Jazz hands at the Golden Gate Theater.

***

Before Emmeline turned two, we subscribed to the philosophy of the America Academy of Pediatrics, which basically said TV would kill her on the spot.

Sure, she had seen a handful of Sesame Street episodes on iTunes, and during an endless road trip in Michigan last year, she burned through a DVD of Elmo smoking rocks with guest stars M, 3 and Dana Plato.

But she didn’t seem to understand the idea that TV plays what it wants to play and the viewer has little control, and her cries of “Elmo! Elmo! More Elmo!” didn’t provide the relaxing diversion we had hoped for. So for the most part, she has spent her formative first years wallowing through a sad, TV-less existence.

Until now.

Because I refused to buy any videos starring stuffed, crimson-colored drug addicts, she has come to know the joys of the Road Runner and Coyote, while I have been enjoying a trip down Saturday Morning Lane. I was surprised to see the Pink Panther smoking (I didn’t remember that, but it explains a lot about my elementary school habit). And the Ant and the Aardvark is just as wry as I recalled.

But the real joy of surfing through YouTube for children’s entertainment isn’t about the cartoons and music videos. It’s not about old-school TV shows or learning how robots really speak. No. It’s about the hip hooray and bally hoo, the rumble of the subway train and the rattle of the taxis.

That’s right, people.

Broadway.

YouTube is made for indoctrinating 2-year-olds into the Lullaby of Broadway.

If you ever see me jogging on the street, there’s a 50-50 chance I’ll be listening to this song. (Or maybe this one.) I still remember my first live musical — when I was 12, my Aunt Nancy took me to see Eliza Doolittle scream, “Move your bloomin’ arse!” My mom and I used to watch The Sound of Music and South Pacific whenever they were on and it pains to think of all the times I’ve stepped under a shower and hummed, “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair.” That kind of musical repertoire made gym class uncomfortable.

Every once in awhile if we’re looking for something to do, I’ll pull Emme onto my lap and flip through some classics. I tried to teach her some moves from Hairspray — which thank god is on HBO ten times a day now — but she seems content just to watch the action and let her father sing.

I’ve listed a few of our favorite things below and tried to find either the Broadway songs or a good movie version — anything that will hold the interest of toddlers for more than 3 minutes.

So here you go — more than you ever wanted to know about my musical inclinations. So grab the kids and come on along and listen to the lullaby of Broadway …

Tomorrow — Nobody does it better than Andrea McArdle.

Oklahoma — I aced spelling tests, history tests, geography tests, animal husbandry tests, you name it — all thanks to this song.

I Could Have Danced All Night — with special guest “Supercalifragilisticexpeala ..ssissippi.” Damn. I was close.

The Impossible Dream — I tried so hard to find the Scott Bakula version from Quantum Leap but I guess the Broadway original from Richard Kiley will just have to do …

You Can’t Stop the Beat — Who wouldn’t pay good money to see a mega dance / sing off between Nikki Blonsky, Marissa Jaret Winokur and Rikki Lake? Dumb question, I know. Everyone would. Everyone. (And did you know that Vitamin C, singer of this graduation favorite, played Amber Von Tussle in the original movie? Yeah, a 2-year-old is about as excited to hear this as you are now.)

What Do You Do with a B.A. In English?/ It Sucks to Be Me — Except for the sex, swearing, racism and Jimmy Fallon, the kids really love this one. Just be happy I didn’t link to “The Internet is for Porn.” Oh wait.

Do Re Mi — Even Grover could memorize this one.

A Spoonful of Sugar — I never needed help going down … but the song is still nice.

Ol’ Man River – If I could die and come back as anything I wanted, it would be Paul Robeson’s voice.

Part of Your World — Oh, back off you cynics. I’m a big dopey sap bag, what?

Enjoy!

***

But this is how I spent the week — adding buttons and piping to blue jeans to make a sailor outfit, because didn’t you know a tea party is nothing without a sailor?

It’s an exciting life.

Stay tuned to KQED Radio next week, as I record another radio essay on Tuesday. It should run soon afterward. And seriously, kid, how much tea can you drink?

***

***

It must say something that one of my long-term goals of staying home with Emmeline was to find used curtain fabric and turn it into a play outfit, just like those crazy little von Trapp children.

