Story time (Part 1)

I have been weirdly paranoid about putting images of myself on my own blog, but then, I am a person who was for a long time very distrustful about depositing checks directly into the ATM. This Safety First stance might have had some merit back in the days when there really were no images of me online, but those days are long since past. There are all sorts of unflattering photos of me onstage, as well as some nice wobbly videos available for the determined Googler, so why be coy?

Out there in public over the past few years, I have told stories at Porchlight, and the Mill Valley Public Library's First Friday series, as well as done a reading for the Literary Death Match. For my own benefit as much as yours, I decided it was time to gather the evidence.

The first story I told for Porchlight was in December 2008. The theme was "All that Glitters is Not Gold." There is no evidence that this ever happened (with this small exception), which, considering that it was a story about an ex of mine, is just as well.

The second story I told was in March 2010. The theme was "Danger!" or "Beware!" or something like that.

It went like this:



video taken by Mystery Videographer, Evan Karp.

First the mouse, then the girl, now the camp

People, I just joined a gym. Sorry. I should have broken it to you more gently. Are you okay?

For a brief moment many years ago, I had a quasi-regular thing going with swimming and then I discovered that I had way more in common with Netflix. So, as is the way in these matters, I broke up with kinda-fitness and devoted myself exclusively to movies. It was going really well until I recently almost had a heart attack walking up the stairs from the box office to the balcony of the symphony hall. Bad sign. I don't need to be an Olympian, but I do need to be able to get to the cheap seats without having an episode.

And so. My "I'm a real swimmer" no-frills bathing suit (in which my Netflix belly will be unattractively prominent) will once again be reunited with water. I haven't told it yet, but I think it's going to be pretty excited. I have no idea how this will go, but having access to a pool is a first step. Please cross your fingers for me. I have trouble with this sector of life.

This is one aspect of a larger project that could be entitled: Stop Thinking Endlessly about Things and Actually Do Them except that that is not a very catchy title. I am going to Camp Mighty in November and I am terribly excited about it. I am not much of a goal-setter or a big-dreamer or even a list-maker, but Mighty Girl said I had to make a list in order to go have cocktails with delightful people and so I did. I will probably put it up here eventually (although, frankly, some of it is none of your bee's wax). The remarkable thing is just writing things down and knowing that I'll be talking about them in a few months has made a difference. I'm trying to be better about the blog; I'm going to renew efforts to not let my body totally atrophy; I got a cookbook with some inspiring vegetarian recipes; I am even taking an Italian class starting on July 12. Good lord, I'm already crossing things off the list and the list has only existed for about two weeks. She might be on to something.

Presumably the self-actualization will not continue at this frenetic pace indefinitely, but for now, I admit it. I do feel mightier.

Tell me no secrets

If the enemy captures me and gives me a mammogram, I am going to tell them everything I know. Immediately. Even if it means they will kill your entire family. When I was living cheerfully in ignorance an hour ago, I would have thought your secrets were safe with me, but I am now living on the other side of the dark curtain of mammography and I know different.

If anyone tells you that a mammogram will cause "some discomfort," punch them in the face. If someone says, "It will hurt more than you can fucking believe and you will wonder how this ludicrously ham-fisted procedure is the best we can do in a time when the iPad exists" thank them for being the only honest person you have ever met.


I wish, like a private eye of yesteryear, I had a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer. Alas, I will have to wait until I get home to try to drown the memory.

Crank it up

From an NPR review of Gillian Welch's new album:

"Some of the territory is familiar: fear of the unknown, desperation, exhaustion."


Yee ha! Don't just stand there; ask me to dance.


*******

And then there's this from Netflix.

"More like Strictly Ballroom: Little Voice; Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; Cosi; The Piano..."

Excuse me? Did you just say The Piano? The PIANO?
That's certainly a double feature just waiting to happen.

Love letters

I send Marja an email telling her I'd just received the most depressing email of my life. Subject heading: We miss you!
Sender: Linens N Things.

An hour later I get an email from Marja.
Subject heading: You're my soulmate
Email message in its entirety: Bev Mo


Proving once again, boys and girls, that life without Marja would be merely a hollow, meaningless trudge toward the grave.

Open letter

Dear gentlemen of the Mission,

Please shave.
There are some indications that you may be quite handsome, but how could anyone be sure?

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
A concerned citizen

By special request

I am deriving some small pleasure from turning up Tom Waits to (attempt to) drown out the much-loathed upstairs-dwelling kinder. Not as much pleasure as I would derive from learning of their imminent plans to attend boarding school in Switzerland, but since it is a bit of a straw-grasping scenario, I'll take whatever pleasure I can get.

Now then. It has happened once again. The conversation that goes like this:

Other person: you should have a blog.
Me (sheepishly): Um...I do have a blog. I just don't tell people about it much. And I'm really bad about updating it.
OP: ??? [general bafflement at what sort of purpose a secret blog with no actual writing on it would serve]

Anyway, I provided this latest individual with the blog address, thinking that I might get more praise out of him (after all, there are more than 300 posts that he's never read), but I have just received an email that includes this. I shall quote. Ahem.

My dear, you really need to pull it together in the next four days and get a new post up there so there is not a big goose egg for June.

The nerve.

So here I am. Folding under peer pressure. Though, to be fair, he also suggested yesterday that I should take a bong hit, and I declined, proving that I am still in possession of at least a bit of spine. (There was no bong present for the conversation. It was more a theoretical bong hit of the future. Possibly, though not necessarily, in Yemen. He has a lot of goals for me, apparently.)

It is Pride weekend and though my instinct was to basically avoid all Pride-related things and zones of the city, that's not to say I'm not proud. Also, I would like a drag queen to teach me to apply eye makeup, so that I too may be glamorous. If you happen to be a drag queen with some spare time, do get in touch.

I came home from my sunny expedition having purchased a remaindered Mollie Katzen cookbook--yet another attempt to jump start a legitimate interest in vegetables and/or cooking--and, in related news, a bunch of radishes, which I am tempted to affix to the front of my frock, corsage-style. However, wishing to wear vegetables is not quite the interest in them I was trying to generate, unless wearing vegetables promotes slimness and good health as much as eating vegetables. If so, stay tuned for some sort of fetching cloche fashioned from kale.

June is no longer a "big goose egg." I hope you are all satisfied.

Slipping

Interestingly, the fact that I am still wearing my nightgown at 2pm does not disquiet me in the least, whereas my realization just now that it is on inside out startled me considerably, suggesting as it does that Standards are not What They Once Were around here.

I slay me

I woke up laughing at 4am from what was apparently a hilarious dream that involved rather a lot of singing. Then the very fact that I had awakened myself with laughter cracked me up, so I just lay there chuckling (and humming the hilarious song which I have since forgotten) for about five minutes before closing my eyes and getting back to the richly rewarding work of sleeping.

Idolotry

It is, we are told, forbidden to worship false gods. But surely it's just as sinful to fail to recognize the real ones when you see them. What if you should happen to find yourself in the enviable position of sitting at your kitchen table with two as yet unopened books--one by Peter Carey and one by Billy Collins? And what if, within minutes, it is clear to you that worship is really the only appropriate verb to apply to the situation? That were you to begin at the beginning: to admire, to appreciate, to applaud...you would find most verbs simply inadequate to the task. You might as well skip ahead to "w" perhaps pausing at "v" to venerate.

Maybe there is a simple way out of the theological quagmire. Maybe they are the one true God--two parts of the Trinity. Billy, the Son, making it look human scale and decidedly easy (which Jesus would be the first to tell you, it is not) and Peter, the Father, making it look magnificently impossible. Perhaps the Holy Spirit just moves between the two of them. Or maybe I am the Holy Spirit. And you. And every reader who finds, bounding from phrase to delightful phrase, that it is suddenly 4pm and she is still in her nightgown.

From Parrot & Olivier in America by Peter Carey

"[It] was one of those dazzling machines that are initially mocked for their impracticality until, all in a great rush, like an Italian footman falling down a staircase, they arrive in front of us, unavoidably real and extraordinarily useful."

From horoscopes for the dead by Billy Collins

Feedback

The woman who wrote from Phoenix
after my reading there

to tell me they were still talking about it

just wrote again
to tell me that they had stopped.

Mysterious

Outside, on the landing, are two small boxes that have been left neither in front of my door, nor my neighbors' door, but snugly against the door of the third apartment, which has been vacant since January. They have been there since I left for work yesterday morning. One box contains the unabridged audio recording of Brideshead Revisited and the other the unabridged audio recording of Pride and Prejudice. Both sets are recorded on cassette. There is no note.

