The Astonishing Douchebaggery of Bobby Flay

Tivo, that bastard, is the reason I don't blog more.

I mean, it means I don't have to watch whatever is on -- so I never stare slack-jawed at the Food Network for hours at a time.

But today,Tivo reached out his little, brightly colored tentacles, caressed my cheek, and said, "Baby, you worry too much. Put the remote down. Sometimes, you've got to let someone else take over. Let me choose for you. Put your feet up, and let me take care of you."

I sagged with relief and we watched, together, hour after hour of various programs, all of which featured Bobby Flay.

Who is an astonishing douchebag.

Witness -- Throwdown With Bobby Flay.

So, basic premise is thus:

Each show starts with some unsuspecting small town proprietor of a local favorite hangout, which is regionally famous for (insert home cookin' example here).

They pick this person out -- say, the woman in Nashville, Tennessee, who is famous for her buttermilk biscuits with blackberry jam. They tell said lady she's going to be star of a Food Network special about singing in the kitchen. They hire some singers and tape all these segments while she excitedly films her special on Food Network.

In the meantime, Bobby Flay is developing his own version of said specialty -- in this case, biscuits and jam -- and calls in all these consultants and develops some massively ambitious, pretentious, alternative -- in this case, his biscuits had pepper. He didn't like the original fig and strawberry jam, so he created a lemon/orange BLUEBERRY marmalade.

Then BF interrupts the woman while she's demonstrating her stuff. She's all -- BOBBY FLAY!!!

And then BF says, ARE YOU READY FOR A THROWDOWN?

Then makes the woman compete in blind taste tests -- her stuff vs. his. Woman not only now finds out she doesn't have her own show, she finds out that Bobby Flay is swooping in to prove that SHE AIN'T THE BEST, Y'ALL!

In every case BOBBY FLAY WINS and then ACTS SHOCKED AND HUMBLED.

In the case of the woman who made the apple pie sunday that he beat, he said, "I was really impressed. I mean, her idea -- it was so obvious. But I didn't think of it."

Why does this douche have so many shows?

We've been friends since 1995 and I just now think of this???

me: annetastic
Anne: fucktastic
me: WHY have I not thought of that before?
ANNETASTIC
HAHAHAHA
I need sleep.
Anne: ha. love it.
it took you 13 years, friend!
that's annetastic!
me: I KNOW

The Entertainer in my House

The Russians are here.

Well, Misha is Russian. Jennifer is from Indianapolis. But she moved to St. Petersburg after college. In college we called her "Crazy Jen," but now she's "Russian Jen."

Here they are (the two on the left) at a concert:



Anyhoo -- old girl pops back in my life once a year, and we have a fabulous time together. Somehow, my old friend from college is now a national treasure in Russia. How strange.

She has two bands.

JD and the Blenders is her personal pet project. Some kind of Soul gig.



Seeing this video on youtube was a little like the episode of friends where Pheobe has a professional video made. I'm sorry that comparison is so lame. But I couldn't think of a better one. Anne and I were flabbergasted. Jen was horrified: "Look how they focused on my LIPS! WHY DID THEY DOO THAT?"

Us: why are you wearing a wig?
Her: Oh, they made me do that.

Apparently that crazy guy at the end is a very famous rock musician in Russia.



There are tons of these videos on Youtube. National televison appearances, amazing Russian hairstylings.

kinda sez it all, huh.

it ain't so bad when you're loved

Xtine sent these, and then told me to "say they're from a secret admirer"

Unfortch, since I'm totally not 14, I cannot say that with any semblance of believability.

She also said that she had ordered them before I got all weepy on her ass for no reason, but I find that hard to believe.

Either way, how nice it is to have such lovely people in your life.

Sunday Afternoon

Was rainy and cold.

Anne and I treated ourselves to pedicures and then shivered in line for coffee with other disheveled-looking psuedo-hipsters. We complained about the hardships of winter.

Then I happened to notice that we were both wearing flip flops.

I love being an asshole Californian.

I'm becoming obsessed with Michael Cera

I mean, I've known a lot of hilarious nineteen year olds in my day -- most of them tended toward the obnoxious. I love how Michael Cera consistently underplays and self deprecates. I would love to meet this kid in person.

I wanna be her Joey Ramone

Always been a fan of Dan Savage. But his podcast has truly taken my infatuation to a new level.

You can just hear the sweetness in that man's voice as he calls people "selfish fucks" or whatever sort of obscenities he's tossing about.

This week, though, the whole thing really topped itself when he featured a woman whose specific kink is as she puts it, "really good words." She owns multiple dictionaries, which she regards as her own little porn stash. She describes a romantic, kinky relationship she had wherein she would rifle through them to find words to describe the emotions of her beloved. She likes to talk dirty using her own multi-syllabic, obscure and esoteric erotic sentences.

I totally want to have sex with that chick.

LinkLove

Luc says, "Apple is back and she's better than ever." And lo, it's true.

Meanwhile, Spliffe gives me a nerdgasm with her clause-related grammar ranting.

Baywatch is neglectful, and McWhirter describes my favorite corporate Christmas gift in vivid technitasty color.

It's a lovely crop of words thriving in the rich loamy topsoil of the Internet.

Carry on.

PS

Co Birthday Conspirators, originally uploaded by emily gingersnap.

So cute, they are.

In The Case Of Man V. Nature

2007-2008 290, originally uploaded by emily gingersnap.

In my mind, no trip to Las Vegas is worth its salt if you don't sneak away and visit Hoover Dam. I've been there at least five times, at this point, which is kind of weird, because I'm super familiar with the layout and such. Don't usually get so intimately involved with national landmarks.

But this thing is amazing. It is a kind of almost-inconceivable feat of engineering and human spirit and brute force that defined an era and determined the future of the entire Southwest. Built in a time where there was still something to conquer in the United States, when people could and did suffer and die to conquer it.

It's comprised of enough concrete to build a four-foot wide sidewalk around the entire equator. Over 400 people died while making this bridge, along with at least one dog.

Lake Mead sits in the desert like an impossible mirage, this gorgeous mediterranean blue green between brown, rocky mountains. It shouldn't even be there, but for pure human will.

We marveled at it for a minute, quiet, awed.

Christine, a landscape architect, pragmatic idealist, and delightful person overall, breaks out a most lilting declaration:

"We win."

(Still can't find my effing photo cable. So Here's Em's photos.)

Oh

2007-2008 208
Originally uploaded by emily gingersnap

aren't we fun?

Overheard in Las Vegas

At the Star Trek Experience: Outside the "Deep Space Nine" section:

Geek one: Huh, Deep POOP Nine.
Geek two: Huh, totally.

on becoming someone else's fiction

So, my first real job out of college I worked at this tiny, four-person pr agency. It was run by a woman who really liked to yell.

And say things like, "a monkey could do your job."

And six people quit in the six months I worked there.

Four after one day.

One after one week.

But anyhow, I digress. Point being that my job was to open and sort through mail, among other things.

And one day this beautifully produced, thick, creamy post card landed on my desk. It had three bands of color across the front, a rose, a blue, a yellow. And in white, bold text, it said, "Become someone else's fiction."

And I kept it. And sort of pondered it a lot -- what does that mean? It seems dashingly romantic, that notion.

It was an ad, for a printing company. Random, don't know who. But it sort of morphed into this mysterious message from the universe to me. Something to ponder.

It has hung on every wall of every apartment I have lived in since I found it ten years ago.

Sometimes, it's all about creating a dashing, idealized world to populate, about abandoning to the impulses of my own imagination. Creating a more vivid world than the one I live in to inhabit for a minute or a day or an hour.

A place to linger where your choices are not your own, but are driven by the plot. There's something adventurous about the notion. Something reckless.