Well that’s done.

And it only took one episode of Gilmore Girls and $7 worth of fabric. Now if only I can teach her to sing and dance then maybe, someday, we’ll be free ….

***

***

***

I took Emmeline to one of our old playgrounds, and we were playing contentedly in the sand with a shovel and bucket, making pretend tea cakes and preparing to host the rocking horse at a delightful afternoon soiree, when a mom arrived with a cell phone strapped to her ear.

“I know, right?!” she screamed, “I mean, I was all …”

Usually I can forgive the kind of obnoxiousness that drives 45 year olds to speak like middle schoolers, but she was talking about a Reese Witherspoon movie so I knew right away she was not to be trusted. She flopped her child — 4 maybe — into the sand and motioned with one hand toward Emme and me, as if we wanted to hear his thoughts on the movie. Then the mom sat on a bench and sank back into her conversation.

As a guy at a playground, I’m accustomed to kids wanting to play with me all the time. But I really chafe at unintentionally intentional babysitting.

I can’t stand dealing with those orphans of disengaged parents who think it’s fine and dandy to turn their brood upon the populace because they have more important things to attend to, like texting. A large part of me feels enormous pity for these children and I want to play with them, to give them the attention they crave if only for five minutes, but there are days when I just don’t have the energy to handle my own 2-year-old, let alone the bossy offspring of neglectful movie critics.

But this little guy saw that we were having a good time and decided he wanted to join in.

“What’s your name?” I asked, “Do you want to play, too?”

The kid grunted, “That’s mine!” and ripped the bucket from Emme’s hands. Sand flew out of the bucket and sunlight sparkled on some of the grains.

“The tea cakes!” Emme screamed. “Oh no!”

It took us all morning to make those cakes, and I knew that if we didn’t serve something at the soiree, the rocking horse would look down at us and we’d never be invited back to Netherfield. The tension in the air was palpable. So I told the boy we had to share, that my daughter was playing with the bucket, too.

“Here,” I told him, “We can all play with it. Do you like lavender scones?”

The kid actually got in my face, pushing his nose two inches from my own. I could smell the chicken nuggets and I could tell that no — no he did not like lavender scones.

“It’s. MINE!” he snarled, jabbing his fingers into my chest with each word.

I looked at the boy’s mother, who saw what was going on but was apparently busy playing MASH. We made eye contact, and she shrugged. It seemed like a good time to show my daughter a lesson in rising above — to let her know that even though there are some real monsters out there, you don’t have to be one.

“Fine,” I said to the boy, turning my voice to a whisper so Emme wouldn’t hear, “But guess what?”

“What?”

“There is no Santa Claus.”

***

A few weeks after installing a newborn in your house, you eventually learn to live with the mind-numbing lack of sleep. The blank stares. The misplaced keys. The coffee made with a filter full of peanuts. (Twice.) These things become a part of your new personality and somehow you deal with them.

Then at some point sleep comes again and a child who wouldn’t stay down for more than an hour at a time finds herself out for 12 straight hours. It’s like your newborn was replaced in the night by the neighborhood drunk — the friendly drunk who rambles incoherently about ponies and smells like Dreft. And so one day you wake up to find you’re rested again; you’ve finally paid off all your sleep debt. Which only makes it more difficult when those random bouts of sleeplessness come suddenly out of the blue black night.

Dana came home from work the other night and found me in a chair in Emme’s room, nodding off as our child flipped through the pages of Jumpy Jack and Googily. The previous couple of nights we had been up at all hours, as Emme fought through a fever. We took turns going into her room every 10 minutes, rubbing her back, stroking her head, offering kisses and eight balls — anything to get her to sleep. Finally we hauled her into our bed, where she proceeded to punish us for our good intentions. I awoke with two feet in my groin and Dana still has the impression of a baby head under her arm.

So when Dana came home, the last thing either of us wanted to do was cook dinner. We were beat, bleary-eyed and grumpy, silently dreading the sleepless night ahead of all of us. We headed to a favorite diner that serves breakfast all day long and we loaded up greasy spoon fare.

“Tell her to stop staring at me!”

The voice was small, kid-like. And I knew just who it belonged to.

