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?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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.
It looks pleased with itself.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 21, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Swiss Miss
I know. I am a big liar. We've been all through that. Really, it should no longer be a surprise to you.
Let's be frank: anything clever or witty I might have had to say about my seemingly distant vacation has long since evaporated from my brain. Still, I will soldier on and try to catch up.
LAUSANNE
I went to Lausanne from Geneva by boat. It took about four hours. When I later recounted this to someone in Lausanne, he looked at me blankly for a minute and then said "What was it doing?"
Turns out that Lausanne is really not far from Geneva. In fact, on the train it's about thirty minutes. Therefore, it would appear that any boat that took four hours to make the journey must be doing figure eights or deep sea diving or some such. But no. It went at a pretty good clip, actually, it's just that it made the journey in a sort of zig-zag fashion, stopping at small (and ridiculously picturesque) towns on either side of the lake. Sometimes we were in Switzerland; sometimes we were in France. Frankly, I never noticed the difference. I bought a fancy first-class ticket and sat in a canvas deck chair on the top deck like a lady of means from a bygone era, only more poorly dressed. I tried to be consistently in awe of the view, but awe is difficult to maintain for four hours straight and I might have fallen asleep. Just a little.
The morning began in a very dark and rainy fashion, such that I seriously considered not putting on any sunscreen. I know. What can I have been thinking. Finally, the weight of my skin-cancery Irish heritage was too much too bear and I dug the sunscreen out of my suitcase and lathered it on under the lowering skies. Upon arrival in Lausanne, I discovered that the almost perfect circle of my right ankle bone was lobster red and stinging. I missed a spot, apparently. But let us take a moment to be grateful that it was such a small spot. I might well have been bright red and in agony from head to foot. I have (again) learned a valuable sunscreen lesson. May you learn from my example.
Swiss children are smarter than I. They travel with hats.
Lausanne is a very steep town. I don't have, nor can I find a photo which makes this clear, so you'll have to take my word for it. I arrived, obviously, at the lowest point of the town at lakeside. But when we then got in the subway to go to my friend's house, it immediately started going straight up hill. A peculiar sensation. In fact, at his stop, the station platform is steeply inclined. There are benches, but they are at precipitous angles. Hmm. Surely it is possible to make a flat bench even on an inclined surface, no?
There is a parking garage on the street behind my friend's building. Mind you, it is in no way related to his building. Still, his system is to enter the garage at street level and then take the elevator to the top floor where you are able to exit at what is essentially an entirely different section of the town. I initially thought this was a little ridiculous. That is, until we didn't do it one day. Um. Wow. The citizens of Lausanne must be the fittest people in the world. It was about 90 degrees out the day we did the climb, which certainly didn't help anything, but I really wonder what they do in the wintertime. It must be a dangerously slippery town indeed. Maybe they just toboggan down to the train station to go to work. On the bright side, there is a lake view from almost anywhere you might happen to be. Did I mention that Switzerland is not ugly?
Other things.
1. We went to the Montreux jazz festival, at which there was no jazz (at least none that I witnessed) but there was plenty of Bb Marley playing through the speakers (why? why?) and a great deal of smoking. Oh, the smoking. Swiss people: I thought you were all sporty and brimming with wholesome health. Ha. I say to you. Ha ha.
2. It is possible to purchase a sort of pre-made chocolate ice cream cone (produced by Nestle, as is everything for miles around) that has some sort of chocolate covered nuts on top, a small chocolate bar buried somewhere in the middle, and a cone that is coated with chocolate on the inside. This was clearly invented by a genius.
3. There are croissants available that basically have an entire chocolate bar melted into them. This is a breakfast pastry. Thank you, Lausanne.
4. I can't vouch for all restaurants, mind you, but at least one of them has a menu that involves ridiculously adorable snacks.
5. That horn from the Ricola commercial? It's a real thing.
6. Not to be bested by the smoking festival, Jules and I did go back to Montreux with actual tickets in hand for something called the Jazz Boat. I bet you can guess what that is. My favorite part was singing along with a Canadian swing band to "Just a Gigolo" while drifting past various Alpine vistas. "IIIIIIII ain't got no buuuhhhdy (nobody!) ... Oh. bonjour beautiful view."
