Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!

Stevie Wonder was very important in the campaign to make Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. His song "Happy Birthday" on the 1980 album "Hotter than July" is about how MLK day should be a holiday. It is a gorgeous, fast-paced, emotional song, and it is a tradition in my family, on Martin Luther King day, to listen to it, and sing along. For some reason it occurred to me quite late to play this song on my accordion on the holiday. I was planning on getting an early start on Sunday to play at another Farmer's Market, but opted instead to learn the song. It sounds really empty with no percussion, so I was wracking my brain for where I had seen percussionists in the city. I unfolded a fantasy of getting a ton of street performer's together to play this song, with passersby singing along, but alas I had little time to assemble performers.

I decided to scoop people up as I went along on Sunday, and made lyric and chord sheets, in addition to a big sign encouraging people to stop and sing. Because of this, I didn't leave the house until about 3:30 pm. It was too late for the Farmer's Market, but I decided to go back to the Ferry building and set up near the vendors again, thinking tourists and kids would be out since it's a long weekend. People, however, were scarce, as were vendors. I decided to go to the Castro, my "usual" spot, since I couldn't think of anywhere else to go. Rather than just getting back on the bus, I started hoofing it, ipod playing. The time difference is really annoying. I like to call people while I'm walking, but the times I'm walking usually make it dinner time or past bedtime in the East. I walked by California St. where you get on *the* cable car, so there is always a line of tourists waiting (perfect for buskers). The area was already pretty monopolized by some teenagers breakdancing and a homeless man yelling.

It seems that I wandered into the "Tenderloin," the got-so-good area of the city. One guidebook said that it has that name because there is so much crime that the police get paid more, so they eat tenderloins. I decided to hop on a bus rather than wander deeper into it. Sure enough, I heard a commotion and saw some people wrestling around in the middle of Market St. I assumed it was a fist fight, but then someone on the phone next to me said "Whoa some black teenagers just robbed a Philippino woman!" Guess that's what happened. I talked to a bunch of people on the bus, beginning with a man who was shivering, in stark contrast to the basking I was doing in the warmth that is 50 degrees. I was not surprised to learn that this man is from Ethiopia. His eyes widened when I told him it was zero degrees where I come from. He kept talking to me, which I was okay with, but this other guy kept heckling him, both teasingly suggesting this man's affection for me, and suggesting that he leave me alone. My main concern with talking to him was just that I couldn't face forward when doing so, and I am known to get carsick.

Quick tangent about motion sickness: mine has come back in full force! When I was a kid I would get wicked carsick. It then abated in my teen years, and I could even read in the car. However, it has been affecting me a lot recently. San Francisco is not a city for the weak of stomach, since every means of transportation besides walking is equivocal to being on a roller coaster. Last weekend Tim took me on a driving tour which left me clutching my stomach and counting in Japanese, hoping to get home soon. I had to laugh aloud when we turned onto a street and Tim said "Do you know what this is? It is the windiest street in the world!" Fun as a tourist, not so fun when you're about to hurl anyway. Last night I was coming home on the Muni feeling a little nauseous (I think raw fish and antibiotics don't combine well) and I was trying to develop new strategies for distracting myself from carsickness while in motion. My mind first went to sun-warmed cats. I took a mental tour of my house where there were sleeping cats draped over each other on every windowsill (long haired cats, because they hold more heat). I picked some up and rubbed my face on their warm bellies. This seemed to help, and I officially recommend it as a nausea-lessening technique. Just don't think of the cats' tuna breath. This turned into pretending that I was not on the San Francisco Muni, but rather on the Cat Bus from "My Neighbor Totoro."

Anyway, I made it to the Castro and got my spot. It was late at this point, around 6:00. I set up my sign and got my lyric sheets ready, hoping to do some collaborating. This ended up being a really great night of work. A lot of people were out, since many people had work off on Monday, and the Castro is good for restaurants and bars. I played "Happy Birthday" quite a lot, and no one seemed to recognize it. People did, however, read the sign, and some asked me about it. Over the course of the night I got three parties to sing: first a young member of the San Francisco Gay Men's Choir (which the woman who I took to be his mother proudly told me--he just got in!) and the mother sang along. It wasn't a good model for inviting people to sing, I would have done better with a guitar so I could sing and be heard and they could join. The accordion is simply too loud for me to sing over, so it kind of flopped all three times. I decided to bring Tim and Andrea's guitar in addition when I did this on Monday. The second singers were two young women my age who were fun to talk to, but we had the same troubles. Thirdly, members of a local band came over. They were the best yet at following along. We joked (seriously talked about?) my joining their band for a couple numbers. Hm.

At one point a couple came over and one man was interested in the accordion itself. He decided to teach me some chords, assuming for some reason that I didn't know them. He placed my fingers on the keyboard and said "That's C minor augmented!" Yep, it was. He wanted to try the accordion. He made some pretty nice sounds, but was appalled when his partner gave me $10. "You took up a lot of her time" he explained. Good man.