My neighbors and I have now passed these tapes several times and neither household has claimed them. My confusion is increased by the fact that I have a great fondness for both of these books (while also harboring enough general snobbery and specific hostility toward my clattery neighbors [who fill the shared recycling bin to the brim with their uncollapsed boxes each week] to believe that a similar appreciation cannot be attributed to them). Yet, I do not know of anyone who would sneak up the stairs in the late night or early morning to leave recordings for me.

Perhaps most vexingly of all, even if these are a gift just for me from the patron saint of dead English writers, I no longer own a tape player.

John Hughes, eat your heart out.

Tonight at the school's spring concert:

A boy who two years ago was challenged by simply sitting in a chair (seriously, I saw him fall off a chair. Twice.) sang a rip roaring jazz solo accompanied by a full jazz band in front of hundreds of people.

A handsome, polished boy with a perfect suit and a shiny trumpet was the featured soloist on the next piece, after which he called a fellow musician onstage and formally asked her to be his prom date. (She said yes [who on earth would have said no?] and then went to get her bass for the next song.)

Another natty lad thanked his teacher, the band leader. "Scott," he said, "I wanted to say something, particularly on behalf of the seniors. For the past two or three years, you've guided us through the jazz desert. [Pause] We would have gotten you some flowers. Only they don't grow in the jazz desert. But I do offer my thanks."

If I could find a man of 40 with as much panache as the majority of jazz band seniors, I would marry him.

Happy V Day

Some students are producing Eve Ensler's seminal work this spring and they want to make sure we all know.

Of course, there's nothing profane about calling things by their anatomically correct names. And I am certain that if there were signs everywhere that said ARM or KNEE or even LARGE INTESTINE, I'd be just fine. Nevertheless, I do find it a bit disconcerting to have flyers all over the school screaming VAGINA in 200pt bright red caps. Apparently, I'm not all that mature.

Still, I guess it doesn't hurt to have a reminder posted every few feet. I wouldn't want to absent-mindedly leave my vagina in the lunchroom or something. Now I'm prompted constantly to just make sure I still have it with me.

Directions

Last week I was very aware of how all the cool people were at SxSW and how, if I had made some different choices, say, ten years ago, I might have been one of those people. But I did not and, thus, am not. To wit:

1. I am not altogether clear on what SxSW even is. I mean, yes, there is a lot of music. A great, great deal of music. But how is it also a technological extravaganza? I know nothing. I just joined Facebook for goodness sake.

2. Today, looking over the SxSW musical highlights on NPR, I find I have heard of exactly one of the performers. I am not familiar with his work, mind you, but I have heard of him,

I do have the DVD of North by Northwest, however, if you want to come over.

Only 6 Days!

Confession: I would not have known about this were it not for Facebook despite knowing Rob Reich and Circus Bella up close and personal. Fine. Whatever, Facebook. You're the big winner. Now pipe down.

The Circus Bella Allstars are so, so close to meeting the necessary goal to have their CD project funded. Let's see if we can get them there. Hooray for live, local music. Hooray for homegrown circuses. Hooray for friends who are far more talented than I.

Words, words, words

Recently I was informed by someone of higher authority in these matters than myself that if I continued to recoil in horror every time someone said "social media," I would render myself unemployable. I do not wish to be unemployable. However, I have never been a great one for adopting, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I have chosen instead to live by the lesser-known maxim, "if you can't beat 'em, continue to carry bitterness in your heart and hostility towards 'em forevermore." Employers are probably not really looking for that, but, to be fair, it's not on my resume; it's secreted in my black soul.

But, fine. I'm 40. My life is passing me by. Time for a bright new tomorrow, etc. So, as informed I must, I joined Facebook. The world did not grind to a halt, though my friends did express astonishment. I think a pretty good indication that you are out of step with the normative culture is when you say to your friend, "So...I joined Facebook." and she replies with genuine concern, "Oh my god. Are you all right?" And the answer is: yes. I am all right. As a Facebook novice, I just have a very short list of "friends" who are actually friends. There is some satisfaction to seeing them all there in a safe little bundle. In some instances, seeing even three words from their keyboards represents more than I've heard from them in years. It's nice.

However, I am unsure what I'm supposed to do now. "What are you thinking about?" Facebook inquires. Well, Facebook, lots of things, but do I need to keep the world updated on all of them? And if I think of anything particularly droll, shouldn't I put it in my oft-neglected blog? How many platforms does one girl really need?

Heaven forfend I join Twitter, as well. Twitter & Facebook together would surely be the death of Cereal for Dinner, or, if not, my thoughts on crumbs and toenail clippings will soon be mined to the fullest.

Interestingly, running out of things to say never used to be a concern of mine. Welcome to the brave new world.

Snapshot

Stopped at a red light, I check out the prices of the tulips and daffodils outside the corner store (incidentally, it must be spring because they are a crazy bargain). Then, from just beyond the cheerful flower cart, a single soap bubble appeared and drifted languidly across the street.

That all seems awfully whimsical for the average traffic signal. Amelie? Are you in the neighborhood?

O! The humanity

I spent much of the day weeping over how I think cell phones are ruining the culture and how it breaks my heart that I will probably have to join Facebook in order to be employable. Weeping. Over Facebook. That's the sort of thing I do. And yet, despite all my nuanced feelings about how communication should be more personal, less general than Facebook status updates, I feel compelled to write about it on my blog. To....no one. To everyone. So, that makes sense. But there I was, in an existential tailspin, bemoaning the fractured nature of human connection.

Then I dried my eyes, powdered my nose, and went downstairs to see the winter production, which was Charles Mee's bobrauschenbergamerica. And guess what it was about? Human connection. Maybe the play I most needed to see at 4:30 today.

Art wins again. Thanks, art.

Colloquialism

Last Friday, my friends took me out to dinner. Wasn't that nice of them? I thought so.

At one point, Jon leans over to me and says, "You can't look when I say this, okay?" I agree. "There's a movie star sitting at that table. Um...I can't think of his name. Did you see that movie Closer? With Julia Roberts...."

Now. I did see Closer. I saw it more than once, in fact. And there are only four characters in it. Two of them are men. Those two men were played by Clive Owen and Jude Law. I figure that Jon would probably be able to come up with Jude Law's name, which can mean only one thing: Clive Owen is sitting mere feet away from me. I do not react to this certainty with dignified calm. Indeed, I get all giddy and flushed. My intention is to cut Jon off with some expression that means, "I am astonished and excited by this thing you are telling me. In fact, I can barely believe it's true." There are various expressions in the lexicon that, while perhaps inelegant, might have been appropriate. Among them, "Get out!" "Shut up!" "No way!"

Among the expressions that does not mean this at all is "F**k you!" And yet, that is exactly what I said. Specifically, I said,
"F**K you!! Clive Owen is NOT in this restaurant."

I realize that this is not the sort of thing that would horrify many people, but it definitely horrified me, as I generally make it through meals without hurling abuse at my companions, particularly when they are also my hosts. It also definitely, albeit very briefly, horrified Jon (he said nothing, but I saw it flicker in his eyes). I was too embarrassed to apologize. I'm so sorry about that Jon. I didn't mean it.

Also, f**k you, Clive Owen. You totally made me lose my cool. And then you didn't even come home with me.

Taking the broad view

My mother is horrified to learn that I have yet to buy a pad for the rug I've had for a year. Apparently, with every padless step I take upon the rug, I am shortening its life exponentially. I don't really see why this makes sense, but I am willing to accept it. After all, she is my mother.

I've done a little internet shopping for a pad and still haven't purchased one since they are more expensive than I want them to be (i.e. more than $20). It occurred to me that perhaps a likely place for bargain rug pads would be the same place I purchased the bargain rug in the first place.

I go to the website. I type in "rug pad" to the search window.

In reply, I get this message: "Couldn't find results for 'rug pad,' searching 'rug' instead."

You know what? There were plenty of results for rug. Probably because it is a rug store.

Thanks, technology!

Niagara

I watched Niagara last night, which, strangely, I'd never seen. Among other things, it made me pleased that I was not around in 1953. It certainly seems as though it was a very tiresome time to be anyone's wife.

It did raise some interesting questions though.