Since the little boy came into the restaurant, Emme couldn’t stop staring at him. The boy opened the door, and Emme was right there with him. The boy climbed on top of a stool by the diner counter, and Emme watched the divine miracle of sitting. The kid ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, and Emme was absorbed. I wanted to tell her that this was what it’s like to watch All My Children — that it puts you in a kind of mindless stupor you somehow can’t turn away from. But she was too busy, and I knew enough about good soaps to not bother her.

“Tell her to stop!” the boy screamed again.

I wanted to say, “Well if you’d just turn around and stop staring at her, you’d never know!” But he had a point. It’s tacky to stare. I looked at the boy’s mother, who was engrossed in a Blackberry, and I determined the poor kid was on his own. So I blew through my straw and watched as the white paper wrapper sailed across the table and hit Emme smack in the middle of the forehead. She laughed, and instantly the boy was forgotten, and I made a note to remember this when she got into middle school.

“Do that again!” Emme chuckled. And we spent the next five minutes blowing through straws at each other.

Then the boy suddenly returned, reaching for my straw.

“Ok, now blow me,” he demanded.

Dana snorted into her Coke, while I told him the Catholic Church was around the block.

“What?” he sneered.

“Nothing.”

He was probably a little over 4, and by this time his hands were covered in grilled cheese sandwich. Ever since Emme had stopped staring at him, he had gone out of his way to regain her affection — spinning the stool, hopping off it, running around, banging his fork on the counter or tossing it at waitresses. His mother was oblivious, too busy checking her e-mails.

Her son, meanwhile, hopped off his counter stool, grabbed at my straw and smiled his crooked cheese-stained smile, tapping his hands on my knees and leaving Velveeta prints on my jeans.

“Why isn’t she eating a grill cheese sandwich?” the boy slurred, orange grease dripping down his little cheese chin.

“What?”

The little boy motioned to Emme, who was sitting in a high chair across from me.

“She! Why is she not eating one?” Then he reached onto my plate and took a french fry, leaving a little cheese trail behind him.

I sighed, looking across the room to where the little boy’s mother was pounding away at her Blackberry.

“She’s eating macaroni and cheese,” the boy continued, “She’s not really good at it — she should use a fork.”

Emme looked up at the boy, her own face coated in cheese and her fingers dripping in goo, and I could tell she was crushed. She reached for her fork and fumbled for a few stray bands of cooled macaroni.

“See? She’s not very good at it.”

I motioned to the boy’s food on the counter.

“I think your dinner’s getting cold,” I told him. He turned, looked at his mother — whose back was turned — and then rejoined our conversation.

“Why doesn’t she just eat a grill cheese?” he said.

I smiled at the boy and motioned with my finger for him to come closer.

“Because here they’re made with poison,” I whispered, “And you’ll die. Why? What are you eating?”

The boy silently returned to his counter, and I said a prayer that his mother would be too busy emailing when he told her what that strange man had said. I was watching their interactions closely, waiting, when Dana and I saw the woman peer over at the boy’s full plate.

“Honestly,” she huffed, “If you don’t eat all your dinner, your father is not going to pick you up for the weekend.”

Dana and I stared, open-mouthed, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. What kind of monster would say such a thing to a child?

***

I would bet that if you asked anyone raised in the ’70s about the best toys of childhood, they would eventually come to remember the thrill of riding as fast as humanly possible on a low-slung, plastic, primary-colored dervish only to suddenly pull on a blue handbrake and spin doughnuts on the sidewalk.

Oh Big Wheel.

I love you so.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been working on a story for the Chronicle about the rise and fall of the Big Wheel, which took Suburban America by storm in the ’70s but fell from glory until only recently. One person I spoke to said they came to be considered “unsafe” — because falling 3 inches onto the ground is apparently too much for today’s parents. You can find Big Wheels now at Target and on Amazon, although the handbrakes have been removed.

Despite prices as high as $100 online, I had been meaning to order one and was waiting to do so until we got back from vacation. But poking around the Tenderloin today, Emme and I made our way to the back of the New Mission Rescue thrift store and found, shining in a corner, beckoning us, this beaten-down, abandoned contraption of summers yore.

For $6.

Sure, the pedal foot rests were missing, leaving just metal spikes sticking out from the wheels. And I swore there used to be rainbow streamers hanging off the handlebars. But it was still enough.

