(1): My brother and I take my German friends to a Brazilian restaurant,
Canto do Brasil. As we park, a homeless man breaks away from a cluster of homeless people, runs across the street, kicks the rear bumper of our car, throws himself onto the sidewalk and lies there yelling, "Ow! Man! I'm hurt! Call the police! You hit me!" He reclines on one elbow, the tips of his Marley-style dreadlocks brushing the pavement, and points at a particular scuff (among many others) on his beat-up shoe: "Look what you did to me, man! Call the police!" My brother, long since accustomed to this scam--when it works, the scammee offers the scammer cash in exchange for not calling the cops--says, "Wow, yeah, why doncha call them right away? We'll be in this Brazilian restaurant. Send them in for us when they arrive." The homeless man sulks, then meanders away.
(2): As we're eating our fried yucca, feijoado, and similar delicacies, the lights go down, the sound system blares to life with samba music, and two smiling women appear in
carnaval dancer outfits (high heels, a few dozen strategically placed sequins, and several hundred brightly colored ostrich plumes) to dance among the tables. The character of girlfriends is instantly revealed: one woman laughs at her boyfriend's response to the dancers, eggs him on, applauds his fancy footwork when he accepts a dancer's invitation to get up and samba with them. (He was heavyset but a real twinkle-toes, amazingly light on his feet.) Another girlfriend sat stiffly with a taut, artificial grin and an expression that seemed to say, "I'm too repressed to say anything about this now, but I'm sure as hell going to get in a fight with you when we get home." Her boyfriend wasn't leering, just looking at the dancers now and again. I danced around the restaurant in a conga line twice and her sour expression never wavered. Someone should let her know her face will freeze that way if she doesn't relax...
(3):
Slim's, live music club, South of Market: we went to see
Heathrow, whose drummer is friends with my brother. A woman my brother knows recruited me to help throw panties on the stage: she had made two pairs, both red, one with the band's name on it and the other--a g-string, too small to fit the band's name--with a glittery Union Jack. My job was to sneak up front, throw the g-string at the singer, and flee. Mission accomplished. The singer told the crowd, "Now I can die a happy man."
(4): The Alley, dive bar, located on Grand Avenue in Oakland since 1935. The walls are covered with thousands of battered business cards stapled there by patrons over the decades: "Roto Rooter Cleaning Service/The Modern Cleaning Method/With Radio-Dispatched Trucks," etc. Pianist Rod Dibble, a skinny, craggy old guy pushing seventy, has been playing there five nights a week since 1955. People belly up, set their drinks on his grand piano beside the bar, leaf through battered songbooks, and make requests: "Hey Rod, how 'bout 'That Old Black Magic'?" Rod tickles the ivories and the patron, microphone in hand, sings. If it's a tune Rod particularly enjoys, he mouths the words or sings along. Then the mike moves to the next patron and Rod segues into whichever hit from 1922 to the present day the patron has requested; he is said to know over 5,000 songs from memory, "And I try to learn two new songs a day." People applaud regardless of the singer's talent--I should know, having received thoroughly unmerited applause: when Rod played "Michelle Ma Belle" he switched effortlessly between different keys in order to complement my voice wherever my voice happened to be (note to self: in the future,
first sing,
then drink). Hmm, maybe that applause was meant for Rod.