1. How did Marilyn Monroe wear that much glossy lipstick in bed without getting it on the sheets?





















2. How did 1953 fashions make women look so fantastic while making men look so extremely silly?

3. Why is wearing a rented raincoat and galoshes and being hit in the face with waterfall spray romantic?


But mostly, 4. How are we to believe that this lovely, good natured, sensible woman

(Sadly, I can't figure out how to get the full picture to show up, but if you click on it, you may gaze upon her whole face.)



would ever be married to this dull-witted, big toothed, braying oaf? (Here is a little montage courtesy of AndiBGoode of his idiotic mug. Look at him closely and Imagine him talking too loud, telling his wife to stick her tits out, chortling with his boss, or getting all excited about the Shredded Wheat company where he works. Because he is good at all those things.)

Bilingual

On "Fresh Air" Javier Bardem was asked what it was like to act in English and he said [this is the part where we pretend this is an actual quote when really it's just what I more or less remember. However, I don't think Javier reads this, so we're probably safe]:

"Even right now, as I'm trying to talk to you and express my opinions and thoughts and be relaxed, there is a very busy office full of people in my brain. They are working to make sure I get the right intonation, the right word.... It's exhausting.

When I speak Spanish, that office is closed."

I love that. As my French is used more and more seldom, the people in my office do not maintain any sort of regular schedule. Sometimes they're called in so unexpectedly that they are obliged to show up in their pajamas and then, man, do they have to scramble. That's probably why they can't guarantee the accuracy of the verb tenses.

Sweet

Walking back from the post office, I see a young woman approaching from the opposite direction. She, like 90% of San Franciscans, is holding a black square object in her hand. She is gazing at it as she walks and smiling sweetly, fondly. She has clearly gotten a text from someone she loves.

She then raises the object to her mouth and takes a large bite out of it.
Oh. Um, so not a phone then.

No, what we have here is a woman who has a tender affection for brownies. Long may she reign.

Family tree

The girl in the hall is telling a long story that involved the phrase "my ex step grandfather." Wow. I don't even know how to punctuate that. I imagine there should be a hyphen or two, but I decided to just let it go.

My parents have been married for 43 years and therefore, while I have two deceased grandfathers, I have no ex grandfathers or step grandfathers. And frankly, I find that reassuring.

Thanks, parents.

Valencia

1.
I am walking down Valencia Street behind a mother and her two little girls. The older one is walking beside her mother asking, "What is 3 times 4?" while the younger one stomps ahead of them. Is she angry? Does she just like making noise? Is this a nonviolent protest against arithmetic? As I pass her, I see her checking her reflection out in the shop windows. Turns out, she's wearing shoes that are supposed to light up with every step, but she's not heavy enough to activate them if she walks normally.

Thus: Stomp, sparkle; stomp, sparkle; stomp, sparkle...all the way home.


2.
I pass a man who is talking on his cell phone (let's be clear, I pass scores of people talking on their cell phones. It would be more noteworthy to write about passing someone who was not talking on a cell phone. Ahem. Moving on.) he says:

"I would trust you more if I could hear from you while you're with him, is all I'm saying."

Huh. That seems like it will all work out well, no?

2011

Hello all.

It has been, as is not uncommon, a while.

Brief summary:

Made it to the finals of the Literary Death Match, wore impressive shoes, but was bested by a poet in the final round. I would argue that he had several unfair advantages, but we needn't discuss that now. Jane Smiley gave me the thumbs up, so that's pretty cool.

Had heart broken yet again. Several sad months. Blah, blah, blah.

Spent New Year's Eve on sofa with fever instead of drinking champagne in a fancy frock. Was displeased.

But, I'm back, people. I'm back.



I have recently received a request (by which I mean insistent begging) for the address of this blog from a new acquaintance. I felt it would be shameful to not write something new before pointing him this direction, so here I am: writing.

There is something about being identified as a writer by someone who doesn't actually know you. Something about having a veritable stranger say, essentially, "You're clearly a writer. What are you writing? You should be writing." that is helpful in a way that hearing that from, well, everyone else you know (especially your mom) is not. So, thanks, mister.

Also, at a recent concert by the slyly hilarious and excessively talented Miss Katy Stephan (whose new CD you should purchase at once. Buy the real one, not the online one. The real one has how-to guides for charming crafts. It will make you happy), she brought something up that I have been pondering ever since. She said that before her CD release concert she had been fretting--It is so much work. What if no one comes? Is it worth it?--and composer/musician Darren Johnston told her that no matter what happened, making live music for people in one's community is a form of activism.

I have never before identified with the word activism. It evokes for me images of big crowds, petitions, and yelling, all of which are things from which I habitually shy away. However, art as activism is an idea that resonates though me like a gong. Not art that is "activist art" by definition. Not art that is trying to be political. Art that is its own true self and that for that reason brings people together into a two-hour community called an audience. Art that simply affirms the experience of being alive, together, in person, right now. Having recently seen a kick-ass play at Shotgun Players that similarly made me reflect that theatre when it's done well is as powerful and and visceral and profoundly human as it ever has been, the importance of art, particularly performance, has been zinging around my brain for weeks.

So yes. If people can go through the rigorous labor to make and send out into the world something as complicated and beautiful and fleeting as a song or a play, I can, at least, update my silly blog. Writing for me is a practice of starting over. Again. And again. And again.

2011. Ready? Go.

Do you think it ever misses me?

Seeing your old apartment all spruced up with some stranger in the living room is like seeing your ex with his hot new girlfriend.

It made me strangely sad to see the newly painted building and the fancy new window shades although I live in a perfectly lovely new apartment myself. Still, thirteen years is a long time. Somewhere in my brain that apartment where some younger stranger lives is still what I think of as home.

Bring it, brother!

As I am getting my hair cut, another stylist comes up to my stylist and says:

"Is it heavy? Should I bring it?"

And, seriously, do those questions not suggest that he would imminently be rocking the mic, busting a move, or blowing our minds with a hella sweet riff? They do.


Did those two questions instead relate to a steam cleaner? They did. The disappointment was bitter indeed.

Occupational Hazard

You know that mass email you got from corporate/the guy in the next cubicle/your client? The one that filled you with fury? Well, that was a drag, I'm sure. And that is why I am offering you this moment of perspective from the world of education.

Email received this morning.
Subject heading: Mononucleosis and lice


See?
Don't you feel better now?

To the death

Lit Quake is upon us and, for the first time ever, I'm participating in a literary-type way instead of only in an audience-type way.

Literary Death Match, people. Wednesday night. Come if you dare.

If you come, I think you and I will be the only people there without Pulitzer Prizes (I mean, I assume you don't have one, but I could be wrong), which means we could totally be friends.

Till death do us part or, you know, whenever

Periodically, I try to think of music I would like to have at my fictional wedding. There is really no excuse for this sort of behavior except, um, I'm a girl? The other day on the radio I heard an instrumental version of "There Will Never Be Another You." Gorgeous music, lovely sentiment. Ideal first dance material. I've been meaning to look up the lyrics since all I could remember was, "There will be another fall, another spring, but there will never ever be another you." And yes. That is a lyric. It's just that it falls somewhere in the middle. The lyrics in total are:

There will be many other nights like this,
And I'll be standing here with someone new,
There will be other songs to sing, another fall, another spring,
But there will never be another you.

There will be other lips that I may kiss,
But they won't thrill me like yours used to do,
Yes, I may dream a million dreams,
But how can they come true,
If there will never ever be another you.

Oohhhhh. So, that would make it the most cynical wedding song in history. Right. Just kidding. Still, a great song. Wanna hear it?

In other news, when I went looking for a version of it, I was sent to that link from somewhere else. It said "Hear it on We7." I saw no reason not to. Beside that it said "Yes, it scrobbles!"

Dear sweet lord, technology. What the hell is scrobbling and why is it worthy of an exclamation point? Give a girl a break, won't you? I'm still having all sorts of trouble with "blog."

Oh. Right. My blog.

Remember me? I was bitten by a vampire in May and then stopped writing? Yes. Hi.

After that kind of absence, it seems that there ought to be a Triumphant Return (capital T, capital R) and, frankly, that is why the absence just gets longer and longer. Today I am ending it. There will be nothing triumphant about it, but enough's enough.

Since last we spoke, I turned 40 and, so far, people don't offer me seats on the bus or rush to help me cross the street. Also, nothing has fallen off of my body, so that seems to be working out. I had a really lackluster summer vacation that involved leaving town for a total of four days. However, in July and August I told a couple of stories on stage that made people laugh. Also, people dressed up for my birthday party; turns out I have good looking friends.

In the last few months, I heard many radio commercials exhorting me to buy sweet seedless watermelon. I think it ought to be an exclamation. As in, "Sweet seedless watermelon, Josie! You scared the bejeus out of me!" See if you can make that happen.