7. We played quite a lot of Scrabble (Jules is totally cut throat. Beware of him) and I had a birthday. See?
And then...to London, to London to buy a fat pig. Well, that wasn't actually a goal of my visit, but I did go there. I will tell you about it. Sometime. (See how I didn't say tomorrow? Thus setting myself up to commit yet another falsehood? I'm getting so crafty in my old age.)
Let's be frank: anything clever or witty I might have had to say about my seemingly distant vacation has long since evaporated from my brain. Still, I will soldier on and try to catch up.
LAUSANNE
I went to Lausanne from Geneva by boat. It took about four hours. When I later recounted this to someone in Lausanne, he looked at me blankly for a minute and then said "What was it doing?"
Turns out that Lausanne is really not far from Geneva. In fact, on the train it's about thirty minutes. Therefore, it would appear that any boat that took four hours to make the journey must be doing figure eights or deep sea diving or some such. But no. It went at a pretty good clip, actually, it's just that it made the journey in a sort of zig-zag fashion, stopping at small (and ridiculously picturesque) towns on either side of the lake. Sometimes we were in Switzerland; sometimes we were in France. Frankly, I never noticed the difference. I bought a fancy first-class ticket and sat in a canvas deck chair on the top deck like a lady of means from a bygone era, only more poorly dressed. I tried to be consistently in awe of the view, but awe is difficult to maintain for four hours straight and I might have fallen asleep. Just a little.
The morning began in a very dark and rainy fashion, such that I seriously considered not putting on any sunscreen. I know. What can I have been thinking. Finally, the weight of my skin-cancery Irish heritage was too much too bear and I dug the sunscreen out of my suitcase and lathered it on under the lowering skies. Upon arrival in Lausanne, I discovered that the almost perfect circle of my right ankle bone was lobster red and stinging. I missed a spot, apparently. But let us take a moment to be grateful that it was such a small spot. I might well have been bright red and in agony from head to foot. I have (again) learned a valuable sunscreen lesson. May you learn from my example.
Swiss children are smarter than I. They travel with hats.
Lausanne is a very steep town. I don't have, nor can I find a photo which makes this clear, so you'll have to take my word for it. I arrived, obviously, at the lowest point of the town at lakeside. But when we then got in the subway to go to my friend's house, it immediately started going straight up hill. A peculiar sensation. In fact, at his stop, the station platform is steeply inclined. There are benches, but they are at precipitous angles. Hmm. Surely it is possible to make a flat bench even on an inclined surface, no?
There is a parking garage on the street behind my friend's building. Mind you, it is in no way related to his building. Still, his system is to enter the garage at street level and then take the elevator to the top floor where you are able to exit at what is essentially an entirely different section of the town. I initially thought this was a little ridiculous. That is, until we didn't do it one day. Um. Wow. The citizens of Lausanne must be the fittest people in the world. It was about 90 degrees out the day we did the climb, which certainly didn't help anything, but I really wonder what they do in the wintertime. It must be a dangerously slippery town indeed. Maybe they just toboggan down to the train station to go to work. On the bright side, there is a lake view from almost anywhere you might happen to be. Did I mention that Switzerland is not ugly?
Other things.
1. We went to the Montreux jazz festival, at which there was no jazz (at least none that I witnessed) but there was plenty of Bb Marley playing through the speakers (why? why?) and a great deal of smoking. Oh, the smoking. Swiss people: I thought you were all sporty and brimming with wholesome health. Ha. I say to you. Ha ha.
2. It is possible to purchase a sort of pre-made chocolate ice cream cone (produced by Nestle, as is everything for miles around) that has some sort of chocolate covered nuts on top, a small chocolate bar buried somewhere in the middle, and a cone that is coated with chocolate on the inside. This was clearly invented by a genius.
3. There are croissants available that basically have an entire chocolate bar melted into them. This is a breakfast pastry. Thank you, Lausanne.
4. I can't vouch for all restaurants, mind you, but at least one of them has a menu that involves ridiculously adorable snacks.
5. That horn from the Ricola commercial? It's a real thing.
6. Not to be bested by the smoking festival, Jules and I did go back to Montreux with actual tickets in hand for something called the Jazz Boat. I bet you can guess what that is. My favorite part was singing along with a Canadian swing band to "Just a Gigolo" while drifting past various Alpine vistas. "IIIIIIII ain't got no buuuhhhdy (nobody!) ... Oh. bonjour beautiful view."
