Ring My Bell

So I told my brother Tiffany and I were going on a bike ride last weekend, and he asked if it was a work-out ride or a leisurely ride.

I hesitated.

"Leisurely," I lied.

It wasn't a work-out ride. In fact, I didn't even clip in (and, no, not just because I sometimes fall off when I clip in). But the ride did take us over the Golden Gate Bridge, and, as anyone who has ever ridden over the Golden Gate Bridge knows, there's no way to do that leisurely.

There are only two types of people on the Golden Gate Bridge: angry people and oblivious people.

That's because, unless you're oblivious, you can't help but be angry at the swarm of pedestrian tourists who refuse to walk in single file and have the audacity to try to take "scenic" pictures on a national landmark. Or at the professional bikers intent on maintaining their highway speeds on a path four feet across and hundreds of feet in the air.

Tiffany and I are not oblivious. Our only hope is to get across the bridge before we become angry.

Our strategy is that the front-rider rings her bell like crazy (yes, our bikes have bells). And I mean like crazy. Tiffany took the lead this time, and I stayed as close behind her as I could. We sounded like an old-timey cash register gone haywire as we careened down the path.

"Your bell's starting to sound angry," I yelled at her as we bore down on a pair of lovers smooching in front of their camera.

"Really?? I'm trying to ring it nicely!" she called over her shoulder.

We made it across with our tempers in check. As for the people we dinged along the way... well, it's every man for himself on the bridge.

World's Longest Party

Yesterday morning, Tiffany got out of bed a bit before me. A few minutes later, I awoke to the sound of techno music. It was 7:45. I went into the living room to find her sitting in our armchair with the paper piled around her, glaring at me.

"What is that?" I asked, glancing at our stereo. I couldn't believe Tiffany would be listening to music so early in the morning. Or that she would be listening to techno music at all, for that matter. But our stereo was dark as night. It wasn't on.

Tiffany gestured angrily with her chin at the windows behind her. I padded over in my slippers to look.

"Oh my god," I said. "Please no."

"Yes," she said, popping the A-section of the paper in fury.

Our backyard--the one we don't have access to--was littered with drunk San Franciscans and San Franciscans about to get drunk. They were all dressed up in ridiculous costumes. At first glance, I saw a cavewoman, a bumblebee, an 80s tennis player, Nemo of Finding Nemo fame and several scary-masked men and scantily-clad women--all that and more just three floors down. At least a dozen plastic tubs full of iced down beers were placed strategically around the apple and redwood trees.

"We have to get out of here," Tiffany said.

I took a deep breath to stop myself from banging my helpless hands against the window pane. Some of you may remember, one of the reasons Tiffany and I moved to this apartment was to get away from noisy neighbors. But mostly to get away from my angry reaction to those noisy neighbors. I couldn't get angry now. I had used up all my angry-cards.

We left the apartment as fast as we could scarf down some toast with butter and honey. On our way to the farmers' market, we passed Tigger, a gigantic bunny and a string of people dressed in faux-leopard skin.

"Classy," Tiffany said drily as we edged around a mass of people wearing one-piece lycra suits. They were chugging beer out of red solo cups at a bus stop.

"Woooooo-hooooo!" a girl shouted somewhere near my right ear.

We shouldn't have been surprised by the display. The occasion--an annual road race from the eastern side of the city to the western side--draws an amazingly diverse crowd of actual runners and people who tag along for an excuse to be naked or in costume.

When we got back to our apartment a few hours later, the yard was mercifully empty. Well, empty of people. It was full of trash.

Then, just when we were relaxing into the silence, the revelers returned. Our windows began to vibrate as the techno music came back on. I hate to reveal just how grandma-like we are, but, on a gorgeous and rare sunny San Francisco day, we actually prayed for rain. God laughed at us.

"Wow," I said peering down at the scene. "Cavewoman just picked her thong out of her butt. Like, I literally saw the thong come down from her crack."

"That man's peeing!" Tiffany giggled. "That man is peeing in the corner."

Indeed he was.

Classy.

You know what that say. If you can't beat 'em...

I'm just kidding. We left the apartment again and went to a movie.

*The party finally ended 14 hours after it began.