When she saw it, Emmeline stopped talking in mid-sentence and pointed. Clothes racks seemed to part before her, and sunlight miraculously glinted off the yellow handlebars.

“What is that?” she whispered, her eyes widening to take in the scene.

“That,” I told her, “Is a Big Wheel.”

“Can Emme ride it?”

“Hop on,” I said.

Looking back, it was a foolish mistake. I should have come back with the car.

I couldn’t get her off the thing.

Later, at home, she sat on the Big Wheel in the living room, her head resting on the center of the handlebars, a hand stroking a grip as if it were a new puppy.

“Emme likes Big Wheel,” she sighed.

“You do?”

She yawned and closed her eyes for a moment, beat.

“Emme wants to nap with Big Wheel,” she said.

I carried her off to bed, hoping, 30 years from now, she might one day remember a magical ride through the city and the sudden rush of finding a new, best childhood toy.

***

She rode from the store …

***

Through the ‘Loin …

***

Into the MUNI station …

***

On the train …

***

And finally, two hours later, home.

A tantrum time bomb.

***

Sitting in the middle seat, the air slack and people shuffling all around us, preparing for takeoff, I stared in wonder. I couldn’t believe the man was even considering it. No, that’s not right. He had considered it. He leaned back, gave it some thought and decided that yes, flying next to a strange 2 year old doesn’t sound so bad.

“Oh, I’ll be alright,” he said, smiling. “I like kids.”

I studied the man with a mix of befuddlement, awe and suspicion. He was older, probably retired or close to it — his thin, gray hair shorn to a neat stubble. He looked intelligent enough, the kind of guy who normally made sound decisions, but I didn’t know what to say. Was he hard of hearing? Does constant chatter not bother him? Does he simply like to be kicked repeatedly in the thigh? Darker thoughts quickly came to mind, and I wondered briefly if he was he a child molester, and was this the moment he had been waiting for?

What the hell was wrong with this guy?

If someone came on board an airplane with a 2 year old and asked me to switch seats so the family could sit together, I’d switch in an instant and then buy the family a round of drinks for inconveniencing them with my poor choice in random seat assignments.

On the way home from Michigan, our flight was too full to have three seats in a row. And so our arrangement was that we had the window seat and the middle seat in one row, and another seat in the row immediately behind us. When we are traveling with Emmeline, I always board the airplane first, setting up our pillows and snacks and coloring books, while Dana stays behind at the gate with Emme, waiting for the last possible moment to board. Why keep a kid cramped up longer than necessary?

So there I was in the middle seat, stuffing the seat pockets with snacks and a rag dipped in ethyl alcohol (just in case), waiting to see which poor sap was unlucky enough to draw the aisle seat. The plan was to ask whoever that was to switch with us so that Dana, Emme and I could all sit together.

But here comes this guy.

Strike that. Here comes this guy’s wife.

She looked like an elderly matron, the kind of pearl-bedecked family queen who ran her brood with an iron fist, probably using a promised inheritance as an incentive to visit her. Clearly there was no other reason. She had the air of someone who always got her way, but considering she was flying in coach, I was on to her. Real matrons travel in first class.

She approached my row, reached down and nudged my elbow off the armrest.

“Scoot over,” she said, “I want to sit with my husband.”

“What?”

“Scoot over. You take the window — my husband and I will take the aisle and middle. What?”

Her husband meekly tapped her shoulder, checking their tickets.

“Honey,” he cowed, “This isn’t your row.”

The woman stared at me for a long beat, as if I had made the mistake and my foolishness bothered her.

“Oh,” she said, turning her back with a sweep of faux pearls and the constricting scent of Timeless by Avon.

Her husband, however, checked his ticket again and settled into our aisle seat — or at least what I hoped would be our aisle seat.

“Looks like this is me,” he sighed, as his wife settled into the row behind us.

I smiled, waiting for the right moment to ask him. He looked over at his wife, and it was clear the full flight had tinkered with their seating arrangements, too. The wife looked steamed but the guy … the guy seemed almost delighted. I felt for him, I did. Clearly he was envisioning a few hours away from that woman and here I was about to ask him to switch seats — to put him closer to her and ruin his one chance at happiness in life.