It hung everywhere except my apartment now, the place I have lived in a new city for almost a year. Where I've become someone else, somehow.

Where maybe I don't want to be someone else's fiction, the construct of someone else's fantasies, someone else's will.

I kind of like living my own reality. Or at least I recognize it as the place with the most rewarding possibilities.

Is that grown up?

Or am I just really, really stoned?

Earlier tonight Annevan and I actually watched this movie, or fifteen minutes of it -- it's sort of a tragic tale about a smart young woman trapped in a backwater small town somewhere in Humbolt County. Raised by ex hippies, she embraced a more rock-and-roll image. But what she really wants, above all else, is a shot at a show on the Food Network. So she does the only thing she knows how -- she makes a show that's all her own.

Shots of her cooking steaks, "the size of my ass cheek," are intersperced with images of she and her friends smoking up, shooting guns randomly off the back porch of their house. The fades between scenes always include fireworks and heavy metal riffs. Her cooking is awkwardly punctuated when she unconvincingly takes shots of jim beam straight from the bottle. She wipes her lips in slo mo.

We took pictures of the tv, to illustrate for you, dear reader, but I can't find the damn camera cable.

Yep, definitely stoned.

Vegas tomorrow, woot.

Hungover at work?

Wouldn't know ANYTHING ABOUT THAT. But if I did, I would tell you to watch Cute with Chris.

I love how angry he is.

Monthly Newsletter: Month Three Hundred and Sixty*

Dear Rachel:

Today you turn three-hundred-and-sixty months old, or, thirty.

Welcome to the Great Beyond, the post-twenties, the promised land of the gloriously self-assured. Now, you are officially Coming Into Yourself.

You are the prettiest girl I know.


You're also the person I've known the longest. And, if we can just make this about me for one moment, my relationship with you is probably the one that most defines me as a person. I am, at my core, the Big Sister. Just ask Susan. (Sus, you're the other prettiest girl I know.)

Remember when we were little? I kinda hated you then. You were so annoying. Our activities together included:

• You beating the crap out of me. Me restraining myself because I felt sure I could crush you on accident and I was kind of a frightened kid that way. Later, you joining up with Ryan and Ty Baxter in order to form a tiny gang of angry rebel four-year-olds who would jump up on me like the Lilliputians taking down Gulliver. One would punch my stomach, then, as I was hunched over in pain, the others would attack from all sides. Later, I would complain to our father, who just basically thought it was hilarious. He couldn't understand why I didn't just drop kick each of you. What can I say? I was a bookish kid.
  
• Car trips. The most classic of all American childhood experiences. Screaming at each other in the back seat.
  
• Fighting over the coveted middle seat, which had the adjustable seatbelt that didn't cut off circulation at the waist.
  
• Later, when dad brought home the first of many Suburbans (he was an early adopter, in 1984), we would create a nest in the way-back.
  
• Dad once got so sick of us fighting he literally dropped us off by the side of some country road and drove away. Clear out of sight. I remember thinking, "This is it." I immediately started looking for a farmhouse we could trek to, began planning how I would protect you. I couldn't have been more than eight. You five. He came back and got us, of course, but it was a harrowing two minutes.
  
• There's that one time we went to Michigan with mom and made her crazy by speaking in Pig Latin the entire time. That was kind of awesome. Until we locked your fingers in the door of the Camry. That sucked.
• Of course, there's also that time that Dad and I left you at the rest stop on the way to Ohio for Thanksgiving.
• And didn't notice you weren't sleeping in the way back until an hour later.
• And it was totally my fault.
• And it was before cell phones.
• And we laugh about that now; it's a classic tale, but I don't mind telling you, sometimes in the dark of the night, I'll wake up in a cold sweat, my heart in my stomach, imagining what could have been. My love for you is so very fierce, baby sister.
  
• 

• But dude, you were so cute. And now you're thirty fucking years old. And we're gonna celebrate in Vegas, with our cousin Emily, who is also thirty fucking years old this week. Che, here's the thing -- I've got a weakness for redheaded babies. She might have been cuter:
  

Okay, no. She' s not.

Here's some other quick highlights:

• You shaved your fucking head in high school. Twice. That is so goddamn badass.
• You've never been afraid. Ever. Ever.
  
• You're the fiercest girl I know. And the most compassionate. I admire you so much.
  
• Your class of fourth graders is the luckiest.
  

Can you tell how much I dig you baby sister?

Happy birthday, sweetie.
(note how I'm inexplicably giving the thumbs-up here.)

*yes, I am totally doing this to amuse myself. And Sarah. Sorry, Che.

Reuinion Tour Of The Decade

So, I came across this poster today while I was trekking to Walgreen's to refill my crazypill prescription:



INFORMATION SOCIETY -- ORIGINAL LINEUP!!

Remember them? They sang that riotous 1988 pop sensation What's On Your Mind (Pure Energy).

Until this moment I sort of regarded the band as a one-hit wonder -- however, according to Wikipedia, they are huge with the Latinos:

They are known for their loyal fan base in Brazil, Japan, Spain and Mexico.

Well, and the Japanese. And let's face it, they're just an easy target when it comes to pop culture.

Regardless, the band stands out in my mind, because my fourteen-year-old self always thought the spiky-haired, skinny mod lead singer looked like a dead ringer for my cousin Jonathan. (Jonathan, can I not find a picture of you on the Internets? Only your very distinguished-sounding bio. Shame on me for having none on my Flickr page. I will remedy that situation this weekend.)

So dreamy.

I look now and see no resemblance, honestly.

But now I totally have that song in my head.

Dear Luc

I stumbled upon this portrait of you on Flickr, and I just. . .

I never knew you to be so patriotic.

(luc, fyi)

January

My mother asked me, when I was back in Southern Indiana for the Holidays, in a tentative voice as if she didn't really want to know the answer:

Does living there help you with your depression?

Me: Do you mean the seasonal kind?
Her: Yes.
Me: Don't know yet, haven't been through the whole year.

It does get gloomy, cloudy, rainy, dismal, for weeks at a time.

You can still go outside and be comfortable, which helps, but it kinda sucks, too. The days are still shorter.



But then I have barely survived the Holidays, and San Francisco gives me a day like today, with a promise of more in store. The sun is different, still with that harsh, slanted quality of winter light. It casts severe, unyielding shadows and is somewhat relentless in its brilliance. It insists that you squint. But it does its job, warming my skin beneath my sweater, heating up my cheeks so they glow with a ruddy tinge of burn.

Today, for the first time in a very long time (read, a couple of months), the weather was the kind of gentle, misty warm that you want to bask in, fall asleep in.



On my walk, I took care to notice that everything is still blooming.

There is also a shift in the air, a different angle to the sun, that declares that springtime is here. This non-season seasonal change is drastically different from the relief of the thaw in Chicago, with the subsequent burst of life.



But it still a welcome change from late January in the frozen tundra of Chicago -- when you shake off the last dregs of the celebratory season and face a bleak expanse of months of brutal cold before Spring.

It is a relief, tinged with guilt. The guilt comes because of the deeply entrenched staunch belief of Midwesterners that the winter builds character. I'm afraid, somewhere under it all, that this glorious existence will ultimately make me soft.

God fucking forbid, make me a hippy.

Anyway, in the short term, yeah! It's definitely helping my depression.

What a stunning place this is.

Tiny Emo Daniel Day Lewis

As I mentioned in a previous post, there is this little man I see on the train practically every day who bears a striking resemblance to Daniel Day Lewis -- all dark, gaunt, with piercing blue eyes -- but tiny. And emo.

I've become sort of obsessed with him.

I told my friends about him. We call him Teddl.

