"Pumped Up Kicks" For Kicks

Standing at the crosswalk outside Citibank, a decision had to be made:  LACMA for free Jazz or home. I shivered and that decided me.  I wasn't dressed warm enough for the drop in LA temperature upon the setting of the sun.  Home I went.  On the way, I passed the El Rey Theater.  Perhaps looking official with a bank folder tucked under my arm, more than one person asked if I was selling tickets for the concert that night. A New York attitude still running through my blood I shrugged and shook my head no. Vaguely I heard that it was for Foster of the People.  Behind on the music scene, that name meant nothing to me.

That is until  twenty minutes later; I accompanied my sister to her next door neighbor's apartment where pre-gaming was in full swing.  "Foster of the People," they said. Six tickets they had, all of them alloted.  But I had a drink with them and chatted and then we bid adieus. Off I went to my apartment as they headed to the concert.  "We'll try to find you a ticket," they said. We'll call you if we do.

I said, "Sure," not thinking a ticket would actually materialize and turned on the oven to make myself dinner.  But oddly enough, five minutes later, a phone call was received; a ticket found.  

Lipstick, hair, shoes and off I was to see Foster of the People.

Loved the energy!  LA is their hometown. "It feels so good to be home after being on the road for months," they announced.  Lighting was magical and the way the bodies of the musicians moved in sync with each other was riveting.  Favorite moment was when "Pumped Up Kicks" came on.  The crowd went wild.  Dancing and singing on top of our lungs, it was the first time I had heard the song but it was such a catchy beat the words came naturally.

I marveled at my luck. Opting out on music at one venue but following the clues home, finding a night of music after all.

A Poet's Adventure

Off the bart, up the escalator at Embarcadero Station, the woman ahead exclaims, "Look up! Look at the sky." Necks crane and heads tilt backwards. The San Francisco sky is spinning. The clouds advance rapidly in circular motion over skyscrapers and it feels as if earth is a merry-go-round. Walk down Market street, pass all the bums and homeless people until signs point to the ferry building.

I follow the crowd and enter. I'm disappointed, it has the feel of New York's Pen Station, goods lining the walls of little shops. Nothing exotic and strange to match my expectations of the artsy city. But perhaps I came on the wrong day. "Tomorrow is market day," Oscar, the guy running the mushroom shop tells me. "But while you're here," He says, "Try this." And proceeds to sprinkles some portobello salt between my thumb and forefinger.

I ask where's a good place to get a view of the city? He says if go the Carnelian, a bar across the way, maybe the bartender will let me go up the stairs. I'm out the door.

Meet Joey. Eating his lunch at the bar and watching a movie since it's early and the bar is empty. He says that normally he would let me up, but right now there's a promoter viewing the space. A door slams in the distance. "Uh, they just closed the door on us," he says. Instead he serves me ice water and we chat. He tells me he's a drummer and has done his fair share of traveling. He worked for Gap Corporate for many years but it got tough for them to accommodate the musician schedule so here he is tending bar. He's only been doing it for a short while but he's slowly learning as he's goes along. "At first I was so nervous," he says, "But then I realized it's only alcohol!" He laughs. He looks to be in his early 30's but "I'm getting old," he says. "This is my last go!"

I ask, "What if it doesn't happen?"

He gives me the look which says it must. "People keep telling me not to give up, but I don't know." He has a weary look in his eyes. "But music is my life." He adds.

He helps me plan out my next excursion on my iphone map and off I go to Chinatown. I follow his directions to Bush St. and Grant Ave, where stone Chinese lions leer in the entrance-way. The first thing I notice is a kosher sign dangling over a little restaurant. I chuckle to myself at the misplacement. But it all becomes clear to me a minute later when I meet Sol the owner of two Grant Ave. shops crammed with glittering gleaming kitsch items, "Made in China."

We become acquainted after I spot hear-no-evil and speak-no-evil bronze sculpted monkeys resting on a bench. I pull out my camera and hear behind me in an Israeli accent, "Ah, I see you like my monkeys."

I turn around and face a medium-built, receding dark hairline, middle-aged man and smile, "Yes."

"Let me take your picture with them," A second younger man joins. I sit on the bench, next to the monkeys and smile. "Do something," He says. I glance over at the monkeys and of course, it's obvious. I cover my eyes with my hands. I'm see-no-evil.

"And this is how people get their cameras stolen," the monkey owner, Sol says.

After a good laugh, I say, "You're Israeli, right?"

"Yes," they both look at me in surprise.

"Manishma?" I say. I tell them I recently spent five months living in Ashdod, Israel, teaching English.

"I'm from Ashdod!" The younger man says.

