Marketing

Dear DVD Producers,

First off, let me thank you for making Girls Rock! available for home viewing. It's a fantastic documentary about rock camp for girls, but obviously it's about a lot more than that. It's about girls finding their individuality, about finding courage, about rejecting the notion that there's only one type of body that's desirable for a girl to have. When that one girl transitioned from cheerfully saying "Well, I already hate myself, so high school's not all that degrading." to saying, even more cheerfully, "I'm kinda nifty." I definitely cried. So, rock on. Thanks. But, may I just have a word with the marketing department? Or whoever it is who chooses the previews included on the DVD? Because, frankly, that person should probably be fired. What person in their right mind would precede Girls Rock! with a preview for The Hottie and the Nottie? Is it possible that there's a less appropriate choice anywhere? Paris Hilton is the absolute antithesis of EVERYTHING that the women at Rock Camp try to instill in girls. It is as offensive as having a preview for hardcore porn on an inspirational Christian video. Seriously. Be ashamed.

Sincerely,

Kari

Beeeeeer!

On Saturday, I went to the SF Beer Fest, which, because I don't actually enjoy beer all that much, was not ideal. But I was invited, and so I went. It was held at Fort Mason in an enormous enclosed pier type of place where I imagine they once used to repair ships. Only there were no ships. Just beer. And dudes drinking beer out of very, very small commemorative plastic steins. And squealy chicks similarly quaffing. And throngs of people waiting at the pizza booth for pizza that never came. It was what I imagine a frat party would be like if a frat house were the size of an airplane hangar.

Every ten minutes or so, a mighty roar would make its way through the crowd. It was like the auditory version of the wave. Only louder than whatever you're imagining. A great swelling cacophony reverberating off the concrete floor. Since yelling randomly while hoisting a tiny stein is among Things I Do Not Do, I would just wait till it was over and pick up the conversation where we'd left off. After this had happened about ten times, my companion said, "You know, in any other country a crowd at a beer festival might break into spontaneous singing. Or maybe some kind of folk dancing. In America, the best we've got is apparently an inarticulate bellow."

Brass, Bows and Beats

My friend Sarah, open water swimmer (recently stung by a jellyfish. yikes.) and librarian extraordinaire, is also taking trombone lessons. Because she is just that awesome. Mind you, I had never heard of Adam Theis, her trombone teacher, but when Sarah told me to come to Brass, Bows, and Beats, his hip-hop symphony, I bought a ticket. What an exceedingly good idea that was. The show was on Saturday night and I wanted to mention it, but felt that I really lacked the vocabulary to talk about it. Fortunately, my colleague Kirk Hamilton, an amazingly accomplished musician, composer, and arranger himself, did not lack the vocabulary. Kirk is perhaps the most enthusiastic person I have ever met, but I don't think his excitement here is one bit overstated. Here's another review that talks about the overarching sense of community fostered by the work. It really was thrilling. Anything that involves a 48 piece orchestra, dueling fiddles, an accordion solo, a DJ, and seven hip-hop vocalists is worth checking out. Just for the record.

Ohhh. Why didn't you say so?

With alarming frequency throughout my life, I have been greatly smitten by men who, despite allegedly finding me clever and charming and lovely, have refused to date me. In some cases, these men essentially begged me to save myself and run for the hills. Because I am a woman, I chose to ignore that part. I like to believe I am not the only woman on Earth for whom this is true (please let me not be the only woman on Earth for whom this is true), but what sets me apart is that two of these men went on to write books about their screwed up relationships. Full-length books. Can you imagine how satisfying that is? While everyone else tries to make do with He's Just Not That Into You, I've got personalized volumes. This is perhaps the upside of being attracted to writers. Downside: neuroses galore (on their part) leading to pointless pining (on my part). Upside: later explanatory tomes.

One man, who shall remain nameless in some sort of tip-my-hat-to-internet-anonymity move (hilarious in that approximately seven people read this and you all already know his name) has written no fewer than three novels in which the various protagonists suffer from remarkably similar forms of emotional paralysis despite having fabulous women besotted with them. And now, my friend Andy (who, yes, really is my friend, and whom I stopped trying to date years ago) has written a book called The Ramen King and I: How the Inventor of Instant Noodles Fixed my Lovelife. It will be released next month. If you think I'm not on the edge of my seat waiting to read that book, you're crazy. Even if you have no personal stake in Andy's love life, I recommend it to you. Really. Go check it out. Andy is the writer I wish I were. Without having read a single page, I can guarantee that it will be smart and funny and heartfelt because that's what his writing is always like. Which is why I developed a crush on him in the first place. Beware. It might happen to you.

There are approximately three other men on my Why-Oh-Why list, but they are not writers, so I guess I'll never know. Still, two outta five means I sleep 40% better than I otherwise would. We should all be so blessed.

Helluva town

Let's begin with another little glimpse into my flawed character, shall we? All week it has been sneakily freezing, which is to say, beautifully sunny with a cruel icy wind. During these chilly days, I've been peevishly at work, doing little and writing nothing. Today is Saturday. An extravagantly summery Saturday. The world is my proverbial oyster. So I opt to stay in my cold apartment in front of the computer. A device in front of which, to recap, I've been sitting all week. Conclusion: I am ridiculous.

This time last week I was in New York. I feel a bit glamorous just typing that. New York is that sort of place. Every time I get home from NY, I have to talk myself out of the NY fantasy. I remind myself that if I actually lived in there, I would have to suffer through the winter, be weary to the point of nausea every time I had to get on the subway, and exist in a state of abject poverty. On vacation, none of this is true. On vacation, NY is a grand adventure. I am all proud and excited when I take the subway and actually emerge where I intended to go; I eat out at ridiculously charming restaurants; my friends are terribly glad to see me because it's been a year or so; I blithely spend hundreds of dollars on theatre tickets; I stay up till it's early and sleep till it's late.

Last week, after being seated on the red eye in front of a screaming seat-kicker (who to be fair, was a small child, not a deranged adult, not that that made me like him any better), I emerged into an unseasonably warm NY day. I dropped my suitcase off at the hotel waaayyyyy downtown and then went uptown for tea at Alice's Teacup, home of hearty scones and horribly spoiled little uptown girls. Throughout the city, trees were in full bloom. Warning: If you want to avoid falling in love with a city, do not go when its trees are in full bloom. I walked to the park where tulips and daffodils were onnly slightly more numerous than visitors to the zoo. I lugged my massive winter coat around and resisted the urge to go up to strangers and say, "I'm not crazy. Really. The weather report said it would be cold." I tried to take full advantage of the lavish beauty of the afternoon, but, feeling increasingly delirious, I headed back to the hotel and pleaded to be allowed to check in early. The kind man at the desk told me that my reserved room was not yet ready, but he could put me in the Junior Suite for no additional charge [mind you, the only reason I'd gone at all was because of a Hotwire deal of $130 a night]. Oh, all right. If you must put me in the suite, I suppose I can accept it.

Up to the 50th floor. From the hallway, there is a beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge and City Hall. From the, ahem, living room of room 5002, there is a view of the Statue of Liberty; from the bedroom an expansive view of the Hudson. I stand there laughing. The room is larger than the some friends' NY apartments. I set an alarm clock and crawl into the king-sized bed. The front desk clerk calls "Miss Kiernan? Is everything satisfactory?" Um...yes. Yes, it is. Actually, is it okay if I live here forever?

That night I went to see Jailbait in the West Village (more flowery trees), which was brilliantly performed. In order to make it in time, I ate a very hasty meal at Philip Marie. In fact, I'll bet no one has ever eaten there quite as inelegantly as I did. But I made it, damn it. After the show, I hunted fruitlessly for West 10th Street for the better part of an hour. Apparently, from Bank Street, W. 10th Street is basically a figment of one's imagination. At the point I was going to give it up, it popped into view, so I had a sangria at Alta beside a young woman who became increasingly wasted and eventually drew conspiratorially close to me and inquired whether I had any painkillers. Because I am me, I initially interpreted this to be a request for aspirin. It wasn't. I didn't.