But now, the time of sweet seedless watermelon has passed and we are in back-to-school mode. Among other things, this enabled me to overhear the worst ever "yo mama" comeback in the history of speech today.

Student 1: Just go away.
Student 2: Go away, your mother.

Newsflash

The radio newscaster says "Police are calling it murder." And then he goes on to report that a body was found inside a suitcase floating in the bay.

Um...I am also calling it murder.

My father

Quoth my father:
"...you have to be sort of crazed and committed, because there's no stopping."

And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have what I think of as my father's personal motto. Oh. That and also "run your ass off." In fact, you will see that he has almost no ass to speak of. That is because he has been living true to both these mottos my entire life.

Imagine him running much, much faster than this and you might be able to envision the Dipsea legend on race day. My fearless, fleet-footed father. Personally, you couldn't pay me to even walk that trail. But I do definitely look like him, so I did inherit something along the way.

I'm thinking vampire

This year, I have been plagued by mystery bites. These are bites that seem quite small and innocuous at first, but then become monstrous: venom-spreading, heat-producing, mind bogglingly itchy blights. Previous bites have been on my leg and on my hip. I have ruled out mosquitoes and bedbugs; I was thinking maybe spiders (although why suddenly after an almost entirely spider-free life, I would have them crawling into my bed and biting me, I couldn't say).

However, this time I have formulated another theory. Vampire. Don't you think?





Never having read any Anne Rice or Twilight, I'm not sure there's any documentation about people having an intense allergic reaction to a vampire bite, but it might make an interesting twist for a sequel. I may now be forced to live on human blood for all eternity and I won't be able to go out during the day, but that actually seems fine. Vampires neither ski nor hike, right? Perfect. In my old apartment vampires probably would have woken me up, but in the new place I wear earplugs, so I think it's entirely possible.

Yes. A rather dashing vampire finds me irresistible. Otherwise, poison bugs are crawling over me while I sleep. And clearly that can't be happening.

Recumbent women

This morning I had the occasion to ponder which song I loathe more, "Lay Lady Lay" or "Lay Down Sally."

The poor grammar is just the beginning.

Snap shot

I know. I'm not really on top of this writing thing. Let's not talk about it.

On Saturday I put on a hat and drank a mint julep from a silver cup (provided by my father, incidentally, who has won many such cups in a race. I'll bet the other winners of these cups don't drink juleps from them, which seems a pity) at my cousin's Derby party. She has a view of Mt. Tam and a pocket-sized bit of bay with sailboats. You'd like it. In fact, if you want to prove that you like it, you can vote for her in Apartment Therapy's Small, Cool Contest. She's in the teeny-tiny division. Let's make her the big winner, shall we? [At this very moment she is well ahead in the polls, which is exciting.]

Upon leaving her civilized gathering, I went to the car wash. It's a thing where you drive through, but there are also guys in there with rags and sponges and the like. They have this little platform that the guys can climb up on to reach the roof of your car. This means that, if the guy is short (and they all seem to be), when he is on the platform his crotch is framed in my window. That's how I happen to know that the guy washing my roof found it to be more stimulating work than I might have imagined.

I then drove home across the Golden Gate Bridge where, upon passing the north tower, I saw a bicyclist down flat on the ground surrounded by worried compatriots to my right and a would-be jumper clinging to the rail and in conversation with police to my left.

I don't really have a point except: huh. Bourbon in a garden, hard-on in a car wash, physical peril on a bridge. There's a lot going on out there.

The plane! The plane!

I have received an email asking me to order "three chicken sandwiches with everything and one roast beef, plane." Because I am a snob and because being constantly in charge of lunch orders already fills me with fury, being asked to order a "plane" sandwich brings all that simmering indignation to a boil . I'm willing to cut some typo slack on "your" and "you're" or "their" and "they're", but I am seriously drawing the line on "plane" and "plain." You have been warned.

Speaking of planes...I was in LA last week for work. I don't know why anyone would ever, every carry a laptop by choice and one wheel of my suitcase fell off somewhere between the Burbank airport and SFO, but generally it was okay. Flying out of Burbank, which seems like a Fisher-Price airport, was particularly pleasant. I was the only person going through security, so I took my time putting my things into three separate bins (again: laptop=a pain in my arse/right shoulder). During this leisurely belt and shoe removal period, the security man surveyed my driver's license. He asked me if I go by my first name or my middle name. Then he asked me if my mother called me by my whole name when I was in trouble. Then he said:

"How long have you lived up north?"
"All my life."
"Really? Do you ever go downtown?"
"Um...yes?"
"Do you ever walk around while you're reading a book?"
"Um...........sometimes."
"Yeah!" he said excitedly. "I was up there once and downtown I these people just walking while they were reading books. [pause as he sees this magnificent sight in his mind's eye.] I just think people are more intelligent up there than down here."


So, kudos, San Francisco. Nice work on the literary pursuits. Just please remember to look both ways when you get to the corner.

Vocabulary

Dear Office Workers,

If you mean email, then just say "email."
There's really no need to use "ping" as a verb.
Thank you for your attention.

Cordially,
Kari

Frabjous day

Is there anything more beautiful to read than this?

"We have reviewed your claim and found it to be valid. Therefore, the citation has been dismissed."

I just did a little victory dance around the living room.

Goodbye, $80 parking ticket; hello, justice.

Eeek

The school where I work is next to a daycare center. This morning as I passed, the children were outside playing in their yard. Two very little girls and a handsome twenty-something man were gathered at the bottom of the slide examining something halfway up.

The man turned hopefully toward one of his colleagues, a middle aged woman, and said, "We're afraid of bugs. Can you get this off the slide?"

What? Again?

I know. It's crazy. Two days in a row. Yesterday, I spent ten minutes trying to remember my login information and today....I didn't. So, see? Progress, positive reinforcement, etc.

******

Living alone is delightful in many ways, but it has drawbacks. Most notably, being unable to lift heavy stuff with my own two spindly arms and having no one around to help. I have asked many a stranger on the street to get furniture out of my car for me. I'm not proud. But I am, apparently, impatient. During the aforementioned period of furniture shuffling/purchasing, etc. I did carry a surprisingly heavy armchair up a flight of stairs, ditto a chest of drawers. (A thing for which I think I ought to have sold tickets. Kinda weak, stubborn girl+wide dresser+narrow outdoor staircase+rainfall=hilarious. For others. I did not find it hilarious, but it's over now.) Various other things, particularly those made of particle board, I could not lift, but at one point I did get a (different) chest of drawers out of a room by very laboriously dragging it on a towel.

By now, I have the great majority of my furniture in place, so most of that sort of thing should be done, but the prettifying still continues apace. To wit: bedskirt. In my very girly bedroom, I did need to solicit aid to hang the chandelier (that's right. There's a chandelier. In my bedroom.), but I figured "bedskirt" should fall well within my skill set. I mean, it's not like I was setting out to sew one. True, I did spend quite a lot of time ironing it, but on the whole, Operation Bedskirt is pretty low-tech. You know what, though? I cannot lift a queen-sized mattress by myself. Did I spend a half-hour lifting it a millimeter at a time and trying to drag a piece of fabric underneath it? I did. Was I absolutely certain I did not need help? Even when it was clear that the box spring was coated with some kind of nonslip surface to keep the mattress in place, such that fabric dragging was virtually impossible? I was. Did I sweat and swear and hurt my back? Yep. I then realized that the method I was using was really efficient at one thing: wrinkling fabric. A lot. Rendering forty minutes of ironing irrelevant. Damn it. I admitted defeat, removed it, ironed it again, folded it neatly and plan, begrudgingly, to ask the neighbors for aid tonight.


Following this household mishap, I went to a release party for the Nice Guy Trio's podcast. It was held in some kind of artists' collective space which means a big empty room with some instruments, a sound board, two kind of questionable couches and about 20 bicycles hanging on the wall. There were a lot of twenty-something guys with intentionally disheveled hair and/or beards. Had there been a contest, the winner would have been this one guy with copious white-guy dreads and a long pointy beard who was wearing shiny, possibly spandex polka-dot pants with a ruffle at the bottom, a jaunty ladies' hat from the 40's, and a little blazer. He was friends with the long-haired dude wearing the enormous furry hat with animal ears on top (a sartorial description that is sadly very generic in San Francisco). I also met an unassuming young man who was visiting from France where he 1) recently sailed from Bordeaux to Turkey, 2) plays saxophone in some kind of genre-defying band and 3) is about to go on tour in Eastern Europe with what is apparently a very famous metal band (think: opening act for Metallica) for whom he is a sound engineer and producer.