"How old are you?" Sol asks and before I can answer says, "I have a friend that's coming to pick me up for the gym in a few minutes, he's 26, a very nice guy, a cantor! I want to set you up with him."

I laugh, "Of course you do!" After spending time in Israel, I learned that it's virtually impossible for an Israeli to meet a person that's single and not immediately try to set them up with a nephew, friend or son. It would be like asking a duck not to quack, a baker not to bake, or a seamstress not to sew.

They ask me what I do and I respond that I write poetry and create art. The Ashdod native asks if I have some art on my iphone. I show him a few pieces I've drawn with oil pastels and Sol exclaims that it reminds him of Chagall. "I love Chagall," I exclaim.

"I have some prints at my shop across the street," Sol says. "Would you like to see them?"

"Sure!" I reply. Across the cobbles stones, into a second shop, he leads me to an elevator. The doors open and I glance inside. The elevator is decorated like a sitting-room; two Chagall prints hang on the wall and an ornate silk ottoman couch rests along the wall. "Ha! Why do you have a couch inside your elevator?" I ask. 

"Sometimes old ladies want to rest on the way-up," he says. He shows me around the shop a bit and as I finally claim my farewell, he hands me his business card and tells me to look him up. "I'll be in LA soon." He says. Nodding my head and smiling I exit the shop. I do a double-take. The bench of monkeys have mysteriously moved to this side of the street. 

I stroll through China town and music catches my ear. I spot a lone Chinese man playing a banjo-like instrument. Suddenly there is competition. Across the street, four Chinese men play fiddles Mariachi style. Outnumbering the lone player, they draw more attention and receive tips from passerbys. It also helps that an older Oriental man hovers nearby directing tourists to their fiddle-case money pot.

I walk along, I walk along, I walk along and arrive at City Lights Bookstore. I'm not quite sure what I expected but it's just a bookstore. More interesting is a pub next door called Vesuvio: Portland, Oregon. On the outside wall a poem is engraved alerting passerbys that it's time for a martini.

Inside a crowd is gathered. They are all dressed in red. They are part of the Hash Runners Club, one man informs me and they run through the city every Monday. I encounter one woman in the ladies room wearing a red gown. "Nice dress," I say, "Are you one of the runners?"

"Oh, I didn't run." She says, "I just came to meet them for a drink.

Seated at the bar, a middle-aged English lady named Bertha asks me if I can read the price for t-shirts hanging on a wall above the bar. "$15 for small, medium, large and x-large; $20 for xx-large," I say. We have a chuckle.

She tells me she's in San Francisco on holiday. She lives near Brighton and is a social worker at a hospital. Unlike an American social worker she doesn't deal with the emotional wellness of a patient but rather their discharge from the hospital. She particularly deals with the elderly to ensure that they can function on their own once they're discharged. "It's very sad," she says, "How a lot of what brings the elderly to the hospital can be prevented. They start having difficulty walking so they give up and stop walking all-together. This causes a lot more problems." She describes how little money there is for the care of the elderly. The worst is that as they loose some of their faculties, not to mention friends, many of them fall into depression which is many times misdiagnosed as Alzheimer's. "When a person is depressed they become forgetful and less-with-it," she says.

Bertha asks what I do. When I respond with poetry she asks if I can write her something. During her travels people have been suggesting places to go see, "Which I can't possibly remember," she says. "So I started carrying a little notebook around. This nice bartender I met yesterday even drew me a picture of himself," she pauses and adds, "And his girlfriend and myself sitting at the bar." She doesn't have the notebook on her at the moment so instead I have her pass me a cocktail napkin and then two, on which I scrawl a poem I hastily compose. I sign it and hand it back to her. "In exchange I have something for you," she says and digs around her purse. "I brought this from England for a friend here but the moment I gave it to him, he said, 'Ew, that's disgusting!' And handed it right back. People either hate it or love it."

"What is it?" I ask eying the little black jar she hands me.

"Marmite. It's really quite delicious. You spread it on bread with butter. If you don't like it please make sure to pass it on to someone who does."

"Okay," I say solemnly and nod my head. I down the last of my beer. "Well I'm off," I announce. "Cheerio!" Out the door, clutching the jar of Marmite I make my way back to the BART station. I smile to myself almost whistling; I sold a poem!

Puck

Meet Puck. Chilling close to the entrance of Dolores Park in San Francisco. At first glance he appears to be a young vagabond hippy resting his weary limbs, but suddenly you notice a blanket spread out before him displaying intricate woven jewelry. You ask if it's his or someone elses. Almost offended he replies, "It's all mine." Selling to stores isn't really his forte. As he explains, "They only take on consignment. I can have a piece worth thousands of dollars sitting in a shop, not being sold. It's a waste because I can sell it a lot quicker on my own. This way I get to meet my customers and put certain energies into the stones that are right for the person. In a store you might have a cow herder pick something up for a cattle rancher. The energies get confused and it's counter-productive. I make sure that doesn't happen."

