In other musical news, I saw Gentlemen Prefer Blondes last night at my beloved Castro Theatre. I had forgotten much of the movie, including the fact that Jane Russell sings this song which could basically be my personal anthem, particularly when applied to online dating in the Bay Area--the land of rugged outdoor pursuits. (Try to listen to the lyrics and ignore the obvious homosexuality of Jane's fellas, which, although I suppose that could be considered another San Francisco dating challenge, is frankly nothing compared to all the frenetic mountain biking.)
Thank you, Jane.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Drivin' and cryin'
I recently made a CD for a departing friend and apologized for the melancholy middle of the mix. The thing is though, that I always like the sad songs best. Plus, as I told him, departures are bittersweet and there's nothing wrong with a little driving and crying. It's an American tradition, I told him.
Then today, as if to prove me right,I got this from NPR. Thanks again, NPR. You're always there for me.
My favorite part is this:
Stephen Thompson, who wrote that description, is a stranger to me, but I wish he were my friend.
Then today, as if to prove me right,I got this from NPR. Thanks again, NPR. You're always there for me.
My favorite part is this:
Here's hoping that the specifics of "Casimir Pulaski Day" don't apply to your own tearful drive: In all likelihood, you're not a young man who falls in love at Bible Study and questions his faith after watching the object of his unconsummated love die of bone cancer. If you are? Wow, sorry to hear that. But either way, it isn't necessary to fully relate to Sufjan Stevens' ornate ballad: It just sounds like sadness, what with its solemn trumpet and its cooing mourners and, well, the fact that, in the song, someone dies of bone cancer. If you're sad, "Casimir Pulaski Day" isn't going to cheer you up; let's leave it at that.
Stephen Thompson, who wrote that description, is a stranger to me, but I wish he were my friend.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Cha-ching
Last night, I decided that it would behoove me to actually leave the house, so I took myself on a date. The time-honored classic: dinner and a movie. I had a salad, a cup of seafood stew, and a glass of water. I saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona (which I enjoyed except for the specter of Woody Allen himself, whom I kept imagining filming the love scenes in the full throes of pervy voyeuristic delight). And now I think I may have to get a second job to cover the cost.
Soup
Salad
Movie
_______
$38.50
What? This is neither London nor Manhattan. San Francisco? I know you have pretensions of fanciness and that's fine. I too have pretensions of fanciness; you should see the number of entirely unnecessary dresses in my closet. But, still, $38.50? For shame, San Francisco. For shame.
Soup
Salad
Movie
_______
$38.50
What? This is neither London nor Manhattan. San Francisco? I know you have pretensions of fanciness and that's fine. I too have pretensions of fanciness; you should see the number of entirely unnecessary dresses in my closet. But, still, $38.50? For shame, San Francisco. For shame.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Haunted
Last Saturday, I rented two movies at my local video shop, but I got a late start in my viewing and only had time to watch one before I had to go to sleep. On Sunday night, I stayed at my parent's house. Since the movies were due back on Monday, I had the foresight to bring the unseen movie, Introducing the Dwights, with me. After a fair amount of Olympic viewing and paternal snoring, my father went to bed and my mother and I begin gliding through the other million channels. "Hey." I suddenly remember, "I have this movie with me that's due tomorrow. Wanna watch it?" "Is it something I'll like?" my mother reasonably asks. "I think so," I tell her. "It's got Brenda Blethyn."
We watch about thirty minutes of Introducing the Dwights and it turns out that Brenda Blethyn is not enough. I hate the movie. My mother really hates the movie, particularly the part where a young woman, "a hussy," according to my mother, tries ungracefully and unsympathetically to seduce a young man who is clearly a virgin. I suggest we turn it off. My mother readily agrees.
On Monday morning, I return the movie to the video store. On Monday evening, I get two movies in the mail from Netflix. One of them proves to be Introducing the Dwights. Apparently, at some unremembered time when this feature was still in the theatres, I must have had a burning, yet thwarted, desire to see it. I mail it back to Netflix, unviewed.
Last night, sometime after midnight I check my email, just in case someone who lives in another, distant time zone might be trying to communicate with me. You just never know. There was one email. From Netflix. Typically, I don't even read the emails from Netflix, I like the element of surprise. Each little red envelope is like a present: What delight has the me of long ago selected for the me of today? However, after midnight with only one email, I can't help myself. I open it. It says, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have shipped your movies. Introducing the Dwights should arrive on Tuesday."
Dear me of the past:
You were mistaken. It's okay. Blame the marketing. I forgive you.
Dear Netflix,
Really, I've learned my lesson. Please. No more.
Dear Introducing the Dwights,
I will never watch all of you, no matter how you try to wear me down.