Yesterday, when I went to grab some coffee with my friend Hoodia, we passed by Teddl on the street -- and I immediately grabbed her arm, began flailing about and saying, "OH OH OH OH" (sort of like I was having a mini seizure), and whispered in her ear, "THERE'S TINY DANIEL DAY LEWIS!"

It honest-to-god was like a celebrity sighting.

I promised I would attempt a photo. This morning, I caught this blurry image to text to friends:



Ladies and Gentleman, Tiny, Emo, Daniel Day Lewis

in the stars

me: what?

Luc: What what?

me: who?

Luc: exactly.

me: my horoscope

Luc: What about it.

me: SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): Astronomers say that the Sagittarius
Galaxy is being devoured by our own galaxy. It's getting stretched,
rearranged, and assimilated by our massive gravity. I'd like to offer up this
scenario as a metaphor for you to put into play in the coming week,
Sagittarius. Imagine all the fun and interesting ways that you yourself
could be "eaten." Maybe you could get absorbed into an exciting social
scene, or be integrated into an institution you love, or become part of a
movement you've admired from afar. And maybe you could simply do
what's necessary to get yourself kissed, licked, and sucked all over.

Luc: Is that the Onion?

me: no!
it's some newsletter that annevan subscribed me to
their horoscopes are usually way more sober
this one is particularly racy
what's your sign
I'll send you hors
yours
it won't be as fun as mine, I'm sure

Luc: Taurus

me: but then again
I'll be sleeping alone tonight
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): The longest waves on the planet unfurl in the
place where the Atlantic Ocean flows into the mouth of the Amazon River.
The phenomenon is called the "pororoca" (from a word meaning
"tumultuous noise"), and has become a favorite challenge for surfers. In
2003, a Brazilian daredevil named Picuruta Salazar rode a single wave for
37 minutes, gliding and plowing for almost eight miles. Judging from your
current astrological omens, Taurus, I'd say that's an apt metaphor for the
kind of wave you now have the chance to jump on. If you choose to give
it a whirl, don't plan for a short sweet burst of adrenaline. Be ready for a
long, rollicking balancing act.

Luc: wtf?

me: I kind of like yours

Luc: It's EXTREME!

me: I know
LOL
X-treme!
I would trade you, if it wasn't for the part about getting licked and sucked

Luc: Now, when people ask me how my days going I'm just gonna go, "YEAH!" and jump through the nearest window.

me: first tho
flash the "hang loose" sign

Luc: Hang ten!

me: exact!
XTREME!

When I Was In High School

I was in the car with Kara, on our way to see some local band at Stevenston Station. Stevenston Station was a big wooden barn-like structure at the intersection of two corn fields where garage bands played in Evansville, Indiana.

Anyhow, she says to me: I wish I had a sign on the outside of my car that broadcasted what music I was listening to.

At which I immediately outwardly scoffed while I inwardly agreed.

Cuz, at 17, I was too cool to admit I want people to think I was cool.

(I'm over that, now, obvs. See: Timberlake, Justin -- my love for.)

So, right.

I give you, Pimpstar.

The best way to tap that hot highway ass.

Monsoon Season

Later, when I'm not cold and wet and busy, I'll write my treatise on how the bay area FREAKS OUT about the rain.

Like, CAN'T GET TO WORK IT'S RAINING and OMG IT'S GOING TO RAIN and JESUS RAIN RAIN WHAT DO WE DO.

But for now I'll just say -- this new cell phone does take a nice snap, eh?

And

There is a guy on my train -- always in the morning -- who looks like a young emo Daniel Day Lewis. I'm determined to get a covert portrait so you can see for yourself.

Resolutions and stuff.

1. Listen to smart people.

Read this quote: “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving” -- Albert Einstein

Remembered to look forward, keep planning, plotting, scheming and cultivating the good stuff.

2. Write stuff down.

Where does all that stuff in my head go if I don't? I go back and read old journals and am amused at the gems that would be completely lost if I didn't write 'em down.

3. Take care.

I'm no longer in the throes of eternal youth. Gotta maintain or I'll die, and that would so suck.

I don't Even Know You But I Hate You*

TB gives a lotta linklove to this lady here, of whom I have become an anonymous Internet fan.

Hey there, Spliffe, think I'm creepy? (I kinda am, sorry about that.)

Anyhow, I thought of you this morning as I broke out the iPod for the morning commute and decided that I must fire up the most cheerful music possible to get me through the day -- and landed upon that most airy confection, the delicious, cream-filled, sugar-topped beats of one mister JT (whatcha got for me).

And I respect it when you (and those of my peers you're currently representing in my mind, as an unelected official -- I appointed you. Congrats on that.) say:

And Justin Fucking Timberlake is a joke music producers are playing on the listening public. 'I know, let's buy some crap boyband dancer with a smurf voice and park him in front of some good beats. People will think he's not total shit and buy all his albums. It'll be hilarious!' And it is.

I respect what you're saying.

But I love pop.

And JT -- he is the king of my pop addition.

And, as a girl who clawed her way out of the fields of Southern Indiana propelled by the sounds of everything from the Beatles to Jane's Addiction, I understand the need to cling tenaciously to the integrity of quality rock and roll. I get the need to cleave the masses into designations (worthy/not worthy) based upon the music they listen to.

And if it means I'm not worthy, then so be it.

I will not cower in the shadows; I will not be intimidated; I will not fear your scorn.

I will stand proudly and say "I love Justin Timberlake, Goddamnit."

Happy fucking New Year, people.

*I don't hate you. This just popped into my head, because it was one of the most prominent phrases woven throughout my early-to-mid twenties. It's from an Eve song that Johnny and I heard one time. Literally. One time. When he had a beat-up old white Taurus that he used to deliver Dagwood's sandwiches to stoned frat boys throughout Bloomington. When he would come visit me in my Chicago studio apartment, unannounced, and take me on weird adventures, many captured on his super 8 (JT - think we could digitize that shit? Would love to revisit, eh?). Anyhoo, it was the same day we heard Jumpin' Jumpin' for the first time as it blasted flatly from the boom box sitting between us on the bench seat (don't know what happened to the stereo in the dash).

(I'm rambling like an old man now, ain't I?)

The next song we heard was this stunning missive.

We were hungover, the day was one of those sapphire bright sunny winter post-snow reflective sparkling freezing gems that exist only in Chicago.

And she just jumps right in over the sweet twang of a guitar with "I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU BUT I HATE YOU. HOW YOU LIKE IT IF MY GIRL TIED YOU DOWN AND RAPED YOU."

We were stunned with delight. An anthem was born.

Over the years, it morphed in our minds as a screaming punk masterpiece -- we sang it, our friends sang it, we pretended the neighbor's dogs were saying it to us as we walked past, and we didn't hear the song until years later, when the Internet brought us the miracle of FREE STOLEN DIGITAL GOODS.

Johnny and I, drunk one night identified and downloaded it -- and were treated to the greatest disappointment since Santa.

Eve was totally singing it wrong.

What the hell was this? The song had melody? It was slow tempo R & B?

Eve, I don't even know you but I hate you.

Safe enlargement of trouser mice

Thanks, Spam! You've now introduced me to my absolute favorite new term, "trouser mice!"

Sketch of yesterday

Billions of people on the Earth, millions in the cities I occupy, crammed into trains for our morning and evening commute, skilled at averting our eyes and plugging our ears with music to create our own sense of personal space --

how could I forget? There are still wide open swaths of prairie land in Southern Indiana. Dad and Sally have staked their own claim outside of Booneville, they dug a lake. They take us out on a brisk, impossibly sunny day to show it off -- Dad in his new black and chrome monster-ish pick up truck.

Sample dialog:
Rachel: Dad, what happened to the red pick up?
Dad: It turned into this one.
Me: Look, Rachel!! It's a Duelly!
Dad: I need it to pull the horse trailers.

