The first annual San Francisco Superhero Street Fair styled itself as a way of giving back to the true heroes of the city--such as firemen, policemen, and local citizens that have done good work.  I can shenanigans on that; it was just an excuse for a big dance party with questionable music and even more questionable costumes:

Still, I did learn a few things.  For example, at one point Wonder Woman apparently said “What the hell” and broke down and got a tat:

I was also surprised at the age difference between her and Superman.  One of Wonder Woman’s most fearsome enemies is known as the Cheetah, but who knew that WW herself was a Cougar?

I also learned not to mess with my friend Backhanded Compliment Man:

At one point, an older gentleman said to him “I sort of like your outfit.” Backhanded Compliment Man shot back: “And I’m excited to see you out on a Saturday night. My dad never stays up this late.” Damn.

And, finally, I learned that the renowned heroine Cherry Popper doesn’t do a lot of crimefighting, but nevertheless performs a valuable public service:

San Francisco needs another street festival like Sarah Palin needs another ethics probe, so I don’t know if this particular expedition merits a return trip next year.  However, I can safely say that if it does, it will have a bunch of music, weird people, and costumes. You know--like every other street festival in the Bay Area.

This weekend in Tahoe, I tried several times to amuse my friend’s 8-month year old daughter. No dice. She looked at me with a perpetual expression of guarded disdain--"Are you kidding me?  You are not a true adult. I know from adults, and they are either my mother or father. You are not worth the diapers I poop in.”

It made me appreciate my youngest niece that much more.  At roughly the same age, Emerson is one of the happiest babies I’ve ever seen. Her face is always stretching like a balloon into a wide grin, and it doesn’t take much to elicit it: cascading down her father’s chest like a waterfall, having her feet waved back and forth, being elevated high enough that she has a perfect view of her surroundings.

Things are, in short, going pretty well with Em and her recently acquired life.  But then my father reminded me of this blog post that I had completely forgotten, from 2005--years before she was born:

“I just found out that Teri Hatcher’s daughter is named ‘Emerson.’ I know it’s a rule that you can’t have a hit TV show or movie unless you have horrible names for your kids, but this is going too far.  Can this young prodigy explain the philosophical underpinnings of transcendentalism?  Did she supply Harvard with a graduating address called ‘The American Scholar’?  No? Then she’s not allowed to have the name.  Instead of complaining every time the paparazzi sticks a camera in her face, I’d expect her to explain the zoom lens as a modern-day version of the transparent eyeball. I’ll look for your analysis in Us magazine, Emmy.”

This doesn’t look too good for my future relationship with my second niece.  But let me state--clearly and unequivocally--that nothing is out of bounds when it comes to making fun of Teri Hatcher. She is dumb.

Second, although it looks as though I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth like an In-N-Out burger, I’d like to point out that following:

You know what’s the ultimate no-win social situation? When the serving person brings out every other dish but yours.

This just never goes well.  Either you say nothing, which is rude. Or you tell the people around you, “No no, start eating before everything gets cold, Don’t feel bad--look, I’m eating too. I’m having the last of the bread, and I’m also gnawing on my napkin.”

But think about what you just did to everyone else at the table.  Either they start eating, which makes them look insensitive, or they don’t, which means they’re ignoring a direct request from you.  At which point everyone sits silently and looks awkwardly at each other.  They start thinking heavily about baseball in order to forget that there’s a delicious, steaming plate of food in front of them.

And this always happens when you’ve ordered the simplest thing on the menu.  It’s not like everyone else at the table ordered macaroni and cheese and you ordered lobster bisque.  You say, “Look, it’s a damn cheeseburger. I make cheeseburgers at home in about five minutes.  What’s the deal?”

And the server says “Oh!  Don’t worry, yours will be coming right out.” Which is code for “We’re currently slaughtering the cow, at which point we will process it and prepare it to become meat patties in several hours time.”

Normally I’d call for servers to try to align all their customers’ meals together, so they’re brought out at once and someone isn’t left without. But I know that this is all an elaborate social experiment centered on me.  Servers keep watch for me.  And when they see me coming into the restaurant with my friends, they chatter excitedly: “He’s almost here. Now remember, serve him last with a space of about fifteen minutes.  $20 says that after he finishes eating his napkin, he’ll start nibbling on the tablecloth.”