Love,
Kari
We watch about thirty minutes of Introducing the Dwights and it turns out that Brenda Blethyn is not enough. I hate the movie. My mother really hates the movie, particularly the part where a young woman, "a hussy," according to my mother, tries ungracefully and unsympathetically to seduce a young man who is clearly a virgin. I suggest we turn it off. My mother readily agrees.
On Monday morning, I return the movie to the video store. On Monday evening, I get two movies in the mail from Netflix. One of them proves to be Introducing the Dwights. Apparently, at some unremembered time when this feature was still in the theatres, I must have had a burning, yet thwarted, desire to see it. I mail it back to Netflix, unviewed.
Last night, sometime after midnight I check my email, just in case someone who lives in another, distant time zone might be trying to communicate with me. You just never know. There was one email. From Netflix. Typically, I don't even read the emails from Netflix, I like the element of surprise. Each little red envelope is like a present: What delight has the me of long ago selected for the me of today? However, after midnight with only one email, I can't help myself. I open it. It says, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have shipped your movies. Introducing the Dwights should arrive on Tuesday."
Dear me of the past:
You were mistaken. It's okay. Blame the marketing. I forgive you.
Dear Netflix,
Really, I've learned my lesson. Please. No more.
Dear Introducing the Dwights,
I will never watch all of you, no matter how you try to wear me down.
Love,
Kari
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Compromise
What I really want is to get married and move and maybe buy a new sofa. However, since not one of those things seems likely any time soon,what with being single and poor and all, I've instead spent a rather startling amount on this room spray. Still, it is a lot less costly than a new residence or even a new sofa, so, really, if you think about it, it's a bargain.
Sure, in all significant ways, my life will be the same, but it will smell different. And who knows where that will lead? I'm open to possibility.
Sure, in all significant ways, my life will be the same, but it will smell different. And who knows where that will lead? I'm open to possibility.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Disparities
I cannot help but be struck by the thought that a time in one's life when one is obliged to wear a girdle in order to fit into the majority of one's dresses should not simultaneously be a time when one has a sizable and almost awe-inspiringly tenacious whitehead on one's face.
And yet, life is full of interesting little disparities, is it not?
And yet, life is full of interesting little disparities, is it not?
Weather Report
At 9am, the radio newscaster read that today would be sunny with a temperature of 68 degrees at the coast after the morning low clouds burned off.
It is now 4:23pm. I glimpsed blue sky at 4:14pm. It now has disappeared. Therefore, by my calculation, we have had 9 minutes of summer in my neighborhood since Monday.
Had I known exactly when they would occur, I would have organized a BBQ.
It is now 4:23pm. I glimpsed blue sky at 4:14pm. It now has disappeared. Therefore, by my calculation, we have had 9 minutes of summer in my neighborhood since Monday.
Had I known exactly when they would occur, I would have organized a BBQ.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Public Transportation
On Monday, my ride downtown on the trusty N Judah seemed more focused on the "public" than the "transportation." The train was surprisingly crowded considering it was going the opposite direction of the rush-hour commute. I stuffed myself on and found a place to stand without jamming my bag too, too much in anyone's face. At first we were doing okay, but once we reached the second stop, we just stayed there for many long minutes with no explanation, During this time, two young children, perhaps 7-year-olds snaked their way from the back of the car to the driver two or three times trying to sort out the paying of their fare. Finally they settled in the forward corner behind the driver's compartment. All the standers among us relaxed into our stances now that we no longer had to accommodate the passage of the children. I was all the more surprised, therefore, when something struck me heavily at the back of the knees, causing me to stumble. What th...? Was it someone's luggage? Was it a big dog? I turned look and saw that a small child, presumably the sibling of the other two, was ricocheting his way down the aisle between the legs of commuters. He looked to be about three years old. He was wearing an adult sized tee-shirt that extended to his feet and he was filthy. There was no parent in sight.
Finally, after several passages of the child, a woman, presumably the mother, appeared. She yelled to one of the older children "Is Chance down there?" She was assured that he was and that seemed to bring her to the limits of her parenting responsibilities. Chance continued to travel from the other children toward his mother and back again, propelling himself by grabbing onto people's legs and pushing off as he moved forward. This may have been cute once, after all, he was a very young child, but it was not charming six times. It was clear that she had no intention of stopping him.
At one point, he grabbed onto me hard from behind, wadding up my coat in one hand and clinging to my leg with the other. He just hung there, content to stay in one place--my place--indefinitely. I turned to look for his mother but she had disappeared from view. I pulled away from him and turned to look him in the eye. "Where is your mother? You need to go to your mother." He glared at me. "No!" he yelled. "Yes." I countered and stepped back. He squniched up his eyes, made a fist and punched me in the leg, the highest point he could reach. "Bitch!" he yelled.
