The air is crisp and the sky is electric blue. On days like this, San Francisco is glorious. I love driving in my convertible with the top down. Everything looks different from inside a convertible. I’m not sure if it’s because the city is more visible or because I’m more exposed and vulnerable.

In an open car you can smell the air. Wafting through that air is the scent of marijuana. On some days I wonder if the whole city is stoned. Medical marijuana clubs are all over the place. In the city by the bay, it may be easier to buy a joint than a pack of cigarettes. It appears that a very large segment of the SF population possess a medical weed card. We must have a large cancer demographic.
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San Francisco is the cereal bowl of America; flakes, fruits and nuts. I love this place. The streets are a carnival of characters bizarre. On any given day, you can run into aliens caught between parallel universes while nestled in their human hosts. Aliens are usually easy to spot. They are the ones having conversations with an invisible audience. Sometimes these beings scream at their imaginary listeners. This may be because of the perceived chasm between dimensions.

Distinguishing earthly citizens from visitors can be problematic. However, there are ways of identifying one from another. Ironically, it is the humans that have a Mr. Spock looking device in the ear with a blue blinking light. These individuals can sometimes be confused with aliens. Those wearing this device intermittently appear to be out of the present and deeply involved in a one sided conversation. Their monologue, however, is lower in volume than that of an alien. It is also painfully banal. Another distinguishing characteristic are curiously long white wires dangling like a loose appendage. At the end of the wires are ear buds.
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I think I’m supposed to know how to handle everything that comes my way. Since I’ve been on the planet so long, I feel like I should have achieved some mastery in dealing with life. This is a tedious and burdensome way of being. It’s also a very lonely place to be. The fact is that the older I get, the more I realize how much I don’t know. I was sure that by the time I reached this point in life, I’d have more answers than questions. When asked his opinion about computers, Picasso said, “what good are they; all they have are answers.”

What I have discovered is the value of the right question. Ironically, the answer to the right question is often anticlimactic. I have also seen that I avoid or resist asking the real question because I fear the answer. Fear has ruled my life. Consequently, I asked the wrong questions. I may not have received the answer I needed, but I got the answer I was comfortable with.
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I watched a cat die today. D called me in tears to break our appointment. She told me that Mimi, her cat, had been sick for a long time. I asked her if she wanted me to accompany her to the vet. My friend had to periodically hydrate and medicate the infirmed animal. Mimi was thin and fragile. D had adopted the cat and guessed she was around 17 years old. D got in my car and put Mimi on her lap. I shut her door. We knew we were going to a funeral.

I was never a cat person. For one thing I am highly allergic. Most of my bad dreams or nightmares have a cat in them. The only affectionate memory I have of a cat is Kim Novak in Bell Book and Candle. This day I would feel for the cat and its owner. This wasn’t just an old cat. It was a helpless dying creature that my friend had loved for many years. I love my friend and today her sadness was mine.
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During a q&a at a recent screening, a woman sitting in the middle of the theater stood up after being called on and shouted out, “Turn around we want to see your ass.” I was taken aback by the audacity and silliness of the request. I said, “If I was a woman and a guy in the audience asked me to do that, you guys would blow his brains out.” The audience giggled nervously. I got caught up in the circus and I turned around. They applauded. Later in the lobby, a pretty young woman of 23 or so asked me to take off my shirt.

Maybe I should have felt flattered. I could have laughed it off and walked away a bit more prideful. “Hey, dig me. All that working out is paying off.” Instead, to my surprise, it felt depressing. I have never been in a situation like that. It was disturbing to think that some variation of this behavior is an everyday occurrence for women.
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