And I thought: you know what these people are probably not too worried about? Bedskirts.

I was never really gone

You'd think I'd have some sort of amazing story to share about how I've been trekking through the wilderness or was kidnapped or in an enchanted slumber or something. But no. Just not feeling very writerly. If it makes you feel any better, I always feel really lousy about myself when I write nothing for months (or years) on end. Actually, why would that make you feel better? You're not mean spirited.

But here we are on the brink of April and springtime and Easter. Rebirth galore. And I had a weekend full of great art:

1. ODC Dancing Downtown, which I think has now closed, but you can take a look at some video of my two favorite pieces "Grassland" and "Waving Not Drowning" here.

2. The Nice Guy Trio playing a fantastic concert of music by local composers (many of whom I know, which made me feel QUITE special, I don't mind telling you). You can see them playing a short set of their own music on this great podcast released every full moon. Tonight's the full moon and I don't know whether the new video is released werewolf-style once the moon is shining, or if it will be up sometime today.

3. Dan Hoyle's The Real Americans. I think Dan Hoyle might actually be magic. If not, I can't really account for how he inhabits so many other people onstage so entirely that you don't see him up there at all half the time. I don't really think it's because he puts on a different baseball cap. Lucky you, his show has been extended to May 30. If you want to see it, you should buy your tickets immediately, because part of his magic is that his shows sell out in the veritable blink of an eye.



If all those people can do all that beautiful work, I can probably update my blog. I can try. I mean, my friend Katy is committed to writing a new song every week for a year and that has got to be much, much harder than this, no?

So what have I been doing all this time? Well, lots of things, of course. But the short answer is: I moved and I met a fella.

I moved in January after thirteen years in one place. I only moved over the hill from one San Francisco neighborhood to another, but it still counts as a big deal. The new apartment is very lovely indeed and also very noisy. If you have an unusually loud vehicle of any kind--anything from skateboards or grocery carts full of bottles to semi trucks and Harleys--I invite you to join the endless parade outside my window. I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun.

I think that all the noise may be to keep me from being insufferably smug, so enamored am I of the apartment itself. Is it possible that all my creative energy has gone into choosing furniture? I think it is.

As for the fella, I also spent quite a bit of energy (pointlessly, as it turns out) trying to win him over. He is determined not to be won, but, even still, it is refreshing to meet someone who awakens interest. I began to think such a thing was never to happen again.


At Saturday's concert, Nice Guy trumpeter Darren Johnston said at the end of a song, "I love those bittersweet songs. I do. 'Cause that's life. They're like 'Alleluia anyways.'"

And isn't that the glass-half-full view of "real life despite my best intentions?" Nothing really goes quite according to plan, but here I am in the middle of the messy celebration that is my life. Beautiful, noisy apartment. Delightful, standoffish man. I'll take it. Alleluia anyways.

Amen. Amen.

True love

As you know, I am deeply engaged in the project of online dating, but I generally choose to just keep it to myself. Until I write a book, that is (as I have been encouraged to do) at which time, I will humiliate myself for your entertainment. For now though, I felt that it was just mean-spirited to keep this from you. Behold the reply I received from a personal ad I posted. This is the entire text of the email. I've deleted nothing but the name.

i just got home
i am copier machine service tech i using my palm PAD phone to enter my services log end of each service call.
i using hand truck to carrier my the yellow tool case and vaccume cleaned, boxs of machine spear parts and paper work order.

Ummmm. Great. So it sounds like you're just about done with all that. When can we meet?

Courage and hope

And who doesn't like those two things?

Back in 2008 my young cousin was gravely wounded in Iraq. At the time, I thought he had lost one leg, when, in fact, he had lost both. Fast forward to now. He is walking on prosthetics and he is being given a house by this rather remarkable organization, Homes for Our Troops.

What is most amazing to me though is how positive he is and how unflappable. I really do not know him at all, but he impresses me mightily. I invite you to meet him here. I watched this video in my office the other day, while high school students buzzed around in the hallway, all jacked up on finals nerves. To hear Steven say, "I'm 21 years old" while listening to 17-year-olds chattering in the background was sobering indeed.

Small disappointments

1. My emails to the cyber-suitor whom I am most keen to meet are bouncing back to me, which means I may lose him before I've even found him.

2. I had graduated from strech-sitting to stack-sitting in my my posture class, but I have been demoted. It seems I am prone to sway my back, and yet also thrust my head forward, which seems impossible. In fact, this may be the most complex feat of athleticism I have ever achieved, so there's that, at least.

3. The lovely vintage pocketwatch I just got does not, in fact, keep time.


It is Friday, though. And there's a double feature of French movies at the Balboa tonight. So maybe I'll cheer up.

Words from further down the road

Are you married? Of course you are. Everyone but me is married. Oh. Sorry. Did I sound bitter? It's quite early in the morning, my defenses have not been bolstered by enough sleep and/or a decent cup of tea. I love online dating! It is rad! Thank God I'm not in a committed relationship where I'd be missing all the fun! (There.)

In any case, I know that marriage isn't the fairy tale happy ending; it's just a different story. If you're in that story or you think you might someday be, the few minutes watching this film by Andrew Zuckerman would be well spent. I found it very moving.

Indeed, much that is to be found on that site is worth looking into or gazing upon. It is some project of Anthropologie, the clothing store, although I don't see any direct correlation. Maybe after selling millions of $200 sweaters they just have so much money that they thought some of it would be worth spending on art and beauty. That would be nice. Caution: Though brimming with lovely things, the site is vexingly baffling to navigate. Breathe deeply first and approach it in a state of calm. It's always worth making time for heartening perspectives on the human experiment.

Weekend Highlight

I did quite a few things this weekend, including overcoming the sore throat I had creeping around for three days. (Ha! Not sick after all!) However, the best thing, no contest, was Dil Bole Hidappa (Translation: My Heart Goes Hooray!) at the Castro. In short, it is about a remarkably skilled cricketer who is not allowed to play because she is a woman. But wait! With a little spirt glue and a fake beard, dreams can come true.

It's quite possible that musicals are not your thing. I understand that many people feel that way, it's just that I am not among them. Bollywood musicals are like regular musicals on drugs. I'm not too familiar with drugs, so I'm sorry not to be more specific, but think speed with some kind of "Wow those colors are so amazing. Do you think I could eat them?" component. So what is that? Cocaine and acid together? Something.

The plots are ridiculous and predictable. And I love them. The movies are usually about three hours long, the better to have more! dance! numbers! Dance numbers that are introduced by such lines as "Are you going to invite me to the harvest festival this year?" "Of course, my friend." Cut to harvest festival! Which is like an enormous Busby Berkeley extravaganza only with a better beat. The song is about having the disco people move aside because the traditional Indian dancing is so superior in every way. Which is exactly the song you would anticipate at a harvest festival.

Oh, the joy.

Of course, The Castro Theatre is also my favorite place in San Francisco, and being there for a sold-out movie, whatever it may be, never fails to make me happy. Still, sold-out Bollywood is a straight shot of elation. My heart went hooray.

Whoooops.

Last night, I was moseying contentedly down the path of Everything Will Be Fine when I accidentally slipped and slid right into the Self Pity bog. (Possible other explanations/titles: The Internet Stranger Who Broke the Camel's Back or perhaps most simply, Online Dating Hurts My Feelings.) I sank quite deep and had trouble crawling out--it's damnably slippery, you know. In the end, I had to have a friend throw me a rope and haul me out as best he could.

Anyway, what with one thing and another, not a great night. Today's project is to regroup. What better time, therefore, to bring this out. I happened upon this list folded in a cookbook; on the other side is a shopping list. I have no recollection of writing it (you know how seldom I use my cookbooks) or what prompted me to write it, but it was very pleasing to find it. Here is what it says.


Some Things I Like

Making those little cream pitchers that have hinged lids "talk"

Very small spoons

Watching people in restaurant kitchens cook over those crazy huge flames and flip things in pans

Colored shadows of helium balloons

A good Manhattan

Manhattan

French movie matinees on grey days

Books that you want to read in one sitting

Men in hats

British understatement

People who don't wear jeans absolutely everywhere they go

Real letters in the mail

Witty repartee

Actually ripe tomatoes

Parking places in front of the destination

Movies from the 30s


Of course, I like a great many other things, but that's what fit on the paper. It's a cheerful list, don't you think? I like the girl who wrote it. That I am that girl is so much the better.