To ask Puck where he originally came from seems irrelevant for he lives everywhere. Always traveling, always moving on to a new spot, especially when the cops get into his business. He glances furtively down at his blanket of wares. I suspect he does not have license to sell. He says he started his trade out of necessity. He has his stones and his dog Roxy.

He talks about the properties of the different stones. I pick-up white moon quartz which reflects rainbows and quickly put it down, yet I want to keep touching it. The stone makes me feel high, ungrounded, somewhat dizzy. It feels powerful. He says, "Moon Quartz is reflective to the energy around you." He adds, "Crystal with rainbows are spellbinding, particularly for women. Take diamonds for example. Every time a woman looks at her wedding ring, she remembers she's married, not just because of what the ring represents but because it puts a spell on her." If it was up to Puck he would have couples create their own rings, work with the gold too and put their own special energies into it to make marriages really last forever. 

A very dark stone attracts me, it's a meteor he tells me. It almost feels otherworldly, somewhat dark. I want to touch it and put it over my heart but it feels like the wrong thing to do. It feels like a magnet that will attract energy towards me. But I'm unsure if it's the right kind. It feels manipulative and somewhat frightening. He tells me that the first time he wore a meteor it made him dizzy.

He explains how these stones are all part of the earth, they're alive and many of the crystals continue to grow. "I've been in many life-threatening situations and it feels like my backpack of stones saved me," he says.

He shows me what I assume is a belt. "Yeah, women tend to wear it as a belt but I wear it over my chest," he says. Woven together with powerful amulets, the piece feels very strong and protective. I ask him how long it took to make and he answers something like 240 hours. I laugh at his speech. Refreshing at someone seeing life in hours not days. He works when he can. Life for him does not seem to be in chronological order.

What attracts me most and what I eventually purchase is black opal from Honduras. It feels magical to me. "It's only been three years out of the earth," he says. It's dark but sparkles rainbow glitter when held up to the light. He's unsure of its properties but he says he thinks it prevents people from becoming zombies. This is based on a dream he had. People were entering a big room where they were invited to eat sushi. What they didn't know was that the sushi was made out of zombie flesh. They felt okay after eating it but started displaying zombie characteristics the moment they left the room. This is because on the walls of the room there was black opal. The moment they were out of touch with the black opal they went crazy. "I managed to escape a different way," he says, "So I was okay."

I sit and and talk for a few hours with Puck and his dog Roxy lays near me, allowing me to gently pet her. Passer byes mistake her for mine. Puck ask my permission before rolling a joint. It's his blanket not mine, so I'm not one to refuse. He offers me a hit. I politely decline but ask, "What about cops."

He says, "They won't bother me, besides I have have a medical marijuana card." 

I tell Puck that I just moved from New York to the West Coast. "I'm currently staying in Los Angeles with my sister; trying it out."

He says, "That's good. People are very cool there with you figuring out what you want to do. Everyone seems to be doing that in LA." 

"And they're not okay with that here?" I asked.

"Not as much," he replies. "In San Fransisco people come to heal so they're a little more selfish."

He barters to survive. Some girl drops off a sandwich for him; a guy some weed. He asked a man standing over the blanket if he minds putting out a cigarette since Puck has Asthma. The man gets mad and grumbling that he can buy from someone else slinks away. Puck excuses this behavior saying that the man was smoking because he feels he needs it, miserable in some way, using the cigarette as an escape.

Puck doesn't have a phone anymore because he says he doesn't need it. He's able to get along just fine without one; connecting with people and getting in touch just naturally. Tapping into the energy and being in sync with frequencies of being in the right place at the right time. He says that radio waves destroy these frequencies and the more you're in touch with radio waves the more out of touch you become with yourself and you need more. He briefly twists his body into hunchback form to demonstrate someone bent over a computer or phone.

Puck mentions that he's going up to the mountains soon to work on a farm and other odd projects. He's a vagabond, riding the highs and lows of life, seeming to get the deeper lesson behind it: just to be. He uses his talents and he is. "One day I hope to settle in one place but for now, I have mountains, farms, festivals and Roxy." He says with a sidelong glance and adds, "Though it's hard having a dog sometimes when it comes to finding a place to stay and I can't really go to late-night-parties since I can't bring her with me." But he laughs, "It keeps me out of trouble."