The adults in closest proximity to me and I all looked at each other with slack-jawed amazement. "Wow." I said. "I think being called a bitch by a three-year-old may be a new MUNI low." We craned our heads to look for the mother, but she was nowhere. I suspect that's where she usually is.
Compared to being punched and called a bitch by the three-year-old child of a total stranger while standing in an immobile vehicle, looking for parking downtown seems like it might a very pleasant pastime indeed. And this, boys and girls, is why global warming is unlikely to be abated in the near future.
And for Chance, sadly, global warming is likely to be the least of his problems. Good luck, small furious man. May someone take care of you soon.
Finally, after several passages of the child, a woman, presumably the mother, appeared. She yelled to one of the older children "Is Chance down there?" She was assured that he was and that seemed to bring her to the limits of her parenting responsibilities. Chance continued to travel from the other children toward his mother and back again, propelling himself by grabbing onto people's legs and pushing off as he moved forward. This may have been cute once, after all, he was a very young child, but it was not charming six times. It was clear that she had no intention of stopping him.
At one point, he grabbed onto me hard from behind, wadding up my coat in one hand and clinging to my leg with the other. He just hung there, content to stay in one place--my place--indefinitely. I turned to look for his mother but she had disappeared from view. I pulled away from him and turned to look him in the eye. "Where is your mother? You need to go to your mother." He glared at me. "No!" he yelled. "Yes." I countered and stepped back. He squniched up his eyes, made a fist and punched me in the leg, the highest point he could reach. "Bitch!" he yelled.
The adults in closest proximity to me and I all looked at each other with slack-jawed amazement. "Wow." I said. "I think being called a bitch by a three-year-old may be a new MUNI low." We craned our heads to look for the mother, but she was nowhere. I suspect that's where she usually is.
Compared to being punched and called a bitch by the three-year-old child of a total stranger while standing in an immobile vehicle, looking for parking downtown seems like it might a very pleasant pastime indeed. And this, boys and girls, is why global warming is unlikely to be abated in the near future.
And for Chance, sadly, global warming is likely to be the least of his problems. Good luck, small furious man. May someone take care of you soon.
GPS
9pm. August 6, 2008
Man: Damn. It's really cold out.
Woman (employing a tone that suggests he has missed the obvious): Well, it's August.
Even if you were blindfolded, overhearing this conversation would enable you to know instantly that you were in San Francisco.
And yes. It is really cold out. And damp. And windy.
The men beside me on my flight home from Nashville were incredulous when I told them they would require jackets. I hope they have heeded my warning. As for me? I've been wearing my winter coat every day since I got home. My sun dresses look at me reproachfully from the closet.
Man: Damn. It's really cold out.
Woman (employing a tone that suggests he has missed the obvious): Well, it's August.
Even if you were blindfolded, overhearing this conversation would enable you to know instantly that you were in San Francisco.
And yes. It is really cold out. And damp. And windy.
The men beside me on my flight home from Nashville were incredulous when I told them they would require jackets. I hope they have heeded my warning. As for me? I've been wearing my winter coat every day since I got home. My sun dresses look at me reproachfully from the closet.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
No use for the truth
I got an email last night from my friend in Paris in which he mentioned casually that Tom Waits was there and that he (my friend) was thinking that maybe, possibly, he might go see the show. Now, if you are me (which, frankly, I hope you are not because things are quite confusing enough already, thanks) you do not find out that Tom Waits is playing in your town and then wander around pondering whether or not you might go see him. No. If you are me, you thank God and fairies and karma and whatever else has blessed you. Then you go empty out your bank account and pay whatever they're asking. And then you go. See Tom Waits. Live. Because he is Tom Waits.
If you are me, you also have a whole lot of romantic nostalgia about Paris, so finding out that Tom Waits is playing Paris while you are thousands of miles from Paris makes for a rough evening.
But then, a little self-pitying internet searching of the why-is-he-not-playing-MY-town variety unexpectedly reveals this shiny bright side. So, no. It's not Paris. It's Atlanta, kind of. But really it's your living room. And it turns out that that is a really, really good second best. Merci NPR.
If you are me, you also have a whole lot of romantic nostalgia about Paris, so finding out that Tom Waits is playing Paris while you are thousands of miles from Paris makes for a rough evening.
But then, a little self-pitying internet searching of the why-is-he-not-playing-MY-town variety unexpectedly reveals this shiny bright side. So, no. It's not Paris. It's Atlanta, kind of. But really it's your living room. And it turns out that that is a really, really good second best. Merci NPR.