Tap your foot

The aptly named Nice Guy Trio had their CD release party last night at Yoshi's. And it was fantastic. So overcome with happiness was I that I resisted the urge to knock the damn iPhone out of the hand of the ridiculous man next to me. Dude. Listen to me now: Do not text during a concert. Especially not for an hour.

Anyway, a CD release party can only mean one thing. A released CD. You should buy it immediately, of course.

And while you're feeling musical, this is a fun thing to peruse. If you click on the more info thing, you can listen to a little song clip. And who doesn't enjoy a little song clip?

Thank you, kind sir

At about midnight, my friend and I disembarked from the N Judah and were standing chatting on the corner of Carl and Cole. A man approached from down the street and I stepped aside slightly to give him better access to the crosswalk. As he passed us, not only did he say, "excuse me," he tipped his hat to us. Not in an exaggerated ironic sort of way, but in a genuinely mannerly sort of way. And then he simply carried on up the street. And now I am probably in love with him.

Even?

Logging onto match.com (the details of which I generally try to spare you), I get an error message. There's a little dialogue box which, at the top in large letters, says, "Even dating has its difficulties" and then in smaller print it says "We couldn't process that request." and then the usual customer support contact information.

Hoo boy. I don't know if I've ever seen a more hilariously misused "even." Oh, naive little match.com, when you suggest that a computer error message may be the first dating mishap I had ever experienced, I can but laugh derisively. I assure you that this error message is not the first dating difficulty with which you have presented me. Indeed, were I not already quite aware that dating has its difficulties, I would never have logged onto your site to begin with. Thank you, though, for your quaint apology.

The Bangles

Jonathan Lethem is probably smarter than you too. He certainly seemed to be very smart. He did say one thing that resonated and which I will now misquote. "The experience of reading books that you love is that of encountering yourself." Basically, that when a book speaks to you profoundly it is because it affirms or reveals some deep part of yourself. I wish I could recall what he said exactly, but I know that my reaction was complete agreement.

However, I was inattentive on the whole because seated in the two rows directly behind me was a whole class of university students. I pray that they are mere freshmen and that there is yet time to mold them into adults, although part of me despairs that by university age they wouldn't have already gleaned some basic theatre-going skills.

1. Keep your phone off and closed.

2. Don't talk. No. Really. Just don't. That whispering you did steadily for at least thirty minutes counts as talking. Good theatres have excellent acoustics. We can all hear you. And we don't like you.

3. The question-and-answer period at the end of the formal interview is still part of the event. Which means you still can't talk.

4. If for some reason you find it fashionable to wear 18 bangles on your arm, for the love of God, keep your arm still. I don't know what you were doing back there--calisthenics?--but you sounded like an entire team of horses bedecked with sleigh bells.

There are others, but let's start by mastering these, shall we?

And the answer is: no

It is actually not possible for your upstairs neighbors to move away without your noticing. Don't concern yourself with that worry. It's true that they might give their cat away a few weeks early to throw you off the trail, but there will be a great deal of stomping and dragging and banging near the end. It will go on all night. You won't miss anything.

Phew.

A.S. Byatt is smarter than you

Not that she'd say so. She's very polite. I don't know that you've read any of her books, but I have and I'm a bit in awe of her. She is one of those writers who is able to take all sorts of elements of the human experience--art, history, science, emotion--and weave them into a complex narrative. Reading her books makes me feel the way I did after I saw Tom Stoppard's Arcadia: what must it be like to be that smart?

Here are some things she said at the Herbst on Monday:

1. That one of her great heroines is Elizabeth Blackwell, the first woman doctor in England. She said that she admired her particularly for the way in which she became a doctor. That is, by being very polite. Apparently Ms. Blackwell would just turn up for lectures and exams and when told she shouldn't be there would say "Oh, I'm just attending. Thank you." and stay. Eventually, they had to pass her. "She became a doctor and never lost her good manners," said Ms. Byatt.

After this tale, Robert Hass mentioned that Gertrude Stein had gone to medical school for three years, but had given it up and became a writer. Ms. Byatt remarked that it was probably just as well and that she "wouldn't have liked to have been tended by her at all. Alice B. Toklas would have been better."

2. When asked about the future of the planet she said that it seemed very likely that according to all the scientists she's spoken to, it is very likely that we are going to extinguish ourselves. She said "human beings are very clever animals, and we make all sorts of clever things. But we're just not quite clever enough to stop."

3. She told us that when she is working on a book, she first fills notebooks with copious quotes, research, ideas, etc. When she sits down to write the book she does it chronologically straight thought. She said that if she makes a mistake, she throws the page away and begins again. She doesn't cross things out or move things around.

Have you read a book by A.S. Byatt? Yeah. I'll just give you a moment to contemplate the fact that it was written in that manner. You should probably sit down before you think about it too much.

4. She has four children. I mean, they are not children now, but they were at some point. How she was simultaneously the sort of writer she is and the mother of four, I cannot say. It puts parent blogging in rather harsh perspective. Any sort of blogging, really. She spoke about the decision one can make to be a person, not just a woman. She quite obviously achieved a level of personhood that is miles above my head.


On the whole, it was delightful and I felt honored to be there and I can't wait to read her new book. Hooray for writers. Hooray for thinkers. Hooray for good manners and understated humor. Hip Hip Hooray!

Tonight, back to Herbst to hear what Jonathan Lethem has to say for himself.

Neighborhood watch

My upstairs neighbors are moving to Switzerland. The question is, have they already moved to Switzerland? And the answer is, I really couldn't say. Hmmm. Surely I ought to know. There are only four apartments in the building and what these particular people call their floor, I call my ceiling. Is it actually possible for them to have moved out of the country without my noticing? Would there not have been some "schlepping all of our possessions down and uncarpeted staircase" noise? True, I haven't heard their cat lately (hooray!). You know what? I think they may really be gone.


I fully intended to say goodbye.

Oops.

Muddled and shaken

But in a good way.

My friend Samantha knows about cool things and she invites me to come with her to do them, which is just the sort of friend you want to have. Last night I went with her to Workshop to take a class called Mad Men Cocktails: Old School Classics. We got dressed up for the occasion and, frankly, we looked fantastic. So much so that when we were walking down the sidewalk and some guy said "Has anyone told you ladies that you look beautiful tonight?" The appropriate reply that came to mind was "Not yet, but thank you." And it's true. He was the first, but not the last. Sorry you missed it, because we might not be stuffing ourselves into those dresses and heels again any time soon.

Our lovely instructor taught us to make a Tom Collins, an Old Fashioned, and a Gibson. And, less interesting to me, a negroni.


I skipped the Campari because nothing you can say will make me believe it's palatable. However, I did learn that campari was and/or is dyed with insects (true!) but that vegans are all upset about it and have been lobbying for a bug-free version. This bit of information created quite a hubbub among the students because, get this San Francisco, we are tired of vegans. My favorite remark to come from the general decrying was "Do vegans have, like, a big need for campari?" A very good question indeed. Surely there are enough roots and organic grains to keep them busy and they can just stay away from our liquor. And bugs.

Anyway, it was delightful. Do you live here? Workshop is a very cool place. Check out their schedule. I hear there's a grilled cheese sandwich workshop coming up. I'm so there.

Things I didn't miss

The good news is that before I got sick I had a week in which I did not miss things. Indeed, I had two double-event evenings one after the other and that may have been my undoing, but, oh well.

1. Nick Hornby interviewed by Dave Eggers at the Herbst. Delightful. I like to listen to amusing people talk about how much they love books. Presumably, this does not surprise you. Next week, I'm going to hear A.S. Byatt (who I think is scary smart and I'm glad I'm not the one interviewing her as my questions would be along the lines of "So. What's it like to be so darn intelligent?") and Jonathan Lethem who is also no dummy.

You want an anecdote? You got it.
The interview was part of City Arts and Lectures, which, as you may already know, is broadcast on public radio. Anyway, in person, the stage is just set with two armchairs, and a little table with water on it. Dave Eggers sat in one and Nick Hornby in the other. They were chatting companionably and at one point, Nick Hornby mentioned that before he'd been a writer, he'd been interested in music and football.

"Really?" says D.E. "Music and football, you say." He jokily pulls a pen out of his pocket and pretends to add this information to his notes. "Well, I had no idea you were interested in those things. It's not even in my notes here."

There is much general laughter from the Nick-Hornby-familiar audience.[Note: if you yourself are not familiar with Nick Hornby, this is officially not amusing. Sorry.]