Dad has a big brass antique cowbell strapped to the hitch on the back.

Me: Why does dad have a cowbell on his truck?
Sally: Oh, he had to! The other one got stolen!
Me:. . .
Me: But why?
Sally: Oh, he thinks it's cool.

We drive and drive, Sally and I in her SUV behind Dad and Rachel in his monster truck (each with a border collie in the back-seat) until we're driving down long black asphalt roads bisecting fields of bright green winter wheat and brown, brittle truncated stalks of dead corn. Eventually, Sally turns onto a barely-maintained gravel road -- the kind with wheel tracks and grass growing between them. She noses her SUV between two trees into a field of grass surrounded by brush. It has been raining for days and there are flashes of standing water between blades of grass.

Rachel and I are not in the right footgear for this terrain.

We sit in the car while Dad and Sally disappear into the brush to check on the drain for their newly-dug pond.

They vaguely point at areas of their acreage where they will eventually build a barn, a house.

Other people's parents dream of condos in Florida. My dad is plotting his mobile chicken coop, talking about goats.

He has recently read the Omnivore's Dilemma. He climbs back in his massive gas guzzler and lectures us on corn consumption. We head over to the farm where Dad and Sally keep their horses, for now.

It's a series of massive grass fields dotted with piles of fertilizer, bales of hay, and low fences. The horses roam the fields at all times, they graze the grass and roll around in the mud. We drive until we see them in the distance.

Sally pulls out a bucket of feed and starts shaking it, to tempt them over to us. They summarily ignore us. From where we are parked, we can see nothing around us but fields, trees, and the horses. The wind is whipping across the plain and we huddle together while Sally yells for them.

Altogether, they have five horses, but this little group is three -- they eventually notice the presence of treats and amble over to us.

They have massive, muddy hooves and thick, shiny coats. Sally points them out, giving us their names and short descriptions of their personalities:

Buddy - Their first horse, and the sweetest.
Thunder - He kicks sometimes. He's just a colt, really, only two.
Fred - The oldest one. The biggest. He's just an old fart.

They came up close and it occurs to me again how removed from nature my life is -- these animals are massive. I put a hand on Buddy's flank -- he's so warm. They have long necks ropy with muscles and huge, languid eyes. Thunder approaches us and releases a huge snort and whinny. His eyes are red-rimmed and aggressive. Rachel puts out a hand and he sniffs it. The wind turns our ears red and makes our eyes water. The horses turn from us and resume eating from their piles of feed. There is no one else around us. The dogs, trapped in the trucks, whine to get out and herd something.

It's time for us to go. On our way out of the fields dad points out some birds -- wild turkeys. Huge, unusually sleek fowl with long necks that run shockingly fast.

There are twenty of them in all.

We cuddle with the dogs in the back seat and watch the landscape change as Dad navigates us through the backroads back in to town. The houses get closer together. Strip malls with garish neon break up the subdivisions. He deposits us at our aunt's house and kisses us goodbye, for now.

We climb out into yet another realm -- the suburban reality of our Mom's family.

I forgot my camera. So I paint this picture, instead.

Are You Feelin' Cool?

Download Firefox 3 Beta 2 I am SO ADDICTED to the Awesome Bar, people!

Happy Birthday To Me (and the Annizon)

There was an onslaught of birthday wishes, and I was a little moved. And happy.

And Maria put together this fabulous postcard for everyone to hear on NPR.

And cried a lot late in the evening. And Anne said

this is what I do on my birthday too.

And I said, you're my best friend, my most sublimely well-tuned
companion. Why on earth can't we be in love with each other?

She said, Yeah, that's just how it is.

We nodded sagely to each other and I hugged her fiercely when she left.

When we parted from our embrace, she smiled hugely and said, "I'm so
fucking tall. It's awesome."

It's true. She's over six feet. My head fits perfectly in the crook of her neck.

What I learned in therapy

can be very well summed up in a quote at the end of TB's rambling post (it's full of crap that surely only four or five people, of which I am not one, will understand, you can skip that stuff):

So, note to self, take a dash of icewater with your salt and pepper. and remember that not everyone is or needs to be on the same page with you.

Deeeeep breath. We don't have to agree. It's cool! We don't even have to pretend to agree! AH, GREAT RELIEF! I can let those things go and concentrate on more important matters.

Like getting to work, now. Bye.

hasn't anyone else noticed

how weird those new commercials are?

time and temp

All this week in Chicago it's going to be hovering about in the mid-forties, early fifties.

All this week in San Francisco is sunny, bright, hovering in the mid-seventies.

I forgot today that it's actually November.

Then, when I remembered, I realized that I am not walking around with the heavy-hearted dread that accompanies the crisp fall days in Chicago. I'm not steeling myself for negative windchills, frozen ground, feet soaked in dirty, icy water from three-day-old snow drifts. No mornings scraping frost from the windows of the car, or, worse - standing on a frigid train platform, huddling in the futility of a down coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. No cursing at the frozen air and asking myself why the FUCK do I live here?

Instead, a month or two of foggy, wet, 50-degree days surrounded by plants that never stop flowering.

No long months of early spring sure that winter will never, ever end.

The freedom from worry is exhilarating. I hardly know how to accept it.

After ten years of frigid winter hell, I'm free.

Fuck. Yeah.

the seventh cell

I got a new cell phone today.

It flips in different directions so I can be super sleuthy with the texting.

It's the seventh cell phone I've carried (not including the several blackberries and subsequent despided Q I use for email purposes).

Seven -- crazy. Where am I, anyway?

"you can't take a picture of this, it's already gone"

First, it was the friends getting married.

Then, the friends having babies.

Then, the friends getting divorced.

And honestly, for me, the second and the third happened at about the same time. Almost at the same rate. (Eventually, I hope the babies will prevail over the divorces. For now though, they're almost neck and neck.)

Then, it starts getting weirder.

There's the unexpected milestones. The ones you have no idea are coming, that you really couldn't have been expected to anticipate during your endless, immortal, infallable late teens/twenties/late twenties).

Your friends all stop smoking.

You start avoiding certain bars because everyone is way too young.

The hipsters in your neighborhood are suddenly emulating a completely different look than when you were a young hip kid. Instead of every dude at the Empty Bottle looking exactly like Beck, the dudes at the Sidewalk Cafe are all sporting the dyed black hair and pseudo goth style of the more recent Bright Eyes phase. I'm thinking there's probably some new hipster/music idol/look combo but, frankly, I don't live in the edgy 'hood anymore.

You end up in some kind of senior-ish position at work. You make a ton more money. So do your peers.

Everyone buys homes.

Your friends buy second homes.

Even though you don't have kids (if you're me, anyway), you start identifying with the parents more than the kids.

Most recently, I reflect upon my post-college early twenties as the distant past. The 22 year old girl from a decade ago seems as sweet and innocent as the twelve-year-old sixth grader. I've had a whole other lifetime of growing up.

I don't feel old as much as I feel richer, smarter, calmer, more confident. I am so grateful for the things I've learned.

And no way in hell would I want to go through it again.

I am still shocked and dismayed as I watch American Beauty again, for the first time, since it was in the cinema. And I identify with the middle-aged parents more than the teen-aged kids.

Dana Quote o' the day

While planning a south-bound day trip and being snippy: Long Pause. "Remember when I got Big Surly?"

Banks's Blathering Brings Bullshit From Becca

So, I know TB is trying to make some sort of point here about the nature of god and the ways in which we internalize religion in our youth. . . you know, the way we form our spiritual cores and shit, when he writes:

not that anyone asked but i was baptised lutheran but we rarely attended services after grade the second. i first remember thinking of god as someone who was watching me all the time. all the time. all the time. watching. watching all the time. this later morphed into the idea of me being able to sit down and watch my life as a movie with god once i had died. i was really into this scenario from about 1975 to 1981 or 2. sure, it would take a lifetime, i thought, but, hey we'd have eternity. we'd watch my life repeatedly.