On the way back to the hotel, I had a train misadventure in which the A capriciously began pretending to be an F and took me to the very edge of Chinatown where my fellow passengers urged me to get off before heading into Brooklyn. Sigh. I had to go back to where I started and wait for the E, which is what I ought to have done in the first place. Valuable lessons all around. I left the curtains open and looked at the view until I fell asleep (about seventeen seconds later).

Friday, brunch with the illustrious (which to me is a brilliant illustrator joke, but probably not to anyone else) Sara Varon at Bubby's Pies. She agreed to split the banana cream even though she really wanted the chocolate peanut butter. She's nice like that. Then I got to see my cousin Dan in his new fancy NY life. Sunny Upper West Side apartment with a view. He was giddy with spring fever and on our walk through the park, he pointed out almost every flower individually and greeted them all like the long-lost friends they were.

By the time I went back to the hotel, my dear friend Talya had arrived from Amherst and was gratifyingly agog at our lavish accommodations. Actually, I think she feared I'd gone insane and got the most expensive room on earth, her children's college funds be damned.

We had dinner at Jules Bistro, which I love and which is convenient to the Public where we saw the first preview of a bad play by Craig Lucas called The Something Forest. The Screaming Forest? The Way Too Long Forest? The Is There Really Any Reason For That Man To Be Naked Forest? The Why is Freud a Character in this Stupid Play Forest? Something like that. For me, dinner also featured the first of a great many opportunities to speak French. And you know how I like that. Seriously though, are there any French people in France? Or are they all eating in NY? Not a day went by that I didn't have some French chat.

Oh my, how long this is. You can stop reading at any time.

Saturday it rained, but (Ha! Take that precipitation!) we had matinee tickets, so it made no difference. If The Blah Blah Forest perhaps presented the hypothesis that very long dysfunctional family dramas might be a terrible idea, August: Osage County immediately disproved it. The rain had stopped when we emerged.

In a bold departure from our usual theatre-glutton ways, Tal and I did not go to an evening performance. Instead, we spent many hours over dinner at Barmarche in SoHo. We ate at the bar, which I think is actually the very best place to be if you plan to talk and talk and talk to your friend because, heck, she's right next to you and she can hear everything you say. After dinner, we shared rice pudding at Rice to Riches, which features signs that endlessly highlight the fat content of their product. Things like: "Eat whatever you want; you're already fat." Um...okay. Thanks, I guess. A curious marketing technique that seems to hurt them not one bit. Feeling that our caloric intake was not quite what it might be, we then each had a whiskey at some random bar, before heading back to, ahem, the suite.

Tal left Easter morning, but I had a few hours before I had to go to the airport. I had intended to wander around, but there was a relentless icy wind blowing, so I was delighted to stumble upon what, for me, was a perfect cafe. Doma Cafe on the corner of 7th Ave S and Perry, is a place I would go constantly if I were a local. It is quite small, but crammed with tables. Even though every table was occupied, it was strangely quiet--no one forced to yell at their companion. The house rules are posted on hand-written signs by the counter. "Absolutely NO to-go cups in the cafe. To-go means to go. Slow down." "Please no cell phones in here." "You're welcome for two hours, then it's time to leave." I had french toast at a table for one facing the corner where two huge windows met. A long blossom-covered branch reached into view of the nearer window and was more Eastery than any number of bunnies would have been. I pulled an ancient hardcover copy of The Bobbsey Twins in the Great West off the bookshelf, ate my breakfast, drank my tea, spoke to the requisite French people at the next table and was perfectly happy. The wind had died down when I left (before the two-hour limit, you'll be relieved to hear) and I was able to amble about a bit.

Finally, it was time to go back and fetch my suitcase. But first, I walked over to the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge to say hello. I realize I'd never actually seen it outside movies. It actually does exist. People walk over it in droves. I had a soft-serve ice cream cone, smiled at the people and the fountain in front of City Hall, and then, back on the trusty E, suitcase in hand, went back to JFK.

Now, home in my prosaic real life, I remind myself that somewhere in a fifth floor walk-up, some girl in Manhattan is dreaming of San Francisco.

The mathematics of drinking

I go to a bar with several playwrights. My friend Tim turns to me and says, "Let me buy you a drink." "Oh, no, no." I say. "No, really," he says. "I just talked to my accountant. If I buy you a drink, I can deduct it. Two drinks is "entertainment;" one drink is just me drinking alone."

Seriously? Aw, c'mon.

Chapter 1. Other People's Pastimes

I am not a big fan of the grown-men-skateboarding-recreationally-in-the-middle-of-city-streets phenomenon that's sweeping San Francisco. This could be because I'm not cool or it could be because I'm a rational human being/sometime motorist who risks offing some dude every time I drive through the neighborhood.

On my way home, I passed the guys who apparently skate in the middle of Cole Street every day at 5:05pm. I don't know if they just happen to start five minute before I walk by every day, or whether they actually do this most of the day. I'm guessing that the latter is more likely. Leaving them to their shenannigans, I crossed over the invisible neighborhood boundary into what I think of as my own neighborhood--generally free from the crazy antics of Haight Street. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I turned onto the quiet, two-block street that marks the homestretch to chez moi, only to see a twenty-something guy on the sidewalk opposite me remove his pants. When guys on the street remove their pants, it's best to keep walking, and so I did. But seconds later I heard the sound of a skateboard behind me. I turned and, sure enough, there was the same guy skating down the middle of the road. Only now wearing shorts. Because, apparently, they're better to skate in. So much so, that it's worth taking your pants off in the middle of the street in broad daylight to make the change.


Chapter 2. My pastime

After many years of not owning a television (because I am a television junkie and can not be trusted to read books ever again if I were to have a TV), I discovered Hulu (wait. I can watch television shows for free and still not buy a television? Bring. It. On.)and was sucked immediately into the television vortex. Every so often, I would come across a program that was available only through a higher version of FlashPlayer than I have. Typically, I just get over it and move on to something else. Although, in the case when I could access all of season one of "The Riches," become totally, irrevocably addicted to it, and then discover that season two was not supported by my software um....let's just say that was a rough night. Still. There's always Netflix.

In the last few days, I merrily watched a couple of old Alfred Hitchcock movies and the most recent episodes of "30 Rock" and "The Office." All was well. Last night, I returned to a half-viewed movie to watch the end and was confronted with the "Download a higher version of the software" message. What? But I was just watching this thing with no trouble. I tried some other previously viewed things. No dice. Turns out that overnight they've revamped the WHOLE SITE to play only on software I don't have and, no, thanks for asking though, I can't download it because my computer is too old. Noooooo! So, now I must buy a new computer. In order to watch free television.

There seems to be a flaw somewhere in that plan. If I could only figure out what it is....

Cop out

I haven't written anything here in days and days. I am acutely aware of it and yet can think of nothing compelling to say. I hate that. So welcome to the What I've Been Doing Instead of Writing cop out.


I watched these people leap about in a highly impressive fashion; I heard this woman read about her life and even though I've known her since I was a little girl, I didn't know any of that stuff; I listened to this man do amazing things with a cello; I watched this play and was honored to be sitting next to the playwright as he made some notes for more changes; I watched this movie (later referred to by a friend who was not intending to make a joke as "Dude, I Love You, Bro") and laughed and laughed; I saw this movie and cried; and I listened to these guys play like mad.

It's been good, I promise.
And you? How've you been?

Daylight savings

Last week we "sprang forward" and turned all of our clocks ahead. But secretly? I'm turning the clock back, baby. I have just purchased a skin care system (that's what they call it when it's more than one substance that you slap on your face. They don't call it "a bunch of stuff" they call it "a system") from the Time Defiance line. Because, well, a close scrutiny in the mirror suggests that it is indeed the moment to begin defying time. Actually, it suggests that I ought to have started defying time two years ago, but alas. These moisturizers are formidable. And brown. I've never used a brown face cream before and am certain it is a sign of seriousness and scientific advancement. If I use everything according to the directions, I figure that I ought to look like an infant by May. I haven't actually read the directions yet, mind you, but I'm hoping that part of the system is to look fiercely into the mirror (without scowling, obviously. Scowling causes wrinkles.) while applying moisturizer and saying three times "Time, I defy Thee!" I think that would be a nice touch.

Cell phones (again)

Sunday 1pm

The homeless guy panhandling in front of Green Apple Books has to interrupt himself from asking me for spare change because he gets a call. He pulls his phone from his pocket and walks away from me to conduct his conversation in a more private part of the sidewalk.