7. We played quite a lot of Scrabble (Jules is totally cut throat. Beware of him) and I had a birthday. See?
And then...to London, to London to buy a fat pig. Well, that wasn't actually a goal of my visit, but I did go there. I will tell you about it. Sometime. (See how I didn't say tomorrow? Thus setting myself up to commit yet another falsehood? I'm getting so crafty in my old age.)
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Liar, liar
So, I lied. The tomorrow to which I referred came and went several days ago and still no Lausanne. Sorry about that. There were some transitional computer-less days there during which I executed the purchase of a brand new Mac. Oooooh. This one is all raring to go, unlike my old one which really was very tired and unwilling to to many computery things. So..who knows what our future shall be: yours and mine, mine and the new computer's. Perhaps it will be a fruitful time for us all.
Today, still no Lausanne, I'm sorry to say. But let me share with you instead this very lovely thing I just found on the Radio Lab website.
Also, please note I just embedded a video like a grownup blogger for the very first time. See? The computer and I are already bonding.
Today, still no Lausanne, I'm sorry to say. But let me share with you instead this very lovely thing I just found on the Radio Lab website.
Also, please note I just embedded a video like a grownup blogger for the very first time. See? The computer and I are already bonding.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.
Bonjour. I am back.
Shall we just level with each other? I have actually been back for two weeks, but I have a somewhat ambivalent relationship with my blog. (Oh, that word. How I continue to hate that word. How can one have a warm and fulfilling relationship with something that sounds like a more than usually smelly swamp?)
When I logged in, I saw that I apparently have one follower. I find that pretty amusing, actually. It's like a fledgling cult. Anyway, follower, whoever you may be, I am sorry to have let you down. I will now try to mollify you (and any passers by) with the unprecedented use of...PHOTOS. I know. It's a big step. It is also highly likely that it will never happen again, but for now, let's just enjoy it, shall we.
Let's see. I promised you stories. I'm not sure that I have stories per se, but I have remarks aplenty.
SWITZERLAND
First of all, two things. Switzerland is beautiful. Really beautiful. Like the way you imagine Switzerland? It's just like that. Even as we descended toward the Geneva airport, it looked like we were flying over a storybook kingdom: tidy little fields, imposing mountains, stone chateaux, little people frolicking lakeside. Switzerland is also staggeringly expensive. If you have a whole lot of cash lying around that you'd like to get rid of, I recommend a Swiss vacation. $22 salad? No problem. More than a hundred bucks for pizza for three? Absolutely.
I. GENEVA
1. Geneva has a lake. Well, it doesn't really belong to Geneva; it is a very, very big lake. However, perhaps best to keep that to yourself. The fine people of Geneva don't know it. In fact, they call this very large lake "Lake Geneva." Turns out they're the only ones. Everyone else scattered around the perimeter of this lake for miles and miles calls it "Lac Leman." It is extra special in Geneva though, because it doesn't just lie about being all flat like an ordinary lake. No, no. It also shoots straight up into the sky. Those crazy Genevois.
2. If water shooting into the sky isn't enough excitement for you, you can also play very large chess. Or have a Hugenot villager help you with a computer.
3. Geneva, incidentally, is festooned with banners and posters about Calvin. Not the boy with the tiger. The other one. I think maybe they don't know he wasn't that fun of a guy. Keep it under your Hugenot hat along with the news that they share the lake. Those posters can't have been cheap and I'd hate to disappoint them.
4. Ice cream seems to be available every six steps in Geneva. Obviously, this is as it should be.
Ia. PARIS
Ha. You weren't expecting that, were you? Among the things available in Geneva, is a very fast train to Paris. Three and a half hours, in fact. I tried to resist it, but I couldn't. I have no pictures of Paris, but you surely know what Paris looks like. If not, at least you have the internet. Go ahead. Google "Paris images." See? It's a very beautiful city, isn't it? I was there for one day. I know. Terribly extravagant, but that was enough time to have lunch with a friend, buy some fancy tea, and say a general bonjour. I have only one thing to tell you. If you are in Paris on the 13th of July, people may tell you that there will be fireworks because there is an alleged tradition of celebrating Bastille Day the night before Bastille Day. You are right to be dubious. Do not sit on a bridge for an hour waiting for these fireworks. Because these people are liars.
