Please, no felafel for Superman!

Walking through San Francisco, maybe my favorite city I've even been to, munching on street vender felafel, definitely my favorite food in the world, and digging the business and music of a street festival on a beautiful day. And then... Much to my amazement I pass a lady, clown, face-painter torturing some poor kid with slam poetry. "You can call me, I am clown You can call me, I am magic You can call me, I am..." The faulty grammar alone was killing me. If I had jumped in right then and grabbed that kid away from her, and delivered him back to his confused and helpless parents, I'd have rightly been called a hero. But I had my hands full of felafel that I was not willing to sacrifice. Maybe things are so rough in the middle east because that's where the felafel is at?