Sunday 10:45pm

I tell Daniel it has been a pleasure to meet his friend. "Well, did you give her your cell phone number? Oh. Wait. That's right. You don't HAVE a cell phone."


.

Bibliophile

I heard on the radio the other day that the BBC has compiled a list of 100 beloved books. They suggest that most people have read six of them. Turns out that I've read 52 of them, but then, I don't exercise at all, so that gives me plenty of free time.

How about you?

One, please

I go to movies alone all but constantly. I like it. Plus, I don't have to share the Red Vines.

Still, I have to admit that walking up to the dude in the box office and saying, "One for He's Just Not That Into You" was a wee bit humiliating.

Self-help

Massages and pedicures are apparently meant to be the height of luxurious relaxation. Huh. Add them to the list of things I'm supposed to like but don't really enjoy. For me, massages are crazy painful. During one, the thought came to me unbidden: "I wonder if they do this to prisoners in Iraq." That kind of painful. I sometimes get one in order to try to fix my broken self, but this is a choice like realizing, yes, you really do need to suck it up and get that uncomfortable medical procedure. It's not a choice I'd make during a weekend getaway or girls' weekend or whatever. I mean do you and your beloved or your gaggle of giggling companions get together for colonoscopies? No.

Similarly, I very much enjoy my post-pedicure foot, but the majority of the actual pedicure, not so much. First of all, I'm extremely ticklish, so the exfoliating interlude involves my exerting Jedi mind strength to overcome the reflex that urges me to kick the tickler in the face. Then there's the poking and scraping with metal implements part. Ouch. And then, the crazy painful massage of legs and feet (see above). The sensible thing, obviously, would be to tell the lady that I would like her to skip that part but A) I am a coward and B) there is a significant language barrier. Instead, I hold my breath and grip the arms of the chair until it's over. Still, unlike the body massage where you know the torture will continue for the full 90 minutes, because, freakishly, that's what you've paid for, the pedicure eventually becomes just about painting and drying (read: sitting and reading). Not bad. Plus, I have ten little tidy red-polished toes to show for it.

Incidentally, another bewildering thing about the nail salon is the colors of polish chosen by other ladies. The woman next to me had her toenails pained a shade that was like a slightly oranger version of the Crayola crayon they used to call something like "flesh tone." (Presumably, in the new world of multicultural awareness, they've changed the name. Turns out, not everyone's flesh is the same tone. Go figure.) Anyway, does this color, whatever you choose to call it, make an attractive nail polish? I assure you it does not. I didn't tell her, though. Hopefully, someone who knows and loves her will break it to her gently.

Food, Glorious Food

I don't eat a lot of candy, but I do have a profound weakness for Red Vines. (Not Twizzlers. NOT Twizzlers. Seriously. They are nothing alike. Red Vines are delicious; Twizzers are repellent. See how those are not the same?) I only eat them in movie theatres(Hot tip: buy them for $1 at Walgreens and smuggle them in. Shhhh.) so it's not like I'm a total junkie or anything. However, I will consume the entire box, alone, in the course of 90-120 minutes. Yum. The package says "No preservatives. Fat Free. Very Low Sodium." So really, they're practically health food.

Except. The package also describes them as "Original Red Twists." Huh. That is certainly accurate. They are red twists, for sure. But as far as something you would eat, is that really enough of a description? Recently, I looked at the ingredients for the first time:
Corn Syrup, Wheat Flour, Citric Acid, Artificial Flavor, Red 40.

Um...but they're fat free. And sodium? So low.

Which, now that I think about it, I guess is often the case for food that is not made of food.

Networking

Hotmail is once again making changes to itself. Something to do with storage? Something to do with networks? Mostly I ignore whatever they do, as long as I can get to my messages (refresh, refresh, refresh). I am a glutton for correspondence. However, Hotmail really wants me to pay attention to its new personal network capabilities. Every time I access my account, it pulls random people from my contact list and suggests that these people would be a good base for my new network. The thing is, it uncannily selects people whom I don't even remember being in my contact list. Today, it brightly offers under the heading of "Suggestions for Your Network" a former colleague whom I last spoke to in 1998, and a man I used to know in Paris with whom I last corresponded in June of 2000. Huh. Great idea, Hotmail. Thanks!

The cool kids

For three days, I have been working at a high school other than the one where I actually work. This one has a cafeteria. Every day I have chosen the same seat: at the end of the far table next to a window. Having been given the hot tip, I have been eating at noon, between the seatings for the the middle school girls and the high school girls. Although I arrive in a nearly empty room, I am nevertheless still there when the high school girls arrive. The tables are designed to seat approximately 12 people, but the girls find room for as many of their friends as possible. At the table next to mine, they just keep coming. Each newcomer takes a chair from my table and wedges it into the rapidly diminishing space at the other one. Eventually, there are 18 girls at the next table. At my table, there is just me, and three empty chairs.

Although A) I am 38 years old and B) I know not one student at this school, this still makes me feel like a total loser.

Tomorrow I'll be back home where I have friends who will eat with me. Really. I totally do have friends.

Wow. That is talented.

There is a list of links under the header
Also on MSN

These are the first two:
Dolphins are talented chefs
32 tasty cookie recipes


Now, I could click on these links and spoil everything, but I prefer to think the second link leads to 32 cookie recipes developed by dolphins. In fact, I'm not even making the links available to you, so that you may share in this delightful fantasy. See how good I am to you?

In fairness, she did ask

As I was gathering my belongings in preparation to leave a party on Friday night, I heard part of a conversation among a group of people. One woman was telling a sad tale about how she'd wanted to wear camouflage capri pants on a trip to the Middle East, but had been persuaded not to by her friend who asked her to consider the state of the world and the unpopularity of Americans in the region. She was disappointed because, as she said, "But camouflage is fashionable. And I hate not being fashionable." (Considering the ensemble she'd put together for the party, I wouldn't have thought that was strictly true, but that's another story.) A man turned to the sensible friend and said:

Man: And you? Did you wear camouflage?

Sensible Friend: Ha. Right. Can you see me in camouflage?

Me: No. That's actually the point of camouflage.

Super

This morning (between pushes of the snooze alarm)the folks on the radio were doing a lot of chatting about the Super Bowl. Until then, I had no idea that the Super Bowl was this weekend. And you know what? I'm all smug about it. It's not pretty, but it's true.

Sundays

I'm not so good on Sundays. Never have been. I wake up too late, put on not-quite-dressed ensembles of sweatpants and old t-shirts and the sweaters I don't wear in public, start drinking tea and listening to the radio and then, somehow, never really leave the house. That could be fine, of course, and sometimes is, but usually it carries with it a general sense of ennui or perhaps malaise. Something gloomy and French, in any case. Today is no different except that it's possibly worse. I find myself listening to some radio station from London streaming online. It's something I bookmarked in some long-forgotten past moment and today clicked on accidentally. First I half-listened to an interview with a British-Iranian filmmaker and then it transitioned into something called "The Organ Hour," which seems to be some kind of um...alterna-punk-metal show, purportedly to do with organs, although I'm not really hearing organs. And while, for you, this might be a happy accident or a veritable treasure trove of musical delight, for me, it feels like some kind of Sunday afternoon rock bottom. We just heard something by a band called Lime Headed Dog. I am not a fan.

I've got to get out of here. Want to go for a walk?

Latest developments

1. Marquee over the Adult DVD and Video store on O'Farrell and Polk:
Now No Bush.

2. I had a brief email correspondence with my friend Samantha (have you met Samantha? You'll like her) in which I told her that I check her blog frequently and find her regular posting to be inspiring. Her discipline spurs me not to be such a blog slacker. Further, I suggested that "blog slacker" sounds like an invention of Dr. Seuss. She replied, "I would totally read a rhyming book about a bog-dwelling blog slacker." Me too.

3. Speaking of children's books, the second in the Chicken and Cat series by my awesome friend Sara is soon to be released. Do you have a child? Know a child? Pay attention.

4, Today my mother revealed, conversationally, that she has a Facebook profile. Apparently, there's a picture of the two of us on it. Of course, like everyone, my mother has also had a cell phone for years. I have neither of these things. Food for thought.