But then, Dave Eggers just has this pen in his hand, and, as you sometimes do unconsciously, he starts clicking it while he's talking. "click-click. click-click. click-click." He doesn't do it continuously, but in little spurts of clickiness. This seems like it wouldn't matter much, but the theatre is very well-mic-ed so it is really quite loud and distracting. Also, they're recording for radio, so you know somewhere there is a sound editor weeping.

This goes on for a while and then at one point, a stage hand comes on and fairly unobtrusively refills Dave's water glass. She then reaches over him and physically removes the pen from his hand and replaces it with a pencil. Much laughter and applause from the audience. Dave himself looks somewhat bemused. Then he says "Oh my god. Was I going like this [mimes pen clicking.] Oy."

General mirth.


2. My friend Kirk playing yet another show. This time with only one trumpet, but also a violin and an upright bass. Good times.


3. The Nice Guy Trio playing a big finale concert at the de Young featuring all the people they'd collaborated with over the past six months. A jazz extravaganza. And, beautifully, it was in the lovely Koret Auditorium instead of the anticipated open main hall, which is cacophonous and acoustically a ridiculous place for a concert. It was great. But then, I'm their biggest fan. Did you know they have a CD out? They do. You should probably buy it.


4. The Lit Ball

Mathew

Congratulations

And thank you to my parents who celebrated their 42nd wedding anniversary this week.


It is awe-inspiring to me to contemplate being with someone for forty-two years, particularly since in the last year and a half I haven't managed to find anyone I wanted to go on more than three dates with.

Speaking of which, the adventure of online dating continues apace. Most recently, an email from a man too old for me. He said many genuinely flattering and complimentary things, but among them was this: "you are sexy in your way."

Huh.

Um...thanks?

Things I missed

Hello mystery cyber readers! I am not dead. I am not even in bed. I know. I'm as surprised as you are. I still find it perilous to venture more than a few steps away from a box of Kleenex, but I am nearly well. The hot question around the school has been "Was it the flu?" Because, of course, we've been led to believe that we will all die of flu this year. No! It wasn't the flu. My life never hung in the balance. I never even had a fever. But I did feel lousy for days and days and surely that should be enough to satisfy everyone.

Now then. Here's a little list of things I intended to do and then stayed in bed instead. I'm not sure what purpose such a list serves. Hmmm. To prove that my life would be fascinating if I could just manage to participate in it? Maybe.

Things I Missed (in order):

1. My lovely friend Katy Stephan doing her thing at the piano at Martuni's. Not to worry! It's a steady gig. I haven't missed it forever; it just seemed so clever to go on a Sunday night that was followed by a Monday holiday. 'Twas not to be.

2. A day off that was fun in any way.

3. A reading of the epilogue to The Laramie Project at the Magic.

4. Fancy cocktails at Alembic to bid farewell to my friend Liz who is moving to Canada. She came over instead and we had soup. Because, you know, when your friend is moving out of the country, you can't cancel altogether. She didn't even laugh at my weird laryngitisy voice. In all ways, she's the sort of person you wish wouldn't move away.

5. The National Theatre of London's cinema broadcast of All's Well. Isn't that cool? I'll definitely be there for the Bennett play in the spring. I was sorry to miss it, but I couldn't rally for three hours of Shakespeare punctuated by coughing (my own, of course. I'm not implying that it was an avant garde interpretation of the play.) It was also a twenty-dollar ticket out the window. Sigh.

6. Howard Wiley and the Angola Project at the de Young. They played at school once upon a time (what? How is it that famous people play in this tiny school's gym? We are lucky round here.) and I was all agog.

7. Basically all of Litquake.


On the bright side, I did see about 200 movies on Netflix instant viewing and I drank 700 cups of tea. Something like that.

Anyway. I'm back. Hi.

Another blessing counted

Let's say you live alone. And you're sick. Not sick like dying, but sick like sore throat, snuffly, shuffly miserable.
Do you have a friend who would call you at midnight and read you stories until the Nyquil kicked in?

I do.

Aptly titled

"Real Life Despite My Best Intentions."

This is nicely illustrated almost every day in ways large and small, but I think last night's example is particularly rich.

When I returned to my car after a small workshop about mindfulness and breaking negative patterns in one's life, I discovered a hundred dollar parking ticket.

I could tell you a far more detailed version of this story, but why?

Your savior

I heard on the radio this morning that some study has recently been conducted that shows that 1) people who live with a partner live longer than those who live alone and 2) men will live longer if they live with a college-educated woman.

Ahem.

Gentlemen, I have a Master's degree. And I'm single.

Step right up.

Monday Miscellany

I do complain about my job (I complain about everything, actually, so this is really not surprising), but on some days there is nowhere I'd rather be. Those days, friends, are Talent Show days. Let's just say that Monday morning is very much improved by witnessing two seventeen-year-old white Jews stepping into their DJ personas of Rhymeoceros and HipHopopatamus* and doing a little freestylin' on the mic. One of HipHopoptamus' lyrics ended with "how could you come up with such a preposterous hypothesis." I only wish I could remember more because it was mad quotable yo.

*****

Later, overheard in the hallway.
"Yeah. In Spanish, I just put an "o" on the end of English words."
[PAUSE]
"I got an F-o."


*****

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass was this weekend and it was quite an extravaganza. Billy Bragg said that football is a game they play in England which is called "'football' because you play it with your feet. See? What you play here that you call 'football' we call 'runny, runny, catchy, catchy.'" Aimee Mann was astonished by the size of the crowd and the blinding sun. "I feel like my forehead is a giant solar panel," she said. And darling, adorable Neko Case said all manner of ridiculous things because she is a big goofball. She also snorts when she laughs. And we love her. She did have to keep hoisting her pants up and said, "It's hard to do rock and roll when you've got no butt. You have to just keep pulling your pants up. Belts don't do no good."

Thanks for the music, y'all.


And now, MUNI, may I just have a word? Do you see this picture?




Yeah. That's the crowd at one of six stages. This will apparently come as a surprise to you, but after the festival all those people had to get home. So, I'm thinkin'... maybe run more buses? I know. It's a crazy idea, but it just might work.

As for me, although I exited the park at a bus stop, the (two) buses on Fulton were full, so I walked to Balboa, where another bus passed me, so I walked to Geary. Once there, I just walked and walked and walked for the better part of an hour during which time only one bus passed me at all. After 35 blocks, I finally came upon an empty taxi at Geary and Stanyan which took me the remaining 17 blocks home. Had the taxi driver proposed to me, I probably would have married him.


View Larger Map

The way this was supposed to go was a straight shot down Fulton on the trusty #5 and a leisurely 10-block stroll home. Had I planned to walk between 30 and 50 blocks, I would have worn different shoes. And I definitely, definitely would have peed first. Just to recap: four buses are insufficient to transport 750,000 people. I only mention this in passing.

Love,
Kari

P.S. The one bonus of walking directly east for an hour in the dark was that I did see the moonrise. And it was lovely.

{10/7/09: I have since been informed that while our two students are still clearly adorable and entertaining, they are not rap parody geniuses. But they are.}

MUNI--the freshmaker

Do you remember that Mentos commercial where the pretty lady has a little tiny car that is gets boxed in by bigger cars, so she has some burly construction workers pick up her car and move it?

It's better in real life.

On Saturday night, my friend and I were at Kezar on the corner of Carl and Cole, directly on the route of the N Judah. Trains come and go, of course, and one learns to ignore them, but instead of heading into the tunnel as usual, one outbound train stopped in the middle of the intersection for a long enough time to attract my attention even thought my back was to the window. When I turned to look, the train was stuck right where the track curves tunnelward; all the doors were open and passengers and driver seemed stymied. Suddenly, about a dozen guys stepped off the train and surrounded a four-door Toyota sedan just a few feet from the head of the train. They lifted it up, and moved it a foot closer to the curb (allowing the train to clear it) and deposited it back on the street. Then, looking rather pleased with themselves, they reboarded the train to applause from their fellow passengers, passersby on the street, and even those of us in the bar. It was strangely elating.

A lesson in parallel parking and a small neighborhood celebration--all at once. Who needs candy?

Things I'm not good at: Part 8,600,010

Hula hooping. Or rather, since Hula Hoop is a trademarked device, hooping. A thing that seems as though it would be A) not all that difficult and B) downright whimsical. Bah ha ha ha.

You know how they say you never forget how to ride a bike? I am willing to believe that's true, although I've never put it to the test. Personally, I haven't been on a bike since I was 9 years old and I have no intention of getting on a bike ever again. But, that's me. For, you know, normal people, perhaps the adage holds true. Therefore, you might imagine it would be true for other skills one possessed as a child. Based on my small not-all-that-scientific study, this is not the case. Seriously. I was fantastic at hula hooping when I was 8. I had a red hoop and I spent many a pleasant hour with it on the back deck. Round and round it went and all was right with the world.