But what this really speaks to me about is the way we create narrative from our own experiences.

I have this theory that those of us who are drawn to write things down on pages spend a lot of time framing our own lives inside our heads. Sometimes, this takes the form of an internal novelization. A lot of my brain is taken up with the pasttime of picking out phrasing for everyday experience.

I'm not just drinking coffee, I'm taken with the creamy texture of my latte, and suspecting that the barista may have used full fat milk instead of the skim I requested.

As a child, I spent a lot of time framing the shots in the movie of my life. Picking out songs to include in the soundtrack.*

This had less to do with god, and more to do with my conviction that, of course, someone would some day be compelled to actually make a film of my life. A biopic of my fascinating youth in southern Indiana.

I wrote in my diaries and I was pretty sure that someday, people would pore over them, searching for my gems of wisdom and marveling at my clarity of thought and marvelous insights -- in awe of what perfect, rosebud-tight gifts each page of the diary of my fourteen-year-old self held.

Actually, that's still probably going to happen. I know audiences will be positively riveted by my adventures at Eastland Mall on Green River Road. What is the significance of the purchase of Best Friends half-heart necklaces with Donna Gunnels? What symbolism is held in the intense struggle over curfew times (10 PM? Really, Mother? REALLY??) and chores? Those, my friends, are the stuff of life.

The difference here is that TB was raised with GOD, and I was raised with TV, so instead of a divine interest I had the world watching.

I've always been shallow that way.

Isn't this fascinating, Internet??

*Note to the future director of my Very Important BioPic -- Every Rose Has Its Thorn should probably play over the end credits.

Drunks.

Okay, so, if you're going to drunk chat, totally do it with Luc.


Luc: hey boobies
me: hi, penis
how are you
i am reading blogs
me: you think someone could love me, right?
like, someone
somewher
out there
Luc: Of course
me: IE: I'm lovable
Luc: Quality #1 - "You can call me boobies."
me: that's true. Huge. Literally
Luc: What else is happenin'?
me: I'm in nyc
just got drunk
hence the gutwrenching q's
otherwise it would be all
are my boobs really the biggest?
which I already know
they are
I met a scotsman
who taught me to say
realistically
last focking drank

RILO

OMG. . . the madness is up on Youtube, y'all.

Real Ass Bitch In A Fake Ass World

James Cameron Mitchell plus some pack a day black NOLA smoker with a little dash of crazy equals Chris Crocker

What I did with my evening

Johnny and I just realized we can video chat. This involves:

Sending each other youtube videos and watching each other react.

Playing Sleater Kinney songs

Pretending to bum smokes off each other (super hilarious)

Of course, ending it all with a singalong (everything that keeps us together is fallin' apart. . . ) tribute to 2002.

Picture from the era (note to self -- kickass highlights)

I visit these mountains with frequency

So, night before last, I had this crazy, vivid dream.

I'll spare you the dreamy, confusing details (vegas, dive bar/hot tub, bathing suit bedraggled, run into some annoying people from college, blah to the blah). Bottom line is that I suddenly, out of nowhere, had this weirdly emotional dream wherein I found out that my (significant) ex boyfriend was engaged.

The truth is, he probably is. And, if so, I'm really happy for him. I didn't marry him.

But it was one of those dreams that stays with you all day and has you wondering, "What made that happen?"

Then, in what seemed like an unrelated event, I saw Rilo Kiley last night in a sold out show at the Warfield.

Which was incredible, and I guess Susan and I hadn't really realized how popular RK has become -- because we were kind of taken aback at the pure volume of raging fans surrounding us. Susan turned to me and said, "Last time we saw them, it was during the elections. In 2004."

At a pub.

And then they played this song and it was like a massive anthem. This is as close as I could find on YouTube, but it doesn't capture the volume. Imagine this times 100:



And the crowd played and I might have been a little stoned, and this was the song -- the song that really encapsulates for me that whole relationship, and it was clear why Craig was suddenly so present in my head.

D'uh.

In other news, Rilo Kiley is suddenly at rock god status! Who the fuck knew?

We're so very proud of them.

Daily Winehouse, etc.

Okay, first off, STILL loving the Winehouse -- latest is that the singer and the chav are on vacay. Unlike the little jaunt to fantasy rehab island, however, this trip doesn't require them to be clean.

Which, apparently, isn't going over so well with the chav's parents, who went on BBC to encourage people to boycott AW's albums in order to choke off their supply of drugs.

This approach seems a little ass backwards to me -- kinda like, I don't know, Leo DiCaprio buying carbon offsets to keep his private jet from contributing to global warming. Fucking stupid and all for show.

Anyhow. I did catch Sid and Nancy this weekend on cable. I know everyone is saying that AW and the Chav are parallel to Sid and Nance, but I gotta say that Winehouse would NOT be caught dead in the Chealsea Hotel.

That place is such a dive.

Though I have Never Listened To Her Music

I think I'm becoming obsessed with Amy Winehouse.

She looks like a suicide girl, which is a plus, and she's got a freaky-lookin' hubby, which is fascinating, and then there's the ANTICS, people!

Excellent stuff today:

Amy told Perez: "Blake is the best man in the world. We would never ever harm each other... I was cutting myself after he found me in our room about to do drugs with a call girl and rightly said I wasn't good enough for him. I lost it and he saved my life."

So, right -- one graph, and we've got self mutilation, prostitution, and drugs. In a TEXT MESSAGE. To PEREZ HILTON.

Meanwhile, she's walking all around clutching photos of her wedding.

I know all this is super sad, but it's just so very fascinating.

WAH! I wanna go to rehab.

So, I guess Amy Winehouse is now checked into some kinda fabulous island retreat/rehab center.

I mean, I guess she did have to get all strung out on heroin or, like, meth, or whatever it is that she and her chav hubby get all up in their veins on the weekends (and weekdays, I suppose).

(Do you even have weekends when you're a rock star junkie?)

But seriously, now she gets to go and escape it all at her sweet island retreat, where her days are filled with navel-gazing therapeutic pursuits, someone else cooking health foods for her, and a chance to concentrate on her ART.

That sounds totes divine.

UPDATE: Guess that this idyllic rehab thing = not working out for AW.

Sources said Mitch threatened to “crucify” Blake after he confessed that Amy had collapsed from “speedballing” — inhaling or injecting a mix of crack cocaine and heroin at the same time.

The source added: “This should be about Amy getting help — but too often it’s all about Blake.

“He upset people in The Causeway with his behaviour. It was the same when she was in hospital. He really upset the staff and wasn’t very welcome there either.

Wow.

Isn't so cute how they spell "Behaviour?"

So Glad I'm Not An Only Child*

I called my sister last night.

Me: God, I've been so down, for, like, three days, and then on Monday I just started crying at my desk, and I was thinking, 'What the HELL is wrong with me??'
Che: And then you remembered it was August?
Me: YES!!
Che: Yeah.

Stupid August. I seriously fucking hate you, bitch-ass month.

*Sorry, Susan and Christine and Jonathan and all you other fabulous only children who I love, I'm sure you also have many reasons that it is awesome to be solo, I'm just sayin'. . .

Quick Link

Later on, I'm gonna post all about my deep hatred for the month of August. In the meantime, I'm gonna send you here:

Five things you might do with “all that ass”
June 21st, 2007

1. open a modest home ass business
2. serve hot meals of ass to the less fortunate
3. hold a weekend “Ass Sale” on your lawn
4. make colorful ass gift bags for the holidays
5. give sympathetic testimony for recovering hump drunks

Poor Jane Adams

It's modern day film semiotics.