Welcome

You know all that civic pride I was talking about?

It's back.

Welcome, Mr. President. We're awfully glad to see you.

Weather Report

I know it's lame to wait days and days and then only talk about the weather, but really, it's the most notable thing. I've been restraining myself mostly out of respect for the Kingstons who were so briefly in San Francisco and beside themselves with joy to shed their snowsuits for a week, only to return to another Massachusetts storm. However, I can hold back no longer. With apologies to the rest of the country, it's gorgeous here. Crazy the-world-is-clearly-coming-to-an-end gorgeous, but gorgeous nonetheless. It's been short-sleeved and sockless. It's been eat lunch in the back yard, but don't forget your sunglasses. It's been switch to the less aggressive bedding.

Today on the radio the announcer said, "In Minneapolis it's 40 below zero; in Chicago it's 20 below." He reported the rest of the newsworthy national events, such as heroic plane-landing in the Hudson River. Then he got to our own weather report. "Clear and sunny today in the Bay Area. In San Francisco, high of 67 degrees; in San Jose, 70."

And that's just how it's been for days on end. I'm a little giddy with it. If it makes you feel any better, it's nowhere near this nice in the summer.

Back to work

The party's over. Everybody back to work. Yesterday I was prepared for it to be a bit of a disaster since, for me, coming back from vacation, even when I haven't traveled at all, requires a time adjustment that is not unlike the battle to overcome jetlag. On Saturday night (if you will) I went to bed at 3am and then got up at noon on Sunday. Unsurprisingly, I could then neither sleep on Sunday night, nor wake with any ease on Monday morning. Having shuffled into the office, I discovered that the heater was broken in my part of the building. It was about 47 degrees out and raining. (Please don't go on about how 47 degrees is practically balmy compared to sooooo many other places. I wasn't in so many other places. I was here. And it was cold. Very cold.) I did not unbutton my coat all day, nor remove my scarf. At one point, I put my gloves on, but typing was hard. It was all somewhat Dickensian. I did not enjoy it. Where were my slippers and constant supply of movies and books and pots of tea and snacks and blankets? Nowhere, that's where. Ah, vacation. How I miss you already.

Now it is a bright new day. It is no longer raining. It is several degrees warmer. However, after another night of thrashy, unsatisfying sleep, I dragged myself out to move my car for street cleaning. And then proceeded to drive in circles for 20 minutes, unable to find a single parking place anywhere proximate to my home. I could not simply drive to work since I was wearing an ensemble that was basically built around pajamas. Finally, I found a spot, returned home, and took a shower. Then, having dried about 30% of my hair, my hairdryer broke. No fanfare. No burny smell. No weird noise. Just ceased to function. I refused to walk to work with 70% wet hair, partially because of vanity, partially because of fear of pneumonia. I got dressed, went upstairs, and borrowed a hairdryer from my neighbor (thanks, Nicole!) which then for some reason, I couldn't get to work in the bathroom? So maybe my hairdryer isn't actually broken? Who knows. No time to figure that out this morning. I dried my hair in the living room, walked to work in not-so-great-for-walking-to-work shoes, and arrived 40 minutes late. Ta da!

In my real life, I wouldn't even be out of bed yet.


One small discovery, though, made while tromping to work. What smells more Christmasy than Christmas? The garbage truck that is gathering up discarded trees from street corners and pulverizing them. Obscurely depressing to witness? Yes. But so, so fragrant.

Refuge

Just home from the Revolution Cafe, which feels a lot like Paris only with a great deal more pot smoke and one fully open wall even though it's January and very cold. The band was fantastic (although every one of them had to blow on their freezing hands between songs). During the last hour some girls started dancing. One of them, Anna, could do a mean Charleston. We were delighted. And then she was delighted by our delight. "God it's good to be back in the Mission," she said. "Can I give you a hug?" And she did. "I was just in the Marina. Everyone was so blonde. And the attitude...." I knew just how she felt. No one is playing that music in the Marina and sure as hell no one's doing the Charleston. I said, "I know. I always feel absolutely hideous in the Marina." Anna further endeared herself to me by saying "You're so not. I wish I could rock bangs like you." So, ladies and gentleman, no longer am I "sporting the same haircut I've had since I was five." No. I am "rocking bangs" in 2009. I am also hugging Charleston-dancing fourth grade teachers who also purportedly teach 9-year-olds how to Jitterbug. I am hugging handsome, pot-smoking, anti-Christian, tile-laying, heavy metal drummers. I am hugging petite Japanese-American fiddle players. I am borrowing functional pens from the bartender so I can write a letter to Jules in Switzerland. And, as ever, I am smiling so much at the solos that my face hurts.

Thank you, gentlemen, for the music. Thank you, Revolution, for a glimpse into a happy 2009. I wasn't sure, but now I am.

Just kidding

See number 9 on this list?

Ha.

It is here. The Traditional Christmas Cold has arrived. I would stay to complain about it longer, but I have to go gargle with salt water for a while and then go back to bed.

Dammit.

Midnight miscellany

1. Last night at Evany and Marco's party, everyone looked fabulous. It was like my fantasy of my grownup life come true. Men in ties, women in cocktail dresses. Everyone standing in companionable cocktail party clusters chatting attractively. Just what I always wanted.

2. I saw MILK at the Castro this afternoon. It's been playing there nearly a month, so I assumed it would be me and maybe twenty other people, but the line stretched down the block. To see Harvey Milk's story in a sold-out house at the Castro where we all smiled at each other even as our umbrellas dripped unpleasantly on one another's shoes, where people clapped like mad for the organist before the movie even began, where there was (and always seems to be) an enormous feeling of good will... Well. That felt like a huge privilege. I am proud, proud, proud to live here.

3. The bus stop at Haight and Divisadero is strangely convivial late at night. I did not previously know this, but I was there at 2:30am on Friday night (Saturday morning) and just now, as well. People are chatty and bond over the ridiculousness of waiting for a bus in the middle of the night. People go out of their way to not seem scary since after midnight is a wary time among strangers. On Friday (Saturday for sticklers) I was coming home from the klezmer madness party I'd been at (really--accordions, clarinets, a drum, a bass, a viola, a violin, a bed tipped on end to accommodate them all) and the bus didn't come for a very long while. In the end, a man named Amir offered to share a taxi with me and then wouldn't let me pay for my leg of the journey. Thanks, Amir.

4. I have a crush on this band I just heard. Ramon and Jessica. They are charming in such a way that you want to put them in your pocket and keep them with you all the time.

5. Daniel and I were dancing in the lobby of Cafe du Nord as people cleaned up around us. The song over the speakers may have been "You Send Me."

D: I start my house-sitting gig tonight.
K: Oh yeah? You didn't tell me.
D: Yeah. A cat named Jack.

[We continue to dance for a while in silence.]

D: An actual cat. Not a guy named Jack who I call "cat" because I play jazz.
K: Oh. I'm glad you clarified that.

Merry and bright

You know what? I'm happy. I like it.

It's just a little mixed bouquet of things.
1. We had some impressive hail earlier in the week and I was safe in bed at the time, which, of course, is the very best place to be while listening to hail.
2. Having lost my normal gloves, I've been wearing elbow length leather gloves that are the color of boysenberry yogurt.
3. I'm going to an album release party for an accordionist tomorrow and just the very idea of such a thing makes me smile.
4. I bought jolly gifts for my family. Including a book about a chicken who goes on big adventures.
5. People I love are soon to be coming into town from distant places. (Are you listening, Jules? I'm still counting on you.)
6. I feel myself sneaking into my winter break schedule during which I stay up far too late for no apparent reason and then sleep and sleep. Since I still have three days of work, this is premature and makes for bad mornings. But...almost, almost time.
7. Last night, around midnight, while employing phase one of #6, I had some quality time with my Christmas tree. No other lights but tree lights. Just me, the tree, a blanket, some music, and some contemplative gratitude. The tree and I had been waiting to feel that moment of bonding. We're both glad it's come.
8. I haven't wrapped the presents yet and I love wrapping presents.
9. I don't have the Traditional Christmas Cold. (knock on wood, cross your fingers, say a little prayer...)
10. I've just discovered that I like Sigur Ros. I know all the cool kids liked Sigur Ros years and years ago, but what can I tell you? I'm a late bloomer.