“Excuse me,” I started, “Listen, I’m sorry — but would you mind switching seats? I’m flying with my wife and child and we were hoping to sit together.”

Panic came over the guy’s face.

“Child you say?”

I nodded gravely.

“Yeah. A toddler.”

Something was off. This wasn’t going as I had hoped, and for some reason I instinctively held off giving Emme’s age — thinking I might need an ace in the hole as this conversation continued.

“Oh,” he said, opening a book.

I didn’t know what to say. I admit that part of me thrilled at the idea of sitting a row away, being able to read in quiet while this stranger put up with Emme — who had slept and napped poorly for our entire week and a half in Michigan. If terrorists really wanted to take down a plane, they would be wise to keep children up for weeks at a time, stuff them full of vacation ice cream and cake and then set them loose on Northwest. She was like a tantrum time bomb, ready to go off at any moment.

Still, I knew that if I didn’t make this seating arrangement work, Dana would kick my ass. Or worse, demand to take the childless Seat of Freedom behind us.

“Oh OK,” I said, starting to pack up my goods and pretending to vacate the row, “Well you have fun. I wouldn’t want to sit next to a 2 year old, but more power to you.”

“How old did you say?”

“She’s two.”

“Oh,” he said, glancing back at his wife, clearly troubled by the corner I had boxed him into. “Is she loud?”

“Well,” I said, “She’s two. She’s been on vacation for a week and hasn’t really slept well, so yeah, I’d say she’s loud.”

The man stared into his book for a long beat. I had him. I knew it. The man closed his book and sighed.

“Oh, I’ll be alright,” he finally said, “I like kids.”

And in that instant I knew: His wife is really, truly one serious bitch. And I was going to have to sit next to her. For four and a half hours. Familial bonding was out the window now — for both of us. We were debating now out of selfishness, because it was clear that in this twist of mid-air equations, neither one of us wanted to give up the seat next to a 2-year-old in favor of one next to the Night of the Living Dead version of Lovey Howell.

A sense of dread fueled my panic.

“I guess we shouldn’t have fed her those M&Ms,” I mumbled, “And Coke? What were we thinking! Say, do you like ponies? Because you’re going to learn more about ponies in the next four hours than you ever thought possible.”

The man closed his book and simply stared at me. But I couldn’t stop. The words were coming out by themselves.

“That’s a nice shirt,” I said, “Listen, we’ll pay for the cleaning — don’t worry about it.”

“The cleaning?”

“Sure,” I said, “You know, when she spills something on it. Or whatever ….”

Looking back, I’m still not sure if it was the image of what, exactly, “whatever” meant or the way I shrugged my shoulders that sent him over the edge. “Whatever” could have meant a lot of things, and I wanted him to take a moment to consider that not every liquid comes from a bottle. The shrug told him I wasn’t joking — that at some point during the flight, he would find himself soaked. In whatever.

“Fine,” he grumbled, closing his book and rising to his feet.

I checked in on him later, watching as he rested his elbow on the arm rest and propped his head up with an open fist — creating what appeared to be a shield between himself and his sour-faced companion. The wife was nattering on about something, and the poor guy was trying his best to ignore it.

A twinge of pity overcame me. Would it have killed me to switch seats and give the guy a break? It was only four hours. At that moment, my head turned and totally unprepared, I heard a little terror scream “sneak attack!” before launching full speed into my stomach. Cackles of triumph and laughter erupted from our row, and the guy looked up with sadness and defeat in his eyes. And I knew exactly what he was thinking: He really blew it.

***

We’ve spent the past week in northern Michigan, blissfully disconnected from any type of Internet access. I haven’t dislocated my shoulder yet — like last year — but don’t worry, there’s still time.

For now, keep an eye on Danny Evans’ great blog — Dad Gone Mad. Danny apparently had a brain aneurysm and let me guest post there this week. Poor guy.

More next week!

This is your hotel. Beware of pigeons. And small children.

***

Thousands of bloggers will soon descend on the city for the annual BlogHer conference, and this is the wholly complete and completely kick-ass guide to things to do in San Francisco that don’t suck.