I'm not too adept with this whole photo thing and as a result it has taken me an uncanny amount of time to tell you very little indeed. But this is fine. This creates suspense. Tomorrow....Lausanne.
Shall we just level with each other? I have actually been back for two weeks, but I have a somewhat ambivalent relationship with my blog. (Oh, that word. How I continue to hate that word. How can one have a warm and fulfilling relationship with something that sounds like a more than usually smelly swamp?)
When I logged in, I saw that I apparently have one follower. I find that pretty amusing, actually. It's like a fledgling cult. Anyway, follower, whoever you may be, I am sorry to have let you down. I will now try to mollify you (and any passers by) with the unprecedented use of...PHOTOS. I know. It's a big step. It is also highly likely that it will never happen again, but for now, let's just enjoy it, shall we.
Let's see. I promised you stories. I'm not sure that I have stories per se, but I have remarks aplenty.
SWITZERLAND
First of all, two things. Switzerland is beautiful. Really beautiful. Like the way you imagine Switzerland? It's just like that. Even as we descended toward the Geneva airport, it looked like we were flying over a storybook kingdom: tidy little fields, imposing mountains, stone chateaux, little people frolicking lakeside. Switzerland is also staggeringly expensive. If you have a whole lot of cash lying around that you'd like to get rid of, I recommend a Swiss vacation. $22 salad? No problem. More than a hundred bucks for pizza for three? Absolutely.
I. GENEVA
1. Geneva has a lake. Well, it doesn't really belong to Geneva; it is a very, very big lake. However, perhaps best to keep that to yourself. The fine people of Geneva don't know it. In fact, they call this very large lake "Lake Geneva." Turns out they're the only ones. Everyone else scattered around the perimeter of this lake for miles and miles calls it "Lac Leman." It is extra special in Geneva though, because it doesn't just lie about being all flat like an ordinary lake. No, no. It also shoots straight up into the sky. Those crazy Genevois.
2. If water shooting into the sky isn't enough excitement for you, you can also play very large chess. Or have a Hugenot villager help you with a computer.
3. Geneva, incidentally, is festooned with banners and posters about Calvin. Not the boy with the tiger. The other one. I think maybe they don't know he wasn't that fun of a guy. Keep it under your Hugenot hat along with the news that they share the lake. Those posters can't have been cheap and I'd hate to disappoint them.
4. Ice cream seems to be available every six steps in Geneva. Obviously, this is as it should be.
Ia. PARIS
Ha. You weren't expecting that, were you? Among the things available in Geneva, is a very fast train to Paris. Three and a half hours, in fact. I tried to resist it, but I couldn't. I have no pictures of Paris, but you surely know what Paris looks like. If not, at least you have the internet. Go ahead. Google "Paris images." See? It's a very beautiful city, isn't it? I was there for one day. I know. Terribly extravagant, but that was enough time to have lunch with a friend, buy some fancy tea, and say a general bonjour. I have only one thing to tell you. If you are in Paris on the 13th of July, people may tell you that there will be fireworks because there is an alleged tradition of celebrating Bastille Day the night before Bastille Day. You are right to be dubious. Do not sit on a bridge for an hour waiting for these fireworks. Because these people are liars.
I'm not too adept with this whole photo thing and as a result it has taken me an uncanny amount of time to tell you very little indeed. But this is fine. This creates suspense. Tomorrow....Lausanne.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Sunday, July 05, 2009
They even sing
Context: The San Francisco Mime Troupe is a fifty-year-old political theatre company. They produce a play on some socially relevant theme every summer and perform in local parks. They are not, nor to my knowledge have they ever been, mimes. I don't know why they're called that. Perhaps if you were to do the research that I am too lazy to do, even with the aid of the internet, you would discover that the word "mime" has some connotation of communist artist collective. Anyway, as with anything that you've been familiar with all your life, you tend to assume that everyone else in the world is also familiar with it. You are rarely correct. To wit the following conversation with a friend visiting from Boston.
The group of us who had seen the play (speaking over one another): The end message was "refuse to pay the interest on your credit cards" rather than "live within your means," which we agree is problematic, but very typical of the Mime Troupe...
Visiting friend who met us in the park after the play (interrupting): How the hell do they get that across in mime?