My new calling

Last night I was one of the storytellers at Porchlight's Holiday Spectacular and I think I'm hooked. I spent days being stomach-churningly nervous about the whole thing, but a weird calm came over me after the first sentence came out of my mouth. I can't account for it. Even doing readings of my work (which I actually enjoy doing) in front of far smaller groups of people makes my heart pound and my hands shake. But there I was, obliged to use a microphone for the first time in my life, no notes to read from, a whole auditorium full of people and I just clicked into some mystery other self. I talked about dating mishaps and the audience laughed; I quoted the sweet thing my ex said on our first date and the audience "awwww-ed"; I quoted the psycho thing he said the last day I saw him and some woman in the third row said, "Oh, hell no." I got off stage and a man in an aisle seat gave me a high five. I felt like a rock star. Rarely do I feel like a rock star. Plus, since I went first, it meant didn't have to be nervous all night. Instead I got to listen to everyone else. And drink. Sweet.

Another highlight: Chuck Prophet's heartwarming Christmas song, "Jesus Was a Social Drinker."

Seriously. Porchlight. Check it out. It's always a good time. Warning: you will probably fall a little in love with these women. It's very hard not to.

Still not the same

Well, radio friends, we're back in this realm. Yesterday, I heard some ad on the radio that went on and on in the Twelve Days of Christmas vein. It said things like, "On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me seven slices of hot dog." and "On the fifth day of Christmas, my cupboard gave to me five golden potato chips." I thought it was some weird thing about dieting during the holidays. Um...turns out it was a public service announcement about people starving. Unintentionally starving not "oh my god, I'm so fat in these jeans, I'm totally going on the cayenne cleanse" starving. People in our own community who are suffering from poverty and hunger.

And really, if that message can be misconstrued as a weight-loss program, maybe there's a problem with the copy. Just a thought.

You shall bend to my will

Well, people. You can't say I didn't warn you.

It has happened. I am done with school and am now the Master of Humanity. Stay tuned for your orders.

Job sharing

I call from work to check my (nonexistent) messages at home. I'm struck by the fact that the recorded voice that asks me to "please dial my password" is not the voice of the lady who's been politely requesting me to dial my password for years. I find it oddly unsettling. The new lady is no more melodious than the former lady. Why the change? I dial my password. I am then requested to "enter my mailbox number." Amazingly, just as I was really beginning to worry about her, this second request comes from the original lady--the lady who's been keeping watch over my voicemail for most of the last decade. I'm reassured to hear her. All the remaining prompts are spoken by her. Who then is the password lady? Why does she get just one prompt? Is she in training?

I like to imagine that she the sister of the other lady, down on her luck in the economic downturn. Her sister says, "Look, I can't offer you a lot, but I'll try to help you out. You can be in charge of the first prompt. I've got to hang on to the other ones myself, but hopefully it'll be enough to keep groceries on the table."

She's very selfless and unfailingly cheerful. Such an act of sacrifice would be just like her.

Thanksgiving

Last night I got to sing along with the Decemberists and hundreds of San Franciscans to a song about being swallowed by a whale. And just now, I got carded at Trader Joe's by a guy who's about 15 years younger than me.

Plenty of things to be thankful for.

Good times

It doesn't take a lot to please me, so possibly my good times would only qualify as your so-so times. What can you do?

1. Last night I had to drive home from Berkeley in some sort of mystery condensation (It was a weather condition, not something emanating from my person, nor from my vehicle.) and I wasn't too thrilled about it. But then....it turned out the KFOG was playing ten songs from 1984 and, before I knew it, tiresome drive was magically transformed into Sing Along Spectacular! I became one of those annoying bass-booming cars. Because, you know, when it's the Thompson Twins, you've got to turn it up. Thank God I'm no one's mother. If I were, that child would be dying of embarrassment right this very minute.

Here's the set list:

1984

1. Wang Chung - Dance Hall Days
2. John Cougar Mellencamp - Crumblin' Down
3. The Cars - Hello Again
4. Alan Parson's Project - One Good Reason
5. Frankie Goes to Hollywood - Two Tribes
6. Zebra - Bears
7. U2 - The Unforgettable Fire (Best of Set)
8. Howard Jones - What is Love?
9. Thompson Twins - The Gap
10. Pretenders - My City Was Gone

For me, it was tracks 7, 8, and 9. You?


2. As I was walking home on Saturday afternoon, I encountered a largish group of teenage girls heading down the sidewalk toward me. There were maybe ten of them, all quite lovely, moving en masse. Very close behind them was an unusually tall man with long hair and sunglasses. In my constant need to make order of the world around me, I decided that they were some sort of traveling school group and that he was their chaperone. However, once the girls had passed and the man came fully into view, I saw that he was wearing a full-length billowing cloak attached at his shoulders, knee-high boots, and a large belt to which was affixed a sword and other less readily identifiable metal objects--presumably some sort of additional medieval weaponry. Um...so not the chaperone, then?

Or better, the most kick-ass chaperone ever hired by a girls' school. Muggers? That guy scoffs at muggers. Bring on the dragons. Bring on Satan himself.

Connections

I'm listening to gorgeous jazz on the radio--a station that I've never happened upon before. It's fitting as I just got home from a fantastic show by these guys at this cafe (you'll see my table on the far right), where they played one piece by this man who had written it for this circus created by this friend of mine.

I'm feeling that perhaps all art is connected to all other art and that I'm incredibly fortunate to find myself unexpectedly in the middle of it and to know so many people who are involved in creating it. They will definitely be on my Thanksgiving list of things to be grateful for.

In my own small non-audience artistic pursuits, I am doing the final edits on my final project for grad school--ten shiny little humor essays by yours truly. And I've been invited by these fantastic women whom I completely admire to participate in Porchlight next month. Oh my lord. I didn't know my name was up on that site until just this second. Did I just experience a wave of panic? Um...yes. Wish me luck.

The end

I have not had a television in my house for the last twelve years, largely because I am a total television addict and there is a risk that I will never read nor speak to another human being again if I allow myself to own one. Instead, I listen to the radio a great deal, watch movies from Netflix on my computer, sometimes read books, and even, from time to time, leave the house. These character-building activities sometimes fall short, however, and last night I found myself wandering around YouTube, like so many before me. I watched some excerpts of 30 Rock, a show I've never seen, but frequently hear mentioned. I noticed that all the clips were coming from here. And so, as though helplessly following the Pied Piper, I too, went there. At which point, my life, as I have so carefully crafted it, ended.

I watched FIVE episodes of 30 Rock after which I unapologetically watched a crappy movie. And I was entirely entertained for over three hours.

Shit.

Triangulation II

Last time, Haight and Ashbury; this time, Page and Ashbury--a block away.

I pass a small, bespectacled boy with one of those backpacks on wheels, like a little stewardess bag, but backpack-shaped. He is standing on the corner rocking the backpack back and forth to make a "click-clock" noise while he waits for his nanny to catch up. Weirdly though, as I pass him, I am enveloped in a cloud of pot smoke, unusual among the kindergarten crowd. Then I see the bearded twenty-something guy sitting cross-legged on a dirty white duvet on the edge of the curb, about ten feet away from the kid, smoking a joint, staring absently at the parked cars directly in front of his face. Across the street, a man makes his unsteady way down the sidewalk with a futon mattress draped over his head and back. It extends to his knees on either side, almost entirely obscuring him, as though he is hiding or pretending to be a turtle.

Democracy

I'm feeling all emotional and full of civic pride--partially it's my own "I Voted" sticker, but more, it's the fact that there are hundreds and hundreds of identical stickers being doled out within blocks of my office. If that's true, imagine how many there are all over the country. Look at all of us. Participating. I was 14th in line when I got to my assigned polling garage this morning at 6:45 (a time, incidentally, when I am very seldom even awake, let alone doing any sort of civic duty), and while I stood there, another twenty people queued up behind me. We might as well have been from Sesame Street such diversity did we represent: all sorts of ethnicities, all sorts of ages, some babies, a dog, and, about six inches to the left of the line, a sleeping homeless couple curled up under an woefully inadequate blanket beside an empty bottle of malt liquor. My neighbors. I felt an enormous affection for all of them.