Any time you see this woman:



You know it's gonna be a sad, creepy fucking movie.

She's like some kind of warning sign before you hit the roller coaster: Pregnant women or people with heart conditions should avoid this ride," because there's inevitably some kind of pedophile undertone.

She totally needs a new agent.

She Gives Sassy Heathens Everywhere A Good Name

Dear Ellen:

I AM SO EXCITED YOU AND YOUR GIRLS ARE COMING TO VISIT TOMORROW!

That's all.
RJ

Sorry, Man.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Rebecca
Date: Jul 31, 2007 8:42 AM
Subject: Re: Rebecca, We Want You Back!
To: ConsumerReports_Online@email.consumerreports.org

Hey CR:

I totally can't believe you won't give up on this relationship.

I told you when I broke up that we'd never get back together again, and I meant it. I can't stand that habit you have of slurping after every single sentence, like speaking makes you salivate or something. Yeah, I thought it was endearing at first, but now it just gives me the shakes, it is just so gross and completely unnecessary

Yeah, we had something there. I won't deny that. Sometimes (and I really shouldn't be encouraging you this way, but still), I miss the hilarious, sardonic comments you made under your breath at family gatherings. Even now, when Aunt Calliope brings her salmon ball on Christmas Eve, I think of you and smile.

But that's not enough to sustain a relationship, CR. I think it's time you moved on.

Sincerely,
Rebecca


On 7/31/07, Consumer Reports wrote:

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PHYSICAL Therapy. . .

This is how I understand it: So, your jaw is composed of two temporomandibular (TMJ) joints, which are the only synovial joints in the human body with an articular disk. Plus? They're the only ones that have to constantly work in harmony with each other. Pretty much any other joint in your body has a certain level of independence.

Not the jaw.

It's totally the conjoined twin of the joint world.

Anyway, true to my character, my TMJ joints seriously just don't get along. The right one is always beating up on the left one, who takes it out on me by popping and being in pain and sometimes the whole mess just locks up altogether.

Totally not fun.

So, I enrolled them in couples therapy.

Okay, actually, what I'm doing is going to a chiropracter twice a week. He basically gives me painful neck and jaw massages, then he takes my head in his hands, tells me to take a deep breath, and then violently twists the hell out of my neck until it pops in a hundred places.

This kind of feels good, to tell the truth.

The first time he did it, he said something like, "I'm going to do an adjustment, now. Don't worry, the chances of paralyzing you are smaller than getting hit by lightning."

How very consoling, thanks.

Overally, I like the guy -- but lately, as we are getting further along in our therapeutic relationship together, he has been revealing little bits and pieces about himself that are . . . interesting. . .

Like, he and his wife have five cats.

Which, not that big of a deal, right? I have a cat, myself!

But then, today, we were chatting about family, damn if I didn't find a big old chunk of beef in the stew that is his life.

Him: Cross your arms in front of your chest and take a breath. (At this point he kind of hugs me and leans on me while he digs his fist in my back until it cracks a few dozen times) Yeah *oof*, I wrote a letter to my mom and told her I needed space.
Me: Why's that?
Him: She's British. Now lie back on the table.
Me: Oh.
Him: In my letter I said she was free to write to me, but she could not call or visit. Now try to relax.
Me: Oh. (CRACK CRACK CRACK)
Him: I know some people think that's harsh. Deep breath. But (he takes one palm against my temple and the other against my jaw on the opposite side of my face) I told her --
Me: AHHH (searing pain)
Him: THEY DON'T MAKE PAMPERS IN ADULT SIZES!

Then he smiled sweetly and gave me some exercises to do to improve my posture.

MythBusters

Yesterday was a stunning, gorgeous day in San Francisco -- all warm and sunny and non-foggy-like -- so I packed up my book and my iPod and headed up to Alamo Square to revel in the fact that I live in the most freaking gorgeous city evar.

While I was lying in the grass squinting at the view, I saw many tourists. Among them were two young couples, probably in their early twenties, who paused near my perch to take in the view. They were silent for a moment, just enjoying the vast beauty of a perfect clear day, a pastel landscape of victorian homes, giving way to skyscrapers, giving way to sparkling blue water of the bay.

Then, one girl said, "I wonder if Stephanie Tanner is home?"

This made me immediately snort, which then made the whole gaggle of them laugh hysterically before moving on.

See, Alamo Square is often known as the full house park, which I always thought it was too, so today I grabbed a video of the intro to embed, and I SEE NO ALAMO SQUARE, PEOPLE.

Do you?

PRO

So, after work today, I had to rush off to the dentist, because the temporary cap he had installed (PAINFULLY) onto my back tooth popped on off during my afternoon snack.

Two hours later, I left that chair with a new cap and a big fat bottle of horse-pill sized motrin. I thought, "I'm going to the Apple store."

Damn if I didn't run into Anne there. So odd. Here we are, flirting with Roberto, the handsome salesman from Brazil. (Roberto is not in this photograph.)



Y'all, I bought a macbook. I don't know why. Wait -- it had to do with a combo of nitrous, the need for retail therapy, and lust. For Roberto. I mean, for the macbook.

My old macbook is so old and creaky. The new one is so so shiny!

There is a two week return policy. It's sitting now in my foyer, looking sweet and scary.

Oops

Snafu with the permissions. All is fixed now, people, so stop emailing me.

HorrorScope

Dear Vanity Fair:

Harsh. You're SO not my boyfriend anymore.

- RJ

You may still be wearing that friendly Sadge smile, but with your planetary ruler in your solar 1st house, you're standing on your own now, apart from everyone else. Chiron in retrograde isn't exactly encouraging you to share all your feelings, either. Besides, suppose you did decide to explain to everyone how the events of the past 10 years have turned you into an outsider. Would that do anything to change the situation? If not, then why bother? What's strange is that you're beyond being lonely. You're actually happier this way.

Mr. Pickles

My gorgeous friend Leilani and I have long talked wistfully of owning a shop called "Mr. Pickles" wherein everything would be pickle themed.

So, When I saw this. . . well.

Me: I've got to take a picture of this pickle!
Annevan: That's not just a pickle! That's a Mexican pickle! With Coffee!
Me: I'm not sure it gets better than this.

Anne and I Had A Dinner Party!

I dressed like a fifties housewife.

Anne wore her new shoes.

There were tiaras and pesto.

Also, lots and lots of wine.

Before:



After:

High Culture

The thing about really good theater -- it's transcendent. It somehow allows you an insight into humanity.

Truly great theater gives you a glimpse of something in yourself that perhaps you didn't know was there.










Last night I went to this very important theater event.


I saw something in myself.


It was my inner 60-something southern slut dressed in mauve. Turns out, my inner Blanche is a drag queen.

I guess, somewhere inside, I knew this already, huh?

Rich People Are Super Funny

So, there's this restaurant across the bay from the city, where you sit on a gigantic patio over the water, and all these people with yachts dock their boats. The hills around are studded by enormous, incredible homes with vast expanses of plate glass reflecting the bay back on itself.

And the tables are filled with all kinds of people -- families, tourists, gawkers, gliterati -- many, many of whom are very, very drunk.

The best part, though, are the boats docked on the water -- groups of drunk, barely-dressed teens on daddy's boat, overtanned women barely standing, dogs in life jackets --

and this:



Yah! Poverty TOTALLY SUCKS, Y'ALL!! Where is that goddamn waiter with the pina colada?

My personal quote of the day

In saying goodbye to my dad, "Have fun roping cattle!"

It's one of those things you say in pure sincerity, and then you think, "That was kind of weird."

The man does rope cattle, though. That's what he and my step mom do for fun. Photographic evidence, here -- the fifth and sixth picture down.

