr. Hellman takes the stage himself on Saturday morning with his band, The Wronglers; here's hoping he gets the heartiest round of applause all weekend.

As for me and my people, we're going Sunday. I've got a tentative agenda scheduled, some emerging artists, some banjo, some rockabilly…but the last slot on Sunday night is killin' me, Warren! Everyone I wanted to see most is playing at the same time! Do I hit The Avett Brothers, of "Kick Drum Heart" and  "I and Love and You" fame? Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings? Or Emmylou, who probably has the most recognizable voice in the entire music industry (and for whom, Hellman has said, the festival was created)?

Choices, choices. In the meantime - let's enjoy Ms. Sharon and her band  from a live performance in France. She is sassy, she can belt it, and my goodness, but she has her priorities straight. Let 'em knock on your door this weekend, friends -