The group of us who had seen the play (speaking over one another): The end message was "refuse to pay the interest on your credit cards" rather than "live within your means," which we agree is problematic, but very typical of the Mime Troupe...
Visiting friend who met us in the park after the play (interrupting): How the hell do they get that across in mime?
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Point of view
For the past several minutes I have been scrolling through a list of events happening in San Francisco tomorrow night. Among them is a "Knife Skills Class." When I see that it is being held at Sur la Table, a kitchen supply store, I realize these knife skills have to do with cooking. But when I first read it, I was certain it had to do with knife throwing. And that seemed perfectly plausible.
Frankly, I'm a little disappointed.
Frankly, I'm a little disappointed.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Going backwards
There has been much talk in the news of late about a reverse discrimination case. The term has always irked me. As has "reverse racism." According to Webster's, the relevant definiton of discrimination is: "a: the act, practice, or an instance of discriminating categorically rather than individually b: prejudiced or prejudicial outlook, action, or treatment."
So tell me, please, where does the reverse come in? Is not discrimination or racism against whites simply discrimination or racism? Something about that "reverse" has always struck me as unnecessary at best and arrogant at worst. Hey, white people, guess what? We're not that special. When people judge us because we're white it's not the reverse of making judgements about other, non-white people based on race--it's the SAME. And--surpise--we don't enjoy it any more than anyone else has ever enjoyed it. Yep. Ouch.
And anyway wouldn't reverse descrimination more accurately be acceptance? Maybe we should give that one a whirl.
So tell me, please, where does the reverse come in? Is not discrimination or racism against whites simply discrimination or racism? Something about that "reverse" has always struck me as unnecessary at best and arrogant at worst. Hey, white people, guess what? We're not that special. When people judge us because we're white it's not the reverse of making judgements about other, non-white people based on race--it's the SAME. And--surpise--we don't enjoy it any more than anyone else has ever enjoyed it. Yep. Ouch.
And anyway wouldn't reverse descrimination more accurately be acceptance? Maybe we should give that one a whirl.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Our Town
In case you are unfamiliar with San Francisco:
1. It is June 25 and it is pretty much as cold out as January 25. Granted, that's not so very cold as Januaries go, but it is pretty fucking cold for June.
2. Today Michael Jackson died. There are many possible reactions to this news. One of them would be to call twenty of your friends and improvise a sort of Michael Jackson tribute bicycle parade. The guy on the lead bike would have a sort of bike trailer on which he'd tow a huge boombox; he would also fasten some very large speakers to the handlebars and then, at top volume, he would play a Michael Jackson mix. All the other cyclists would trail behind. Others would join you as you pedaled around the city.
That wasn't my reaction, but it was definitely someone's because that parade went past me twice on my way home tonight.
1. It is June 25 and it is pretty much as cold out as January 25. Granted, that's not so very cold as Januaries go, but it is pretty fucking cold for June.
2. Today Michael Jackson died. There are many possible reactions to this news. One of them would be to call twenty of your friends and improvise a sort of Michael Jackson tribute bicycle parade. The guy on the lead bike would have a sort of bike trailer on which he'd tow a huge boombox; he would also fasten some very large speakers to the handlebars and then, at top volume, he would play a Michael Jackson mix. All the other cyclists would trail behind. Others would join you as you pedaled around the city.
That wasn't my reaction, but it was definitely someone's because that parade went past me twice on my way home tonight.
Diversification
There's a new store opening in the Haight and, for a change, it is not a store that sells bongs. It is a store that sells grow lights. An entire store dedicated to grow lights. For all your, um, indoor urban gardening needs.
Don't worry, though. When your crop comes in you can buy a bong at any of five stores within half a block.
Don't worry, though. When your crop comes in you can buy a bong at any of five stores within half a block.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Breaking news
I am on an NPR music mailing list, and they like to keep me abreast of the latest news. Therefore, I am able to tell you that Bjork has a new album and that she seems to be as much of a lunatic as ever. Sort of comforting, really. No?
Incidentally, I'm not sure how long that link will be active, but even if it's only for the next three minutes, I think that'll be long enough for you to learn "Declare Independence" by heart. It appears to be comprised of one sentence.