Cowboy school. Weirdos.

It's funnier if you read it in the voice of Judy Tenutia*

I was having this fit of nostalgia for my olden days, so I popped in the second (after Run Lola Run) DVD I ever bought, Fight Club.

It's still sharp and dark, a little less cutting-edge than it used to be, but the part that really shakes my suspension of disbelief comes in the film so goddamn early -- before the dildo in the luggage even comes up.

It's the part where he goes to the doctor? And the doctor scoffs and declares, "You need healthy, natural sleep. Chew some Valerian root," that really just makes it impossible for me to buy. I mean, the whole film is kind of predicated on the idea that he cannot get sleeping pills, despite his debilitating, making him have single-frame-flashes-of Tyler-Dur den-over-the-copy-machine insomnia.

In the last three weeks, I've seen a doctor and a dentist (and an eye doctor -- new insurance, y'all). The doctor listened to me bitch about a back pain (albeit EFFING AWFUL) and prescribed me vicodin and muscle relaxers. The dentist saw my eyes streaming with tears and gave me painkillers and MORE muscle relaxers, to help me stop grinding my jaw when I sleep.

I have four bottles of hardcore drugs in my medicine cabinet, and this guy can't get an ambien?

Lame.

PS: Sarah and I saw this move (second run) at Davis Theater at some point in the 1990s. I told her, "I just want Edward Norton to come down off that screen and date me."

She still thinks that's funny.

*this is how I am currently entertaining myself. By imagining everyday crap in the voice of JT. Maybe punctuated by her strumming that ukulele or whatever stringed instrument it was she used as a foil.

Complicated Proposal

Last night, while out imbibing with a few friends, we were joined at the bar table by a very drunk man wearing sunglasses, who announced that it was his birthday.

Him: FAIIIVE - FOUR! FAIIIVE - FOUR! IT's MAH BIRRRRTHDAY!
Us: Um, happy birthday. That seat's taken.
Him: MY BIRTHDAY!
Us: Please leave us alone.
Him: (Getting up to leave) YOU BETTER GO TO BED! GO TO SLEEP! AH'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP IN YOUR DREAMS LIKE FREDDY KRUEGER!

In my opinion, that's way better than your run-of-the-mill threat. That's a threat that takes some supernatural logistics management.

Be Jealous.

Y'all! I almost forgot! I live a short bus ride from the ocean!

Anne and I played in the ruins of the bathouse and went playing in the waves at ocean beach. There was sand and salt and sun. Total living on vacation day.

Flowers, stat.

Skipped the farmer's market the last couple of weeks. . . needed a serious flower infusion.

Enter, the poppies. Bursting out of their crazy furry pods within an hour of me putting them in a vase. Unfurling and shedding big furry casings on the table. Brilliantly-hued and tissue paper fragile.

Phew, man. I was suffering a serious gorgeousness defeciency, lately.

Okay, right, also

Sarah yesterday was all, "you should take pictures of what you can see from your window!" And I was all, "whatever."

But then, today, I'm looking out my window and -- well, backstory.

So, there is this big green space across the street from me. I understand it used to be a highway onramp, or something, that was subsequently destroyed in the last big earthquake. Anyway, it's this green space the city owns and has been debating for ages about how to develop. It's a weird wild spot in the middle of a pretty dense urban environment. It's completely untended, there are fences and locks all around it. Generally, it's empty, but today I looked out and saw that some crazy homeless guy had broken into the space and was, like, living in the wilderness over there. Rocking a lot and looking around himself in a mentally-ill sort of way. Creepy!

So, I took a picture of that. You really can't see him, which is disappointing, but, still:

Dude, I must be high.

So, thanks to Casey, now everyone keeps saying that I'm living on vacation.

Which, kind of, I am -- but it's more like a super intense business trip. Lots of work, lately, so much less time to write about adventures. Or, kind of? To have them. Anyway, so, right -- here's my random photos from my Sunday evening walk.





Today, I walked through the Castro, back through Noe Valley and the Haight.

It's a foggy evening, which is welcome enough after a solid two weeks of dazzling sunshine, crisp, clean, blue-skied days. The type of day where the air is cool, there is a vast temperature difference between sunny spots and shady spots. The type of day where the light pops every little detail into focus, highlights the texture of the walls, creates perfect, sharp, clean lines along the rooftops. Those days are especially dazzling in a place where all the architecture is washed with bright colors, pastels, whites -- the streets become traps for the light, it bursts from every surface except where there are sudden sharp shadows, expanses of dark sidewalk you squint into, stepping back into coolness.

Not, though, this evening -- when the fog rolls over the hills and through the streets, dense billows made up of millions of fine droplets of water, blown by the breeze from the ocean, trapped in the trees and pouring from alleyways, long hills plunge into clouds beneath you, towering peaks above you create whirling vortexes.

It feels like a cool mist on your skin, it creates a sense of sweet melancholy, a sense you can enjoy because you recognize it as just a moment.

It smells like water, and salt, and pungent, sappy green, like sharp eucalyptus, like pot smoke, like grilled meats. It smells like rotting vegetables, some sweet floral smell that evokes my grandmother's Maryland garden. It looks like. . .

well, I guess it looks like this --

Native?

This morning I went outside and thought, "It is so damn cold."

It was 55 degrees.

It's only been a few weeks.

Um. . . what?

I'm still recovering a little too hard from my night at the most amazing Karaoke bar in the Castro. . . words seem hard. Therefore, I give you Pictures. No, they are not drunken Karaoke pictures, fuck, I didn't get those. They're OMG IT IS BEAUTIFUL OUT pictures.

And this, this must be Daddy:

The Inevitable

All throughout the whole moving process I've been quite purposeful and organized, also resolved and at peace with my decision. This has been good -- I had a couple of moments -- one in which I called my friend Susan and just sort of sobbed on the phone in a hysterical, stressed out way and then immediately felt better (while she, I suspect, felt worse. Sorry, friend)-- but mostly kept my cool. Surprisingly.

There has also been the need to put on the good face -- for all the people in my life who are not super happy with this decision. I mean, they'd all say (sincerely, might I add), they're happy for ME, but in a purely selfish way, yeah, it sucks. A friend is leaving. It sucks for me, too, but if I admit that, then I get sad, and if I do that for one person, I'm doing it for all you suckers, and suddenly I'm all morose and moping around and then everyone's like, "aren't you leaving already?? Jeeze! Get a grip!"

ANYHOW, so, the last couple of days, my first days at work, I've been struck with a melancholy of missing people.

Which co-exists with the peace about a good decision thing, but still kind of sucks, because -- d'uh -- I miss my friends.

I also have these moments of missing my comfort zone, even though I am happy to be out of it, it's a good thing, but the neurotic perfectionist in me seriously hates starting a new job. I have this irrational idea that I should know EVERYTHING IMMEDIATELY. And I stress when I don't.

Which, I know, is stupid.

I guess all this is to say -- huh. I kind of have no pithy recap. Just, I suppose, feeling human today.

But still super happy to be here -- it's effing beautiful and my job is cool and the people there are great.

Will go back to donning my super-human suit tomorrow.

GO ME!

For BSG Dorks

OMG, guys look who I saw on the train --



Right now he's totally either:
a. having invisible mind-sex with a cylon mind chip
b. formulating his memiors designed to rile up the working class
c. betraying the human race
d. riding the N Judah
e. all of the above

(seriously, though, compare and contrast:

You're right. Baltar is way better dressed. I also don't think he rides public transportation. If he wasn't in the brig, I mean.

pink and sparkly

On my way to the library on Sunday I suddenly found myself amid the most amazing parade of little girls in fluffy dresses and sparkly shoes.