In praise of talking to strangers
Since last we spoke, I have been on several small vacations and I have also had a birthday. One or the other of these things seems to have addled my brain as evidenced by the fact that the first time I left the apartment upon my return, I promptly locked myself out. Then, upon my return to work on Monday I saw on my work calendar that I was meant to be going to a Shawn Colvin concert that night. A concert that, at the time I bought the ticket, I had been quite excited about. Also a concert that I had not remembered was taking place. At all. No matter. The venue is not far from my home, and I had no other fixed plans, so it was fine. I congratulated myself for not having missed it and for not having wasted thirty bucks. Woo hoo and hooray for calendars.
I presented my ID at the will call window and was handed my tickets. Plural. I stared at them for quite a while perplexed. Was one a receipt? Was one an error? It slowly dawned on me that months ago when I was excited about this outing I no doubt also thought, "Well, I won't want to go by myself. I will employ amazing foresight and purchase TWO tickets." I may have even been so bold as to think, "Well, I currently have a boyfriend. Perhaps I will STILL have a boyfriend in two months." Bah ha ha ha. So there I was, standing in the lobby, clutching my two tickets, waving goodbye to thirty bucks after all, and, in general, feeling like a big, capital "L" Loser.
Seating at this venue is in groups of four chairs around little cocktail tables. What with my two tickets, I had my choice of seat A or B. I chose B and sat there by myself feeling silly. When the cocktail waitress came and said brightly, "How're you doing tonight?" I hesitated rather a long while before coming up with "Um...Okay." "You're not too sure, though?" she asked. And so, I told her my sad little story. "Really?" she said, eying seat A. "Because my mom really wanted to come to this concert. If she can get here she would totally give you thirty dollars." I told her I would be only too happy if someone could use the ticket. She was delighted; I was delighted. She took my spare ticket and hurried out to the lobby to call her mom.
Around that time, a friendly couple, the the holders of seats C and D arrived. And so I told them the same sad little story with the new happy ending: that we would soon be joined by our waitress' mother. They were able to join in the general delight. We then spoke quite amicably for about a half an hour as though we were old friends.
About three songs in, the waitress' mother was ushered in to seat A. The waitress came and embraced her and proceeded to bring me a dish of sorbet and a second glass of ginger ale on the house. The goodwill at Table 11 was flowing like the mighty Mississippi.
After the encore, we all told each other what a great pleasure it had been to make each other's acquaintance, what a pleasant evening it had been, and generally, to our view, how Table 11 was superior to all other tables in the world. The mother told me what a marvelous favor I'd done her by allowing her to see the show, and the waitress handed me thirty bucks, while clearing away my empty sorbet dish.
Oh, right. Shawn Colvin did a fine job too.
I presented my ID at the will call window and was handed my tickets. Plural. I stared at them for quite a while perplexed. Was one a receipt? Was one an error? It slowly dawned on me that months ago when I was excited about this outing I no doubt also thought, "Well, I won't want to go by myself. I will employ amazing foresight and purchase TWO tickets." I may have even been so bold as to think, "Well, I currently have a boyfriend. Perhaps I will STILL have a boyfriend in two months." Bah ha ha ha. So there I was, standing in the lobby, clutching my two tickets, waving goodbye to thirty bucks after all, and, in general, feeling like a big, capital "L" Loser.
Seating at this venue is in groups of four chairs around little cocktail tables. What with my two tickets, I had my choice of seat A or B. I chose B and sat there by myself feeling silly. When the cocktail waitress came and said brightly, "How're you doing tonight?" I hesitated rather a long while before coming up with "Um...Okay." "You're not too sure, though?" she asked. And so, I told her my sad little story. "Really?" she said, eying seat A. "Because my mom really wanted to come to this concert. If she can get here she would totally give you thirty dollars." I told her I would be only too happy if someone could use the ticket. She was delighted; I was delighted. She took my spare ticket and hurried out to the lobby to call her mom.
Around that time, a friendly couple, the the holders of seats C and D arrived. And so I told them the same sad little story with the new happy ending: that we would soon be joined by our waitress' mother. They were able to join in the general delight. We then spoke quite amicably for about a half an hour as though we were old friends.
About three songs in, the waitress' mother was ushered in to seat A. The waitress came and embraced her and proceeded to bring me a dish of sorbet and a second glass of ginger ale on the house. The goodwill at Table 11 was flowing like the mighty Mississippi.
After the encore, we all told each other what a great pleasure it had been to make each other's acquaintance, what a pleasant evening it had been, and generally, to our view, how Table 11 was superior to all other tables in the world. The mother told me what a marvelous favor I'd done her by allowing her to see the show, and the waitress handed me thirty bucks, while clearing away my empty sorbet dish.
Oh, right. Shawn Colvin did a fine job too.
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