Whether you’re looking for the best places to go for after-hours drinks or the best places to buy kids’ clothes, or maybe you’re just looking for a nice, relaxing day spa or a $5 tranny hooker named Reshelda … whatever you’re looking for, this is the blogger bible for navigating the not-so touristy she-bits of the City by the Bay.

I tried to focus on Union Square-Chinatown-North Beach-Tenderloin-FiDi areas, because they are all easily walkable from the hotel: the notorious Westin St. Francis. But you’ll also find some great adventures that are relatively nearby and require either a nice long stroll or an easy ride on MUNI or BART.

A lot of readers ask where we find Emmeline’s clothes, and I promise you won’t be disappointed. Lots of revealing below. But I swear to god, if you buy out all the children’s hats, you’re dead to me. Dead!

So to begin …

The best places for after-hours drinks:

Bourbon and Branch – 501 Jones Street. Yes, it requires a 4-block walk through the Tenderloin and late at night that can feel a little sketchy. But it’s worth it. Big Time. The vibe is that of a 1920s speakeasy, complete with passwords to get in. Find the door, ring the buzzer and offer the password — it’s always “books” to get into the secret library. You will not be disappointed — except maybe in paying $12 for a drink. Be warned. (From hotel, turn right on Powell, right on O’Farrell and walk to Jones. Look for sign that says, “Anti-Saloon League.” 5 mins.)

Empress of China — 838 Grant Avenue. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or in this case, don’t judge a dilapidated old building by its AIDS-covered veneer. Head up the top-floor retro bar and enjoy some fine ’50s-style furnishings, strong drinks and gorgeous views of the city. Plus, Erik Estrada drank here! A great chill place to talk and meet-up early or after hours. (From hotel, left to Post. Right on Post. Left on Grant. Follow to Sacramento. 15 mins.)

John Foley’s Irish House — 243 O’Farrell Street. A little more touristy than I like, but if you’re in Union Square, pretty much everything is going to be touristy. And this is easily walkable. (From hotel, left on Powell, right on O’Farrell. Go one block. 2 mins.)

Slide — 430 Mason Street. This place has a mean rep of dissing guys unless they are accompanied by a pantheon of women … so most anyone attending BlogHer should have no problems getting in. This is for anyone who wants to dance, as it’s a glitzy nightclub. Like Bourbon and Branch, it’s done up in 1920s speakeasy decor — and actually used to be one. (Photo) In fact, you enter the joint by going down a wooden twisty playground slide — just like one that was hidden behind a trapdoor in the ’20s. Again, this is for dancing, although you can also be a wallflower. (From hotel, left on Powell, left on Post, left on Mason. Easy peasy. 3 mins.)

Bow Bow Cocktail Lounge — 1155 Grant Avenue. The bad news is it’s a hike from Union Square. The good news is this place puts the “Holy shit! This place is skanky!” in Dive Bar Karaoke. If you’re looking for a place to sing your guts out with good friends and watch a usually wasted bar tender completely forget about charging you for drinks or maybe throw firecrackers … you’re in luck! Definitely worth an excursion for late-night sing-alongs and memories you will not ever forget. And I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. (Take a cab. Just easier, or walk all the way on Grant if you desire. 25 mins.)

Hotel hot spots: Make your way up to the 12th floor of the original building (not the big one with glass elevators) and you’ll find a quaint library club room where you might be able to sneak a drink or just find a quieter place to chill out. Also, you will be a rock star if you can get security to key you down to the one-time basement speakeasy (look for the elevator that has a “B” button on it). More on that here.

***

The best nearby playgrounds if you’re bringing kids:

Willie Woo Woo Wong Playground — Sacramento at Waverly. Very nice nice playground with new equipment and awesome rock wall for older tots. Great place to burn off steam. Hang Ah dim sum is a nearby basement dive restaurant not to be missed. (Walk out of hotel, cross Union Square, turn left on Stockton. Walk through tunnel to Sacramento. Turn right. 10 mins.)

Portsmouth Square playground — Sacramento at Montgomery, closer to financial district. A little more sketchy and lots of pigeons, but a good feel for life in Chinatown. Two separate playgrounds — both hot and packed on warm days. (Follow route to Woo Woo park but just keep going on Sacramento until you hit Kearny. 15 mins.)