Hundreds of little girls. All in little dresses, many looking as if they themselves had picked out the ensemble (think tutu and red cowboy boots).

Turns out the ballet is on the way to the library.

One little girl was pushing a giant teddy bear in a stroller.

This was one block away from a corner where it seriously smelled like a giant cat had pissed, daily, for years.

That's variety for you.

OMG SUSAN!

This is right down the street from me.

It's totally a sign.

I mean, yeah, literally, it's a sign, but I meant that in a more metaphysical way -- you know what I'm saying.

Rattle and Roll

Thursday night I was super exhausted from my busy unemployed existence. Seriously. Phew.

So, I snuck into bed early, cozy with my book. I thought maybe the cat was jumping on the bed in a clumsy-boozy-er way than usual, as there was a little shimmy. That lasted longer than it should have.

A couple of thoughts flashed through my head -- starting with that scene in The Exorcist where Regan insists that her bed is shaking. Someone (Dad, I'm looking at YOU) let me see that movie at an outrageously early age, and the idea that I might get possessed by a demon was central in my early phobic period. I remember lying in my bed in the scary dark really trying to make sure that my bed wasn't shaking, a sure-fire early sign of demon possession. Anyway, I dismissed that idea pretty quickly and moved on to the realization that, hot-damn, it's an earthquake! Sweet!

There is a real sense of being in the moment at times like this, when you're feeling the escalation of the quake, a little jumpy and vaguely threatening, like the ground is growling, warning you that it might strike or it might just sit there and eye you warily, but you better just be still, bitch. There was rattling in the kitchen, I thought of things that might fall from shelves and walls.

It lasted forever. Slow shimmy in the quiet.

The phone rang, when it subsided. I ran to answer, and Anne said, "I was just calling to ask IF YOU FELT THAT EARTHQUAKE?"

I was sort of gleeful about the whole thing. It kind of felt punk rock to me.

The whole concept still -- even the ads on the busses for this site, complete with its friendly icons for potential distasters -- CLICK HERE FOR TSUNAMIS -- gives me a sort of dreadful thrill. I kind of want to clap at the insistence that I “DROP, COVER AND HOLD ON.”

I'm aware that this is probably a completely inappropriate reaction, but I'm cool with that. I suspect it's better than being terrified all the time. And, I suppose I'll get a couple of jugs of water and some canned soup or something, just in case.

Just in case the ground goes all PUNK ROCK on me again! EFF YEAH!

This Guy Is Clearly Crazy.

I saw him RUN UP THE STAIRS from the Muni. Like, hree straight flights. Full on running. Fast.

Also, I had an Irish Car Bomb last night. Did I mention that? Did you know that when you drop the Baileys into the Guiness it curdles? I drank something curdled.

And this guy is running up stairs.

Crazy.

Local Flavor -- Now with very expensive polyester glitter.*

I don't start my new job until Monday.

My stuff came on Friday, which kicked off a three-day unpacking-and-organizing one woman show -- I might have been a little intense during that time. I emerged, blinking and dust-covered on Monday morning thinking, "What now?"

I've been a little task oriented. I think that behavior is something about staving off anxiety (WTF HAVE I DONE?) and other such unpleasantness.

So, this week has been spent, much of the time, going on Adventures, studying my map and plotting public transportation routes with a vengeance.

Yesterday I took a walk down Market Street, which, as it turns out, is both a main byway that bisects the city and a teeming petri dish of crazy. I'm not exactly a stranger to crazy -- Chicago has crazy, they do, I just think, much like kudzu, it's tempered by the harsh winters. In San Francisco, the mild climate and rich fertilizer of liberal leanings and general Bay Area-ness leads to a hearty and varigated display of fully actualized crazy.

Crazy mills about quietly, crowds of crazies act as a general groundcover and a few bloom from the crowd like lovely strange blossoms.

Like this chick:



(Forgive the poor image quality -- it's best to photograph them from behind a cell phone, so you can perpatrate like you are texting)

So, here's what's happening there:

This lady is snappily dressed in leather pants, a fierce leather jacket, and a studded belt. She is wearing white cotton gloves. She is arranging and rearranging the mattresses that fill this dumpster and then yelling down at the milling crowd of groundcover crazies, who are summarily ignoring her. She is yelling: "NOW! PRETTY NOW, YES!" She's a little yoda-like in her grammatical construction, which is a nice touch.

This chick:



Note the bright hues -- the yellow hair, the fushia leggings. I caught this snap of her as she was striding indignantly away from a bank of pay phones(very rare!), where she had been yelling and gesturing wildly into a reciever.

These were the only two lucky shots I got -- later, I went to the Museum of Modern Art, where I actually heard a woman say, as she contemplated a painting, "Nice use of color."

Crazy.


*The local news is covering the upcoming Chinese New Year parade, and the floatmaster just told the intrepid reporter that they used nearly 600 pounds of glitter in the construction of the OVER TWELVE FLOATS -- including these lovely coins, hand-etched out of foam rubber, and covered in "very expensive polyester glitter. The best in the world." Only the best for you, people.

Always Something There To Remind Me

I swear I'm not doing this on purpose, but, again -- Skahen, chekkit:

Dear Sarah

This made me think of you.

XO
RJ

By Popular Demand

New Place.

Must Go Outside and Enjoy Sun, Now.

Snarky BS later.

XO
RJ

Call Me Dorothy

Hi, Bitches:

The ten of you (most of whom actually speak to me on a regular basis, go figure) who read this here Web Log have been complaining to me (again, mostly in person) that I haven't posted since my compelling deconstruction of Road House.

That's true. I've been in a serious Transition Period, involving many, many boxes and logistics and dollars, among other things.

Most recently, I spent the last week or so being Jobless and Homeless, as the movers had taken my stuff into the big truck and carted it off. I like to refer to the last week as my regression period, which was spent couch surfing and having night after night of rich Goodbye Dinners, each of which included many glasses of alcoholic beverage and subsequent Sleeping It Off mornings.

I also had one night wherein Ellen came to visit me at Susan's house and we smoked weed and watched tv. And I realized -- I am That Guy -- That Guy who, jobless and homeless, couch surfs and gets high with his buddies in your living room while you're out leading a productive life.

Alas, that segment, the intersticial, responsibility-less segment, is over, and now I am sitting on the floor of my empty new apartment, hijacking some sucker's open wifi, sharing with you the small miracle of my Arrival in San Francisco, AKA The Beginning Of My New Life.

So, the cat? On the plane? She didn't like that. All I have to say is that the roaring of the plane's engine, while probably super stressful for the furball, definitely drowns out her plantive mewling. Which is less "mewling" and more "freaky angry yowling." Mewling just sounds way more charming that that loud, definitively non-human sound old girl makes.

Christine, AKA Fauxnica, brought her perky ass to the airport to pick me up in an electric car, which is incredibly apropos. I had much crap that needed to go, including a cat in a bag.

Then, when we got into the city? Goddamn if there wasn't a RAINBOW. In the sky. Which I captured poorly with my cell phone -- and have posted for posterity here.



Let's just do a quick compare and contrast --

Chicago? Bitch gives me three solid weeks of -19 windchill toe-and-ball freezing weather.

San Francisco? RAINBOW.

Fauxnica, ever the philosopher, had this to say:

Fauxnica: You know what they say about rainbows, don't you?
Me: Pot of gold?
Fauxinca: No, Rainbows are what happens when you mix sun and rain.


Thanks, captian science. Romantic, she is not. Fashionable? Fuck yeah.

So, then we get to the apartment and damn if AnneVan didn't leave me PLANTS in every room, and a liitle Care Package that included that essential home staple, toilet paper.

Damn, life is good.

Hey, guys? Guess what?

I LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO!

Okay, gotta let the movers in. Let the unpacking begin.