Vive Barack Obama. Vive all those happily married gay couples. And hooray for every citizen waiting in a seemingly endless line to complete that seemingly endless ballot. Long may we reign.

Halloween

Halloween snapshot #1. Berekley. 7pm

A very small fluffy bear comes to the door with a slightly taller Oompa Loompa and a fairy princess. "Trick or treat!" they cry. When my friend's two-year-old son gets home from touring the neighborhood with his father, he pronounces that it was "a bit spooky" but that he saw a skeleton that "went up and down." That, apparently, was a highlight of the adventure.


Halloween snapshot #2. San Francisco. 10:30pm

At a stoplight a few blocks from home, I see a man across the street in "sexy Alice in Wonderland" drag with his friend who appears to be a more miscellaneous "sexy girl." They are both in very short dresses and wigs. Miscellaneous faces the traffic, while Alice stands bowlegged, holding himself up unsteadily against a parked jeep while he pees copiously over the driver's side door.

High school times two

I got to work early yesterday (Absurdly early. To make coffee. Let's not discuss it.) and consequently left early. I drove away at about 3:30. While waiting at a red light, I observed maybe a dozen dudes in the park skateboarding up a storm. I thought, "What the hell? Does NO ONE have a job anymore?" and then I thought "Oh, wait. Maybe they're high school students."

Something is off kilter when my first thought upon seeing a bunch of skaters is that they're unemployed thirty-year-olds. There was a time, not so very long ago, when a pack of guys on skateboards would have been BY DEFINITION teenagers. Not anymore. Not in this town. Oh hell no, not by a long shot.


************


Walking to work this morning, I found myself behind a small group of students. Another girl approached the group from the opposite direction and greeted a boy with a big hug. This was not a romantic-type situation, this was the heartwarming reunion of two teenagers who had not seen each other since the beginning of first period, about an hour earlier. I remember this about high school: it was very heavy on hugs. We were always exceedingly glad to see one another and/or very sorry to part. Either occasion was hug-worthy. And frankly, although quantity was certainly a primary factor, quality was superior as well. As adults, I fear we have really let this slide. In fact, the last really excellent hug I received was at my high school reunion. Coincidence? I think not. Let's see if we can step it up, friends.

Frankly, I could do with more hugs.

Le retour

I've said it before, but that makes it no less true: it is hard to start again once you've stopped. This is applicable for all manner of things, but for me it most often relates to exercising and writing. The former is so difficult as to be essentially impossible. It has certainly been more than a year since I've done anything that I would call Exercise with a capital e. Fortunately, I am still obliged to walk around the neighborhood from time to time, so my limbs haven't atrophied completely.

The writing? The writing is something else altogether. It nags at me differently, and perhaps more persistently, and it requires more concerted effort to ignore. But, as is evident to the four of you who read this, I have managed to put forth that effort for many weeks. Impressive, is it not?

Now, though, I am sitting here on a Sunday afternoon trying to sneak up on the writing through the blog, since the real task of the day is to work on the scary Big Project--the thing that would be my thesis if it were a thesis. Instead it is a Collection of My Work--a term which never fails to make me chortle. Nevertheless, it exists. Sadly, one of the designated readers has failed to be overcome by the brilliance of this mighty collection and has required many changes of me. So far I have reacted to his notes with A) defensiveness B) profanity and C) procrastination. Time is officially running out for this particular three-pronged approach. It is time to embrace such helpful notes as, "In humor writing, the jokes must be clever and work well." And try to make new jokes that this one man might find more clever or better working. Because, after all, I do wish to actually get the MA after all that homework and thousands of dollars and all. It would be silly to stop now.

Clever. Work well. Man, what a good idea. I'm on it.


Meanwhile, while I haven't been telling you four anything, I have been busy. First, I was sick. Seemingly interminably. But that excuse is weeks out of date now. Otherwise, it's been a cultural extravaganza.

A circus in the park.
A movie in the fog.
Colored glass.
Jazz at the museum.
More and more and more music.
One long play.
Movies indoors.
Six short plays.
Jazz in North Beach.

And, the glorious mistress of the Big Idea, Laurie Anderson. At Homeland on Friday, she held that audience in her thrall. When she played a encore on her electric violin, hundreds of people sat silent, silent. You could feel the listening humming through us all.

You should probably move here. There's a lot going on.

Split personality

I was stuck in traffic yesterday behind a large white Chevrolet pickup truck. On its tailgate it had a large sticker, presumably company provided, that said "Safety is my first goal" with an 800 number that other motorists could use to report that the driver was falling short of that goal or, maybe, to congratulate him on goal achievement. There was another sticker, however. A smaller one, nearer the actual bumper. This one had just two words: Death Ride.

Hmmm.

Branding

This morning on the radio there was a discussion of a nonprofit devoted to curing blindness in third world countries. And, despite this very clear context of BLINDNESS CURING, when they said "eye hospital," I heard "iHospital," which presumably would be Apple's new digital trauma center.

Triangulation

I am about to cross Haight Street. To my left, there is a dude standing in the middle of a vacant parking place pissing mightily onto Ashbury Street; in front of me is a guy blocking traffic and half the crosswalk with his giant SUV; to my right is a white guy with dreadlocks playing a banjo. No wonder the tourists flock to the neighborhood. It's a veritable vacation paradise.

Haiku for the Next Door Neighbors

The crying wakes me.
If I wanted a baby,
I would have my own.

The secret life of trees

Walking to work this morning, I pass a mother on a bike with her small daughter. Riding along on the sidewalk beside them is her larger son, on his own bike with training wheels. As I pass, I hear her say exasperatedly, "Well, that's right, Andrew. It's a good thing you were looking. Trees can jump out at you. That's why you have to keep your eyes open."


Later, I walk down a block where several trees have very recently been planted in the newly repaired sidewalk. In the small square of earth at the base of one sapling,there are three empty fifth bottles: two Hennessy and one Bacardi, and a pair of sparkly gold high heels.

Lessons:

1. Trees can jump out and grab you.
2. Trees, even very young trees, know how to party.

Pot Luck, Grab Bag, Miscellany, etc.

1. I know that I've mentioned this before, but I must mention it again or risk exploding with pent-up anger. The stompy, stompy neighbors. Oh how I weary of them. As I have already told you, there are but two men in my building, but between them they sound like a conquering army. Neither wears shoes in the house (thank goodness), so it is all the more difficult to imagine how they do it. It seems like it would be physically painful to bring one's feet down with such force without shoes. Seriously. It isn't so much that I hear them; I feel them. The man upstairs walks from room to room as though in a great fury and my chair trembles; my dishes rattle. Remember that this is Earthquakeville too, so that kind of thing can cause a great deal of anxiety. My next door neighbor is exactly the same, it's just that he isn't over my head. He shakes everything in my apartment when he is coming and going, since the hall to the building's front door runs alongside my living room. There are also three women in the building. But you'd never know it from listening.

2. My friends hosted an Obama party on Saturday, which was swell of them. They raised a good sum of money and gave us sausages and beer and it was also an almost unbelievably beautiful day. I was on 44th Avenue and I was wearing a sleeveless dress. If you are familiar with San Francisco, your mouth is now agape with astonishment. Sunny skies, lovely people, good cause, tasty snacks. So, all in all, very pleasant. However, once again I found myself in the role of The One Person With Neither Spouse Nor Child. Seriously, it was as though there was a rule that you couldn't come unless you bought a baby or toddler, but everyone was just too polite to tell me. It begins to be clear why none of my friends have managed to introduce me to my future spouse, whoever he may be. To do so, they would have to break up his current marriage. This makes me--well--sad, if you want to know the truth.

Later that evening, feeling lonely and blue, (I know. Believe me, I feel like an idiot admitting it in print, but it has been pretty pervasive lately. Pitiful? Yes. Also true.) I gave myself a stern lecture about actually Leaving the House and going Where There Are People. I cannot bring myself to go to a bar/club alone, so I went to a 10:15 movie. An Italian movie that proved to be quite melancholy, about the strain of financial problems on a marriage. A movie that THREE other people wanted to see that night. Woo hoo! Needless to say, after that I was no longer lonely or sad and when I exited the entirely deserted multiplex at midnight, there were rainbows of cheerfulness radiating from my heart.