St. Mary’s Square playground — California Street at Grant Avenue. Great open space with nice, new playground equipment, but also a sometimes hang-out for ne’er-do-wells and roustabouts. If it feels that way, keep walking along Grant till you get to Willie Woo Woo, which is just so fun to say. (From hotel, cross Union Square and go one block past Stockton to Grant Ave. Take left on Grant. Park at Grant and California. 10 mins.)

Yerba Buena Garden — Mission Street between 3rd and 4th. Great slides for kids and small sandbox. On hot days, because of the blue and black rubber, it’s something akin to Dante’s Inferno. But there’s also a carousel, a great waterfall and lots of grass to run around. There’s even an ice skating rink and bowling alley hidden nearby. (From hotel, turn right on Powell outside. Turn left on Market. Turn right on 4th. Walk 2 blocks — park is on your left. 5 mins.)

***

The best, easiest day-trip strolling adventures:

Hayes Valley — If you’re looking for a less touristy side of San Francisco but still want to enjoy some great restaurants and find some of the best kids clothes in the city, this is a wonderful place to start. You can stroll up Hayes Street from Franklin to Laguna, poking in and out of stores that offer everything from modern art to $117 skirts … for 3 year olds. Ouch. Plus there are all sorts of hidden alleys and open spaces to explore. And don’t miss the monster. Best way to get there: Take MUNI train from Powell Street to Van Ness station (any underground train will get you there in two stops); once on Van Ness, walk three blocks north to Hayes, turn left.

Grant Avenue — In North Beach, Grant Avenue takes on a very different feel from its Chinatown cousin — it’s littered with bars, record shops, cute clothes boutiques and excellent restaurants. Don’t miss Delilah Crown, an excellent place for dresses for both mom and daughter (Grant and Green). Best way to get there: Either walk up Grant from Union Square, past the touristy Chinatown section until you cross Columbus; or take a cable car from in front of the hotel and get off at Union Street, and head up hill from North Beach.

The Ferry Building – This is an easy walk from Union Square and well worth the journey. Walking along Market Street in the early morning sun and enjoying the wide sidewalks and gorgeous buildings is why so many people consider San Francisco a European city. Well, that and because we dress better. And are snooty. At the Ferry Building, you’ll find everything from delicious gelato to ritzy caviar in what basically amounts to the city’s ode to gourmands. Slanted Door is the best restaurant if you’re looking to escape for dinner. An don’t miss bomboloni at I Preferiti di Boriana. If you go on Saturday morning, go early to avoid the mob-scene known as farmers market. Best way to get there: From hotel, turn right on Powell out front, turn left on Market and keep going. You can’t miss it. If you’re feeling slothful, jump on a train or BART to the Embarcadero Station.

Tenderloin — Don’t skip the ‘Loin just because you’re scared of a few crack dealers, because A. your hotel is ridiculously close to it all, and B. you’ll miss some of the best, most beautiful theatres (hello nude men!) in the city and some of the best street food you’ll find anywhere. And a cool park for the kids. Why go to San Francisco if you’re just going to hang out at the mall that might as well be in the Big Cleve? From hotel, take O’Farrell to your right until you get too scared.

24th Street — You’ll have to jump on MUNI or BART to get here, but it’s worth the short transit trip. This is one of the nicest, most culturally diverse walks in the city. (John King wrote about it here.) Basically, you can take an easy stroll from the heart of family friendly, a stroller-on-every-corner Noe Valley to the heart of the hipstery Mission District to the working class Mexican neighborhoods a little further to the east. And if you keep going (taking a few twists and turns) you will eventually wind up in the Dogpatch and the lovely old drydocks neighborhoods. (That last is a long, long walk.) Best way to get there: From hotel, go right until you find the Powell Street underground station. Either take J Church MUNI line “outbound” to 24th Street or hop on BART and get off at 24th Street station. I’d recommend take the MUNI line, as it lets you off in Noe Valley and requires less backtracking.

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But speaking of malls … ahem … the best places to pick up kids clothes:

Lavish — 540 Hayes Street. Wow. It can be expensive as all get out but you can also find some deals on local designers and other wonderful things you can’t find at the Target. A gem for cute skirts, awesome shirts and wonderful toys. Their sister store, Fiddlesticks, is a few doors down. And if you’re in the area, don’t miss the Thread Lounge designer sample sale store down the block, where you can find things for yourself as well. (Follow directions to Hayes Valley above.)

