(Don't) Rain On My Parade

I hate parades. Always have. I've avoided the Notting Hill Carnival back home in England and have been to Gay Pride, though of all the street parties in town, I imagine this must be the most culturally captivating and socially relevant. And I'd rather attend an insurance seminar than get behind Macy's at Thanksgiving.

My bah-humbug aversion came to the fore yesterday when I was forced to battle the lunchtime baseball crowds at Civic Center on my way to teach a class in Berkeley. The train system (BART) was a mess. I ended up grabbing light rail (MUNI) to the Embarcadero and then hopping on BART across the water from there. Only too happy to escape to the sanity of the East Bay.

I am excited that the SF Giants won the world series. It was great to see so much euphoria in the city, especially since the elections had produced such lackluster results.

Yet the marauding, drunken crowds with their drunken shouts of "Go Giants!" and "Fock Yeah!" rang dull to my ears. The celebration spilled into trouble at various points with stories of people being beaten up and store windows smashed.

I don't mean to be a killjoy, but all those people dressed in orange -- the smell if not the full-on color of danger -- make me feel nervous. There must be better ways to show civic pride than this.