3. Wristcutters: A Love Story. In the context of all that "I'm so sad" stuff, you may now be convinced that I am actually suicidal. Not so! It only sounds like that sort of movie. When really, with movies like this, why would anyone want to die? Think of everything you'd miss. I love this movie. I watched it twice. And yes, it certainly does have something to do with the fact that Tom Waits in it, and we know how I feel about Tom Waits, but I liked it even before his character showed up. So there.

Correspondence

In my email Junk folder there is one lone message.
It is from Norberto Joliet.
The subject heading is: When his wife is angry with you at night.


Is this spam specifically targeted at adulteresses? That is a niche market for sure. Thank you, Norberto. I don't even need to open your message for it to easily qualify as the most entertaining email I will receive today.

In Memorium

It is 4pm on a school day, which means almost everyone has left the building. On my way to the front desk, I briefly pass a deserted hallway that is lined on one side with lockers. On the floor in front of one locker is a cheap, grocery store bouquet comprised of red and white carnations.

Now, in all likelihood this is merely a tribute to one teen from another that has been accidently abandoned in the flurry of after-school activity. However, the placement of the bouquet and the poor quality of the flowers makes it look exactly like the beginning of one of those impromptu shrines that one sees on the roadside where someone has been killed in a car accident. Or...as though one of our students has perished in some unspeakable locker-related tragedy.

Spell Check

I am checking a work email, mostly because I have trouble spelling "acknowledgment" [in fact, I just spelled it wrong three times right this minute]. However, what spell check is upset by is "but many of you have--thanks." Have--thanks is just too much for it to accept. It offers these alternatives:

harvestman
haven't
handstands
hardstands
havens


Raise your hand if you knew that "harvestman" was a word. Okay, so there are three of you. Fine. How about "hardstands?" Right. That's what I thought. Nobody. Thanks, Microsoft.

We're the class of '88

In the last few days I have been on an internet date and gone to my twenty-year high school reunion. Prior to these events, I thought the former would be a fantastic success and the latter would be a depressing blow to my self esteem. Surprise! I got that backwards. The man I thought was perfect for me...um...didn't like me. So, back to the drawing board on that. Again. However, the reunion? The reunion was great.

First of all, let me just say that Tam High Class of 88 is looking good. Seriously. I kind of can't get over it. Yes, we look like adults. We are adults. But in no way do we look like scary, haggard, obese versions of our 18-year-old selves. There was no need for anxious nametag scanning. We are instantly recognizable. And frankly, pretty hot. Many of the people I graduated with were also my elementary school classmates and I found it truly moving to be there looking at the beautiful grownup versions of girls who were in my Girl Scout troop.

I feared that it would be Parade of Spouses and a veritable photo exhibit of offspring. I feared it would be all long-winded recounting of glamorous careers and recent large-scale propertry purchases. And that I would be all, "blah, blah single. Blah, blah secretary. Blah, blah rent control." Largely because that is my nearly constant inner monologue even when I'm alone. (Yeah. I know. I'm working on it: one resume update and one internet date at a time.) But you know what? It wasn't like that at all. Most people love their spouses so much that they spared them from the reunion altogether. Those who were there seemed to be happily in the spirit of things. And as for children? Maybe people were just happy to have a night off. Maybe it was enough to say their names and ages and then have another glass of wine and dance to another 80s cover.

I ended up wearing the thing that actually fits me, rather than the thing that only sort of fits me with the aid of miserable undergarments. No one hurt my feelings. No one was boastful and tiresome. Instead, I got some really high-quality hugs and was told by a dozen people that I was unchanged. We laughed a lot and sang along to every song and no one wanted it to be over, so we descended en masse on the town dive bar at about 12:45am. And it dawned on me that reunions are actually meant to be joyful. That's why the tradition lingers on. Not because every adult relishes being plagued by her high school insecurities. Oh. Well, that makes more sense. I wish someone would have told me sooner.

The only reunion stereotype that played out was that one guy who was a high school nerd is now a rocket scientist who is married to a stunningly beautiful woman who is? Yep. Also a rocket scientist. And you know what? That's my favorite reunion sterotype. I'm glad we didn't miss out on it.

Also, now that it's over and I am no longer determined to stuff myself into an ill-fitting dress, I hailed yesterday with a large plate of pancakes. Aahhh. The death of pretense is pretty tasty. Especially with maple syrup.

Musing

In the seven minutes of quiet after the first pushing of the snooze alarm this morning, this thought floated in:

If infected is to have a malady, why is defected not to be cured of it?

Ah, English. You wily creature, you.

Foresight

Occasionally, when I'm showing off for myself, I will get out a cookbook. But wait, there's more. I will then look through the cookbook and formulate plans for real meals I will consume in the future. I will then make a list of items necessary to create these meals of the future and I will go to the grocery store with the list and procure them. Now, this doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I'm always quite pleased with myself since the alternative is to sort of wander around aimlessly in Trader Joe's and come home with just chicken breasts, smoked turkey, and yogurt. Again.

Last week, I was all set to make red beans and rice, a recipe that involved multiple ingredients, including stalks of numerous fresh herbs. I know. I am a culinary genius. Step one of this process was to take a pound of red beans and soak them overnight in a pot of water. Which I did. Because I was Planning Ahead. In the morning I drained the water out and left the beans on the counter in their covered pot. Only it turns out that I wasn't home a lot that week and I didn't have time to cook something that requires two hours of simmering. So the beans just sat there in their pot. And that is how I learned what many elementary children already know from classroom science projects. Namely, if you leave wet beans in a covered pot for three days, they will do what they are designed to do: attempt to become bean plants. It is possible that beans that have sprouted are still edible, but when you open a pot and see a full pound of beans, each will a little tentacle bursting from it, they look a bit too much like aliens to be appetizing. Let's just say there should be plenty of bean plants sprouting from the compost bin soon.

Wha..?

Lately I have not been sleeping well. My bed at night seems to have become the Land of Thrashing and Itching. No matter how cold I am when I retire, I end up being weirdly sweaty-hot at some point in the wee hours. This is after a fair amount of existential mind racing and a heaping portion of allergy-induced mouth itching. It has not been good. I wake to the alarm feeling battered and depressed. Today is Sunday, which means that theoretically I was allowed to sleep as late as I wanted to this morning. And I did. It's just that even though I didn't get up until after 10:00, I still felt peevish and unrested.

I took a quasi-nap on the couch at about 12:30, but felt ridiculous and wasteful since the sun was out (rejoice! rejoice!), so I got up anad went out for a few hours to do errands. I came back, ate a late lunch, and felt...like a zombie. And so at 4:30, I decided to commit to a real nap. I shed my clothes and got in bed. And woke up about ten minutes ago. Which means that I was pretty much out cold for three hours. Oh. Oops. So I wasn't kind of sleepy so much as crazy tired. Now I know.

This means that my only real accomplishment of the day was getting a pedicure, which I realize is unimpressive. However, my toes are now emblazoned with a red laquer called "I'm Not Really a Waitress." In my case, I'm really, really not a waitress. And yet, I have every faith it will work equally well as "I'm Not Really a Secretary," which, in conjunction with my fresh haircut and red dress, should arm me well for my 20-year high school reunion next weekend. I'm hoping to project unmarried and childless as "glamorous" rather than "pitiable." And honestly? What with the flowers on my table, the champagne that accompanied my lunch, and the unscheduled three-hour nap, it actually does feel pretty glamorous.

My anthem

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.

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:

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.

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.

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

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.

Request

Terms I find I do not enjoy:

Scrapbooking

Webinar

South paw


Let's never use them again, okay?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Waste

My young cousin, a Marine, has just lost his leg in Fallujah.


What more is there really to say?

Community service

Walking home today I passed a box of miscellaneous computer equipment in a cardboard box on the sidewalk. I don't know what any of it is, but it all looks large and clunky and it is all the same beige "computer equipment" hue. There is a sign above the box written in enthusiastic bubble capitals. It reads:

FREE!
YESTERDAY'S TECHNOLOGY TODAY!

The geinus of commerce

Anthropologie has just sent me an email with this breaking news:

SKIRTS!
They're back on the scene and better than ever.


Here's how to wear them.