Chloe’s Closet – 451 Cortland Avenue. In Bernal Heights, it is a definite taxi trip away but I would be remiss in leaving out the best children’s consignment shop this side of anywhere. You can find deals on everything from shoes to dresses to hats. Plus there’s toys for the kids — and they’re barely chewed on, which is nice. (Take a cab.)

Peekabootique — 1306 Castro Street. In the heart of Noe Valley, you can find both new and used clothes here. Great place for retro-designed new shirts, and you’ll never know what’s in the racks until you dig dig dig. Take the J Church line from downtown to 24th Street, turn right and walk to Castro Street. (A new favorite, Mabuhay, is on Church and 24th, right where the J train stops. A must-see.)

Murik Childrens Store — 73 Geary Street. A very easy walk from the hotel, you’ll find the best in European children’s clothes designers at prices you may not even need a fourth mortgage for. You can definitely find some treasures for cheap here. (From hotel, right on Powell, left on Geary. Store is on your right closer to Market Street.)

H & M — Westfield Shopping Mall. If you’re going to go there anyway, don’t miss the back of the third floor H&M store, where you can find some cheap, cute clothes for the kids. Great hats for newborns and more than enough rainbow stockings to keep anyone happy. (You don’t need directions to the mall. You’ll find it.)

Britex Fabrics — 146 Geary Street. I couldn’t possibly compose this list without mentioning a fantastic fabric store for do-it-yourselfers like myself. Great fabrics, including rare, hand-dyed Japanese denims, and even better buttons and iron-ons. Don’t miss the third floor.

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The best nearby day spas:

Nob Hill Spa — don’t miss the infinity pool! This is Dana’s favorite place in the world.

Burke Williams Spa – A great place for after-shopping relief.

Kamalaspa — Simply cross Union Square to the lap of luxury.

OneSelf Massage — Despite the skeezy name, you won’t get better reviews than Christina.

Earth & Sky Oasis — The name says it all, no?

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Best tranny hookers:

Rashelda — Corner of O’Farrell and Jones. Close to Bourbon and Branch — how convenient for you!

Cleotildy — Mid-way between Bush at Stockton. Often uses nearby tunnel. Bring own pillows.

Steve — Except for the chlamydia, she’s a gentle lover.

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Best non-tranny hookers:

Just kidding. I only know about the trannies. (And I’d like to say how thrilled I am to think my wife, mom, in-laws and many assorted relatives read this every day. Hi everyone!)

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Best cupcakeries:

Citizen Cupcake: You’re in luck. One of the country’s best pastry chefs has delicious cupcakes for sale on the third floor cafe of the Virgin Megastore (just a few blocks away). Cross Union Square, right on Stockton to Virgin store on your left at Market. 3 mins.

Kara’s Cupcakes: If you don’t get a filled Fleur de Sel cupcake, don’t even bother going. I don’t want to know you. Several locations in the city, but the easiest way to get one is to simply hop on a Hyde Street cable car and head all the way to Fisherman’s Wharf and find the cupcakery at Ghirardelli Square to your left.

Miette: If you find yourself at the Ferry Building, don’t miss the display-case wonderland of sugary treats. See notes on Ferry Building stroll above for directions.

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I know I’ve left a billion things out, but I wanted to make this easiest for people who don’t have cars and want to squeeze in a few things between conferences. Getting way out to Golden Gate Park, while definitely worth it, can take a long time on MUNI. (The 2 bus will take you from nearby Sutter way down to Clement Street, where you can explore or walk a few block south to the park.)

All that said … despite its reputation, MUNI is actually convenient for getting around the city and at $1.50 a ride (you also get a transfer pass good for an hour and a half), it’s a lot cheaper than the $5 cable cars (no transfers, limited routes). Just budget a lot of time for your trips. MUNI map is here. And individual routes here. And if you find yourself stuck somewhere, go to nextbus on your iPhones or whatnots and find out how long before your bus arrives.

If you’re looking for more activities or want more dining-drinking-shopping-prostitution options, please let me know in the comments and I will update the list with more local gems.