At another point, a man walking with a woman stopped, looked right at me with a surprised expression, and said "...and we saw each other, just like this" [paused for dramatic effect, as did I] "...then we walked away." His friend said to me "thanks for modeling!" I was a prop in the story he was telling his friend about his awkward encounter (with his ex? boss in drag? long lost twin?)." This had certainly not happened before.

Another notable person in Sunday's story was the crazy man. I first spotted him in the middle of the road across the street in some sort of Tai Chi position. I'm glad he didn't get hit by a car. Next I saw he was to my left by the bus stop, his eyes closed, in a similar, strange position involving his arms. I hoped that he was being transported by my music. When I looked over again, he had removed his red sweatshirt and tied in around his head, babushka style. I imagine I'll see him again.

In addition to these people, there were an above average number of folks just making small talk, clapping, dancing, missing their pedestrian lights to keep listening, etc. It's these small things that make me deem a night successful or not, and nights full of these interactions make me truly love my "job." I really think the evening is the time to play, since people are more relaxed, going out to eat, going for an after-dinner stroll. I also prefer playing in the dark, it seems more mysterious or something.

The thing that made me sad, however, was how nobody knew the Stevie song. A. It's an important political song, and B. It's freakin Stevie Wonder! Even if it wasn't a political song everyone should know it. What made me even sadder is that as the lack of recognition of Stevie continued, the excitement at my Lady Gaga songs kept going strong. Lady Gaga is popular among the gay scene, I've noticed, and I was playing in the Castro, but it seemed like a shame to be getting better responses to it than to Stevie. Part of being a successful busker is catering to your passerby: playing "Lady of Spain" for old folks, "The Wheels on the Bus" for the very young folks, and Lady Gaga for the throngs of gay men, determined in Provincetown. Thus when I saw some older Black gentlemen walking by, I stereotyped and got my hopes up that they would be the ones to recognize the Stevie song, but alas they showed no sign. I was playing Gaga when they walked by again, and they did the typical routine of recognizing it, smiling, mouthing "lady gaga" to each other and doing the Bad Romance claws. Love it, usually. Not sure if I should resent Lady Gaga for that or just laugh in spite of myself for my stereotyping having gone wrong.

The last person in Sunday's tale is Ritchie, the young man who I noticed near the end of my set was sitting near me, crying. As I packed up I asked him what was wrong, if he wanted to talk about it, etc. He didn't respond. I packed up and started walking, and saw the neon for Hot Cookie. Hot Cookie is a tiny little store that sells cookies of the warm variety. I don't doubt that it's the front for a brothel or something, but the cookies looked damn good, so I bought one for Ritchie (although I didn't know his name yet). I hoped he'd still be there when I went back, because cookies cheer people up, but part of me hoped he wouldn't so then I could eat the cookie myself. He was indeed there, and asked me to sit with him. (Luckily he did share the cookie.) He said he didn't really want to talk about it, but then spilled a bit. He was having some friend problems and was feeling lonely. He asked if I ever feel lonely, and I told him about how lonely the solo busker's life is, realizing it more than ever as I said it aloud. He asked me to help him find his car. He parked, started drinking, and had forgotten where the car was. We wandered around many side streets looking for it, continuing our talk. He said he had gotten him palm read and the person said that he's an old soul trapped in a young body. Guess that's why he was having a senior moment regarding his car, eh? I got that warm feeling you get when you do a good deed, and explained the "pay it forward" tradition to him before we parted ways. I wonder if we'll ever meet again.

I didn't play much on Monday. For the first time, someone beat me to "my" spot. They were two young free spirits called "The Amazing Aborto Brothers." They were actually very good, with two guitars (one homemade) and vocal harmonies. For some numbers one of them played a saw with a violin bow. When I saw them in my spot I asked them if they wanted to collaborate on the song. They were into it, and we actually sounded okay. I set up a couple blocks up the hill in front of the Castro BART station, but didn't do very well. My wrists really really hurt. I've been playing every day, even if it's just practicing, in addition to pulling my accordion up big hills, and I'm getting sore from it. I really need to make stretching part of my routine. I folded after a very short time, but not before I talked to my first "regular." In Ptown I loved seeing the same people over and over, even if I didn't talk to them much. A guy approached me and gave an interesting suggestion, having seen me every time I've played in the Castro. He thought that the "freaks and circus" look doesn't work in the Castro. He's lived there for five years, and he has observed that the musicians that do the best there play it straight, simply giving their music. He thought I should wear all black next time and see how I did. It's interesting, I always thought that the crazier I dressed the better I'd do. I've been meaning to make piano tights and get red sparkly shoes, but I might put this plan on hold until further research is done.

The end, thanks for reading!