I'll be honest, I didn't click the how-to link. Frankly, I find skirts remarkably simple to wear. However, I may have an unfair advantage since I've been wearing them all my life. I missed the part, I guess, when they went away. But they must have, right? Since they're back now?


Meanwhile, up on Haight Street the place that used to sell smoothies has closed down. There's a sign up now telling us what's coming next. Apparently, it is to be the city's best smoke shop. Well, thank god. Because you know what Haight Street needs more of? Smoke shops. There is a desperate lack. Oh. And tattoo/piercing joints. Obviously. Delicious juice based beverages? What need have we of those?

Not the same

There have been a great many commercials on the radio of late encouraging us all to play the California lottery. Basically the message is "winning even a little money is better than winning no money, so you really should spend the money you already have and play." They feature little vignettes of people having pampered themselves in some way. They're not millionaires, but they've been able to buy a bunch of shoes, or go on vacation or something.

This morning, I heard a new one from the series. A woman describes how she spent the day doing whatever she wanted to do: watching Italian movies, playing with her dog in the park and then seeing a guitar in a shop window and buying it on impulse. "Why not?" she asks. Then she says something about how living with cancer doesn't mean you should stop living to the fullest or some such. I'm all for that. You have cancer? Embrace your life. Play guitar if you want to.

And yet.

is it not disturbing that "living with cancer" sounds just like "winning the lottery?"

State of mind

The way I feel today I suppose it is unsurprising that, although I drove to work, I just walked home. This means that I just unintentionally left my car at work, which is not so bad since I need to leave there by car tomorrow afternoon to go to school. However, since it is parked in an 8am street cleaning zone, it is less than ideal. Yet, am I going back there to get it now? I am not. Will I get there before 8am to move it in the morning so I don't get a ticket? I will not. Am I therefore just throwing forty bucks out the window? Yes, yes I am. Now leave me alone. I'm very tired and I have to read about 150 pages of The Creation of Patriarchy by tomorrow. (This is also unlikely to happen, but we're not discussing that.)

Carry-on baggage

Walking home one day this week, I happened upon a man who had taken two of these and made them into one of these.

I don't really even know what to say about it, but I thought you should know.

Another one

Today I've gotten an email from MSN, the subject heading of which is "Date night? Be sure your friend is ready."

All I'm saying is, if that doesn't sound like some sort of condom euphemism, I don't know what does.


On the bright side, MSN seems open to the fact that I may actually be dating, rather than headed down the aisle. So, thanks MSN. Maybe you could have a little chat with J. Crew.

All dressed in black

The Paper Source catalogue I received in the mail on Saturday is entirely devoted to wedding invitations--having them printed, making them yourself with little kits, coordinating them with your guest book and gift boxes.

Just now I got an email from my old friend J. Crew with the subject heading "Engaged?"

People. Seriously. I have a mother. This sort of thing is her job. I really don't need miscellaneous vendors to be similarly perched on the edges of their proverbial seats. Should I ever be engaged, I'll be sure to let you know. J. Crew? I know how to reach you. Meanwhile, please calm down.

Shhh

I am escorting a visitor through the school. I don't know him, so we're not saying much. This makes the loud squeaking of my shoes embarrassingly noticeable.

Me: This gives you a chance to listen to my squeaky shoes, which is good.

Him: I have some squeaky shoes too.

Me: I always forget that they do this until it's too late. I should just replace them.

Him: Mine are really nice shoes actually, it's just that they squeak. (Pause) They're not really worthy of the name "sneakers."

And next up..."Grandpappy's Mitzvah"

On Monday, there was a special activity day at school and I spent an hour of the morning with a group of students who were playing Bluegrass. I sang along as gamely as possible despite 1) not being a very able singer, 2) not being able to read music, and 3) never having heard of 80% of the songs. Still, the melodies are fairly simple and the song titles, even when unfamiliar, are generally pretty genre-appropriate. They have to do with family, God, journeys, love. So, when Courntey called out the name of the next song, I was taken aback. I leaned over to Zach. "What did she say? There's a song called 'The Mensch on the Hill'?"

Turns out there isn't. It's "The Mansion on the Hill." The good news is that means "Mensch on the Hill" is still available. In fact, I believe the whole genre of Yiddish Bluegrass is wide open. Knock yourself out.

Postcard from a Foreign Country

Two things are simultaneously true today that are normally mutally exclusive: it is 6am and I am up. This is unaccountable. Typically I would be up at six o'clock in the morning only if I had jetlag or needed to get to the airport. Today neither is true and yet, after lying awake since 5:23, I decided to give up the charade and actually get out of bed. Now here I am, with one tiny lamp on, listening to The Cure's "Pictures of You" on auto-repeat, waiting for the kettle to boil. Upstairs, I hear my neighbor's shower; across the street, I see a lamp on in the upstairs apartment--signs of life. These other people are citizens of the early morning. Me? I'm just visiting. Tomorrow there will be no pot of tea, no pre-dawn sky. Tomorrow there will be 48 minutes of the snooze alarm followed, quite possibly, by profanity, like every other morning. Meanwhile though, the weather continues fine. Wish you were here.

One week old

2008 is now a week old. How's it been going for you? Well, I hope. And may it continue so for us all.

After a month of writing nothing, it's best not to try to accomplish too much. We're going to start small. Hair shall be the topic.

1.
For 2008, I have embraced hair dye for the first time in my life. Hair dye for me falls into the category of Things I Was Meant to Have Experimented with as a Teenager, but Never Did. I have always been content to let my hair be the color it was when it grew out of my head. That is, until so much of it grew out of my head white at a moment when dating was destined to begin anew (again). I am hoping that this level of vanity may spur me to actually start swimming again, and thus address other unfortunate aspects of aging, but so far it's extended no farther than my darker locks. Interestingly, my ex-boyfriend does not like the new look, but perhaps this is symbolic--a clear sign that some future, as yet unmet, boyfriend will find it exceedingly attractive. As I was walking toward my building recently, my next door neighbor whistled at me in an appreciative manner, so I remain hopeful.

2.
A colleague's 8-year-old daughter walks unexpectedly into the faculty lounge.
"Oh! Hello there. Are you still on vacation?"
"No."
"Really? What are you doing here then?"
"I have lice."
"Oh. I see. How long will you be out of school?"
"Until it's gone."


Um...if your child is not allowed to go to school because she has lice, does it make sense to bring her to your workplace, which, just to be clear, is also a school?

I think we all know the answer to that, my friends. The last time I had lice was 13 years ago, but the memory is all too vivid.

Wishing you a vermin-free new year filled with passers-by who think you look pretty hot.
Love,
Kari

Assorted

I'm back. Did you miss me? What am I saying? Of course you missed me. Well, I'm sorry , but it couldn't be helped. Since I was last here, I have been to Paris and back and also turned in my accursed Dante research paper. Is it a good paper? No. Not particularly, but it is a done paper. A nothing-I-can-do-about-it-now paper. And second only to a work of complete genius, that's my favorite kind of paper. All this to say, I've been busy.

No doubt there will be forthcoming Paris stories, but for now let's just say that due to a lapse in packing attention, Marja somehow managed to come to France with neither her pants, nor her socks. This meant that she spent our four days in the dress and tights she'd worn on the plane and...looked fabulous ALL THE TIME. It was really a remarkable thing to witness.

In more current news, last night while I was in the living room contentedly decorating my wee, yet costly, impulse-buy Christmas tree, my kitchen sink was ever-so-quietly filling with foul water that had been mysteriously regurgitated through my disposal. When I went in to make dinner, it was a nasty shock. Turning on the disposal made the water level rise alarmingly rather than lower. A plunger, even when wielded by a strong neighbor, did nothing. At an inch and a half from overflow level, I called the landlord who came and bailed the water into a bucket with the intention of doing further repairs today. All was well until the upstairs neighbor took a shower and the water crept back up the drain into my sink, filled with a revolting sort of silt that I can only hope the neighbor had not just washed from his body. The good news is that now I know how to fill my apartment with the delightful aroma of vomit without having to go through the exhausting process of actually vomiting. Woo hoo.

Speaking of the aroma of vomit, apparently an ice show is coming to town: Brian Boitano skating his heart out to '70s hits by Barry Manilow. Which, incidentally, Barry will be on hand to perform live. How is that a real show?