In other news, I am told that John and Kate have broken up. I'm sure that's quite sad for them, but I was surprised that it was of sufficient importance to be discussed on the morning news. Who, pray tell, are John and Kate? Maybe it's a new trend in news. Perhaps newscasters now just choose common names and events and allow everyone to whom that news applies feel a greater sense of importance. Tomorrow, stay tuned for, "Steve and Jennifer announce their engagement" or "Matt and Stephanie file for bankruptcy."
Incidentally, I'm not sure how long that link will be active, but even if it's only for the next three minutes, I think that'll be long enough for you to learn "Declare Independence" by heart. It appears to be comprised of one sentence.
In other news, I am told that John and Kate have broken up. I'm sure that's quite sad for them, but I was surprised that it was of sufficient importance to be discussed on the morning news. Who, pray tell, are John and Kate? Maybe it's a new trend in news. Perhaps newscasters now just choose common names and events and allow everyone to whom that news applies feel a greater sense of importance. Tomorrow, stay tuned for, "Steve and Jennifer announce their engagement" or "Matt and Stephanie file for bankruptcy."
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Love stories
I have a big crush on a cafe. Is that wrong? My friend Mathew, who has a very keen eye for the aesthetically pleasing, took me to Corner a couple weeks ago and ever since, I find I think about it wistfully. It was so sunny there. And I love the wallpaper with the birds so much. And the tables are so pleasing. And the bathroom has all those candles in mason jars. I think about Corner all the time. If it had a locker, I'd slip it a note between classes. It's just that charming.
Last night at about 10pm, I took my friend Meridith there and found it was equally delightful at night. Mostly this was due to the fact that from the moment we walked in we were treated like regulars or maybe even friends. Our waiter (who I suspect may be an owner or manager or some such) told me it was good to see me. I really don't think he remembers me from the ONE other time I've been in his very busy establishment, but he made me feel as though he did. There was much bonhomie. When he came by to see if everything was all right, I told him that apart from very much wishing the reggae song that was playing (and playing and playing) (sample lyric: "We smoke the weed. We smoke the seed.") would end he called up to the DJ--"Hey. Can you turn it up? She can't quite hear the lyrics. Yes, her. Right here." That sounds kind of mean, actually, but it was funny at the time. He came by later and said, " I know this seems like the same song, but I promise it's different. This one is about the herb instead of the weed and seed." The DJ eventually transitioned to another genre and we were there for two hours or so without noticing the time passing. Not bad for a Monday night. I love feeling like an insider. Thanks, Corner. Do you want to go to prom?
***
On Saturday night I saw "Away We Go," a movie that is alternately hilarious and deeply touching. A movie that made me insanely jealous of Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida--sometimes because they wrote a great screenplay and sometimes because they are married and presumably in love, but mostly both at the same time. Also a movie that made me cry copiously even after I got home.
Hot tip:
Maybe don't go alone to a movie about true love when you are:
1. Older than the characters who keep talking about how they ought to have their lives sorted out by their age
2. Single.
Last night at about 10pm, I took my friend Meridith there and found it was equally delightful at night. Mostly this was due to the fact that from the moment we walked in we were treated like regulars or maybe even friends. Our waiter (who I suspect may be an owner or manager or some such) told me it was good to see me. I really don't think he remembers me from the ONE other time I've been in his very busy establishment, but he made me feel as though he did. There was much bonhomie. When he came by to see if everything was all right, I told him that apart from very much wishing the reggae song that was playing (and playing and playing) (sample lyric: "We smoke the weed. We smoke the seed.") would end he called up to the DJ--"Hey. Can you turn it up? She can't quite hear the lyrics. Yes, her. Right here." That sounds kind of mean, actually, but it was funny at the time. He came by later and said, " I know this seems like the same song, but I promise it's different. This one is about the herb instead of the weed and seed." The DJ eventually transitioned to another genre and we were there for two hours or so without noticing the time passing. Not bad for a Monday night. I love feeling like an insider. Thanks, Corner. Do you want to go to prom?
***
On Saturday night I saw "Away We Go," a movie that is alternately hilarious and deeply touching. A movie that made me insanely jealous of Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida--sometimes because they wrote a great screenplay and sometimes because they are married and presumably in love, but mostly both at the same time. Also a movie that made me cry copiously even after I got home.
Hot tip:
Maybe don't go alone to a movie about true love when you are:
1. Older than the characters who keep talking about how they ought to have their lives sorted out by their age
2. Single.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
