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.