Fast forward 31 years. Hooping fitness class (a thing that actually exists, in case you didn't know). Of ten women, I am the only one who cannot keep the hoop up. In fact, I suck to a degree that makes me incredulous even though each time the hoop clatters to the floor I am presented with irrefutable evidence. Also, ow. Really. Ow, ow.

The following day, I had this bruise on my blinding white flesh. The photo doesn't even really do it justice. It was a truly awe-inspiring bruise. I also had (and continue to have) bruises over my ribs on both sides of my body, as well as a massive one on my left elbow and another on the knee. If you don't mind my saying so: whimsical, my ass.




I won't be returning. Fitness has once again slipped from my grasp.

The good news is that I think I'm still pretty good at jumping rope.

Our native language

In Ritual Grounds on Sunday afternoon.

Me: For the record, I really hate this music.

Mathew: Earlier they were playing something less insistent. It is a rather mercurial sonic situation.


He's my little ray of linguistic sunshine in a drab vernacular world.

A novel syndrome

If I am reading a novel by a male author and that novel is in some way delightful (which, for me, typically means the writer evidences both sprightly wit and a wealth of knowledge about one thing or many things of which I am ignorant), I will be moved to interrupt my reading to look at the back flap. If this author is somewhere along the spectrum of passably to extraordinarily handsome, I will instantly fall in love with him. If then the "About the Author" blurb contains mention of this author's wife, the following will occur:

1. I will feel immediately deflated, as though, since this stranger is already romantically entangled, happiness will never be mine. [It makes no difference if the author is 15 years younger than me and lives in, say, Maine. The fact that I am too old for him and there is essentially zero likelihood that we will ever meet in no way alters my certainty that we would be perfect for each other.]

2. I feel a swift blaze of jealousy directed at this wife. This is increased if the author is indeed 15 years younger than me because his wife is likely to also be a youngster. And really why should this wife have been a child bride when I continue to languish in spinsterhood? This wife calls herself a woman? What knows she of life?

3. I wallow in general malaise because no handsome brilliant novelist has ever married me. Even though one should. Obviously.


I do not experience this in relation to movie stars.

Discuss.

Sweet revenge

About half a block from work, on a corner that I pass twice daily, there once was a tree. What was wrong with this tree I cannot tell you, but according to the opinion of someone, quite possibly an arborist, it needed to be removed. Or at least mostly removed. A year or so ago, all its branches were removed and its top was cut off. What remained was somewhat taller than the average stump, but nothing at all like the average tree. Stealthily, while I wasn't really paying attention, the leftover trunk began to sprout leaves--just a few at first and then, over time, a great many leaves. Now, what was once a tree looks like an extremely healthy bush, fairly bristling with leaves. It is approximately 5 feet tall and seems to have modeled itself after a haystack or Cousin It.

It looks pleased with itself.

Better late than never

You remember how I claimed that I went to London this summer? I did. Honest. It's just that I'm a terrible blogger. But then, if you're reading this, you already know that.

I spent about five days with my friends who had rented a flat for the summer. Basically, they told me they were spending the summer in London, and I immediately invited myself. They were too polite to turn me town. The flat was in Belsize Park near Primrose Hill. The nearest underground stations were Chalk Farm and Swiss Cottage. From which we can conclude that the majority of locations in London sound like they have come directly from a children's book.

The neighborhood was very lovely--full of beautiful brick houses that were once large single residences, but have almost all been converted to flats. The romantic in me finds that to be rather a pity, but, on the other hand, if anyone would like to buy me a flat there, please feel free.

LONDON

1. Upon greeting me, my friend Talya forewarned me that her three-year-old daughter had developed a "Dick Van Dyke accent." by which she meant a "Bert the chimney sweep from Disney's version of Mary Poppins" accent. Indeed, this very small blonde child, usually dressed in pink, had acquired a broad cockney-by-way-of-American-high-school-drama-club accent. It really wasn't her fault. Her mother is English; her father is Irish; they normally live in Massachusetts; she'd spent months surrounded by her English and Irish relatives and had been consuming a steady diet of BBC children's programming. Nevertheless, a slightly unspecific cockney accent coming from a very small girl? Hilarious. Unfailingly hilarious.


2. I would not have known this if I hadn't been staying in a house with two young children, but there is a very cool playground in Kensington Gardens built as a memorial to Princess Diana. It is built on a Peter Pan theme and you are jealous that it's not in your own town, you just don't know it. Fairy chimes, teepees, huge pirate ship, lost boys house. Super cool.

3. Another thing I wouldn't have ever found out were it not for the children: the BBC children's channel actually seems to be on the side of parents. In the evening, there is a peculiar bedtime program called "Iggle Piggle" (seriously, to me it looks like it cannot have been created without the aid of hallucinogens, but children seem to enjoy it), followed by another program where an actor reads a bedtime story. After the story, all sorts of BBC characters from various shows say goodnight and then...the channel actually goes off the air until morning and the children go to bed. It's brilliant. Goodnight BBC, goodnight children.

4. I met some plumbers in a pub who seemed extremely offended that I did not plan to go to Manchester.

5. Talya and I saw War Horse at the National. It is a completely amazing play that does not sound amazing. Ready? A young man raises a horse from the time it is a colt. WWI rolls around. The boy's father sells the horse to the army. The boy enlists to find his horse. There are many misadventures, largely because WWI was not delightful. The boy and the horse are finally reunited. Ta da!

See? Not amazing.

But the horses in this play were puppets. Huge puppets operated by between two and four puppeteers. And I can't even imagine the amount of rehearsal it must have taken to make those horses so entirely, well, horsey. It was simply breathtaking. And we all cried. So there.



There is a little video of it here, should you be curious.


6. They sell little containers of ice cream in the theatre at intermission. It, like everything, is overpriced and yet I did not care at all because I was sitting in a theatre and eating ice cream at the same time. If you are me, it really doesn't get better than that.

7. Our friends came down from Scotland. Later email correspondence suggests that at least one of them was "chuffed to bits" to see me. Very likely the best compliment I've ever received.

8. If you are an American sitting at a table with an Irishman, and English woman, and two Scots and the music suddenly gets very loud, it is quite possible that you will no longer be able to understand a single word that anyone is saying.

9. At Camden Market, I wanted to buy a great many impractical old things. To wit:




9. And, as for the Portobello Road, I wanted to live there AND buy old things.







And, were I not terrified to drive in England, maybe own this car. It's nice to know the people of Chelsea are pro-Obama.

Cheating

Yesterday I read an interview with someone (I don't even know who she was, actually. It was one of those one-link-leads-to-another internet wandering type things. She's someone with a nice house? Who designs things, maybe?) in which she was asked "what is your most treasured possession?" To this she replied, "my family."

I hate that.

Your family is not a possession. We want to know if you have a collection of your grandmother's love letters or a necklace you bought in Tunisia or a perfect blue lamp. Something. A thing.

This happens all the time. Interviewees, writers of online personals profiles, you know who you are.

Look. People. We assume you love your child/spouse/mother/best friend more than your vintage comic books. Consider it a given.
And now... answer the actual question.

Merci.

Lockdown

I laughed yesterday to read this post on Samantha's blog. Look at how happy she is. Read how she is suffused with contentment.

Huh.

Meanwhile, I have had a headache since Saturday. Typically, I'm not very prone to headaches, but they are hard to avoid when you have been clenching your teeth all day long. I am a long-time night clencher and have a dentist-approved plastic device that prevents me from engaging in hot tooth-on-tooth action all night long. But until now this has been a completely unconscious and utterly mysterious manifestation. Now, I am doing it in my waking hours. My head hurts. My jaw hurts. My teeth hurt. But mostly. I think we can safely assess that this is not an indication that I am suffused with contentment. Apparently I am filled with stress and/or rage. This both surprises me and saddens me. (Update: I am filled with stress, rage, surprise, and sadness.)

What to do?

Perhaps if I, like Samantha, were unemployed, I would become slack-jawed with joy. It seems a dangerous gamble though. Once my meager savings had gone, I would be worried and sure to go back to my old ways. Then my teeth might crumble altogether and there I'd be--penniless and without dental insurance.

Maybe I should just drink more.

Soundtrack

You know what might be rather depressing?
Scrolling through online personal ads and suddenly realizing that the song playing on the ol' iTunes mix is "The Sound of Settling."

Not that I'd know.