I wasn't going to post again until next year, but I just had a semi-inspired idea and need to share.
Josh and Emily and I saw For Your Consideration at The Parkway tonight. It wasn't that funny, sadly, but still worth the price to watch Catherine O'Hara try to say "meshugge" and then wind up with collagen lips.
Afterward, we went to old favorite Trio for tea and some ridiculous chocolate thing. In a stereotypical place—although a first for me—a random business plan popped into my head. OK, I was in the bathroom. But just washing my hands when the muse struck, so don't get grossed out.
Emily, who's petite in her own right, has a pair of even smaller sisters. Like, wicked small. When anyone in the family goes shopping, they've been known to ask: "If you see any really small clothes, please buy them for us? Anything double zero. Just buy them."
Back in the day, I worked at a hoochie boutique in Berkeley. Students came in all the time to ask if we had anything smaller than a size zero. I was polite to them, but my rude inner monologue was saying, "No, honey, they don't make numbers smaller than zero."
But when it comes to fashion . . . why don't they?
We have all kinds of retail for rapidly ballooning Americans: Big & Tall, Lane Bryant, etc. But we don't have any specialty stores to accommodate the parallel trend of extremely small adult women. Why hasn't anyone capitalized on this yet? Designers would salivate over it, Hollywood starlets would eat it up, and Emily's sisters wouldn't have to shop at Gap Kids.
So here's a gift for my friends in B-school: Start an upscale chain for the mini ladies out there in L.A. and the Marina. The smaller the clothing, the more you can charge. I even have a name for you—Less Than Zero—although I wouldn't recommend asking a coked-up James Spader to star in the ad campaign. Maybe Kate Moss is available?
Just remember that you saw it here first, or I'll have to sue somebody and change the title of this blog to The Business Casual Businesswoman. It doesn't have the same ring to it.
December 28, 2006
December 27, 2006
Holy trinity of no
Prawns, saffron, and capers.
These foods will not be riding along with The BCB and The Semiotician to Portland for New Year's. It's The Semi's birthday, so her taste rules our list of provisions. It pretty much kills my plan of filling Gibson's trunk with prawns as a gift, but I'm sure I can come up with something else.
Speaking of Gibson, he decided at his 90K checkup that this would be an excellent moment for a new timing belt. Hooray! I didn't need that $500 for stuff like my PG&E bill, anyway. But there's a silver lining—in the form of a mechanic who's not only open this week, but willing to turn around the repair in a day for half the price of my usual VW shop.
Even better, this shop is run by a fleet of courteous little middle-aged men. One of them drove me to North Berkeley BART and pointed out the exact spot where he'd pick me up when the car was done, because "it's not safe around here after 4 or 5 p.m." Because, you know, a Cal professor on his way from office hours to his million-dollar house might beat me over the head with an arugula and heirloom tomato salad from Chez Panisse.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for another coastal road trip. Hang on, weren't you just in Portland? Indeed. But when the birthday girl chooses, her pals listen, and we both have great friends up there to host us for the holiday. Plus, on the way back down, we're staying at . . . wait for it! . . .
The Treesort.
If you can get past the website patter about "our facilitree" and making a "treeservation," you have to admit it's the coolest thing ever. The Semi tells me our cabin is 35 feet up. If it doesn't rain, that's a photo essay just begging to happen.
Go on and kick back with a prawn cocktail and some risotto, and I'll see you in the new year.
These foods will not be riding along with The BCB and The Semiotician to Portland for New Year's. It's The Semi's birthday, so her taste rules our list of provisions. It pretty much kills my plan of filling Gibson's trunk with prawns as a gift, but I'm sure I can come up with something else.
Speaking of Gibson, he decided at his 90K checkup that this would be an excellent moment for a new timing belt. Hooray! I didn't need that $500 for stuff like my PG&E bill, anyway. But there's a silver lining—in the form of a mechanic who's not only open this week, but willing to turn around the repair in a day for half the price of my usual VW shop.
Even better, this shop is run by a fleet of courteous little middle-aged men. One of them drove me to North Berkeley BART and pointed out the exact spot where he'd pick me up when the car was done, because "it's not safe around here after 4 or 5 p.m." Because, you know, a Cal professor on his way from office hours to his million-dollar house might beat me over the head with an arugula and heirloom tomato salad from Chez Panisse.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for another coastal road trip. Hang on, weren't you just in Portland? Indeed. But when the birthday girl chooses, her pals listen, and we both have great friends up there to host us for the holiday. Plus, on the way back down, we're staying at . . . wait for it! . . .
The Treesort.
If you can get past the website patter about "our facilitree" and making a "treeservation," you have to admit it's the coolest thing ever. The Semi tells me our cabin is 35 feet up. If it doesn't rain, that's a photo essay just begging to happen.
Go on and kick back with a prawn cocktail and some risotto, and I'll see you in the new year.
December 18, 2006
'Tis the season
I mean pre-Oscar season, of course. There are suddenly more good movies out there than I can possibly find time to see.
But I decided to give it the ol' yuppie try by starting with An Inconvenient Truth, which I always meant to see but wound up reading about and discussing instead; and Babel, the kind of film I have to get in a certain mindset to appreciate. Movies are escapism, after all, and it's usually more relaxing to escape to the mind of Christopher Guest or yet another English romantic comedy than face our self-destructive world head-on, with surround sound.
Maybe it was the real winter weather California decided to have over the weekend, but my mood was right. Bring on the politics.
I'll spare you plot summaries and pithy reviews. The gist: They're both important films, well worth your time and money. Here are a few things they made me think about.
The stats of doom from An Inconvenient Truth have been publicized enough that they didn't shock me, but seeing them onscreen did drive them home. In case you haven't heard, we're decimating our environment. Insanely quickly. Oh yes we are. Time for serious policy changes and personal changes. Write a letter to your representative, check your tire pressure, recycle everything, buy some compact fluorescent bulbs, get elected to Congress. Now, please.
While you're at it, get Al Gore to teach you PowerPoint—I had no idea how awesome it could be in the right hands.
The lessons in Babel were more subtle. They went something like this: The smallest action can become vital and dangerous, both for what it causes and how it's interpreted. Never assume that justice is clear-cut or forthcoming. Our immigration laws are a gigantic mess that ruins the lives of good people daily. Don't take E and then go to a Tokyo nightclub, especially if your self-esteem is already shaky.
And I still can't decide whether I'd rather go blind or deaf, if I had to choose. Both losses seem inestimable—but nowhere near as desperate as a single life can be, if any one of a million circumstances makes it so.
But I decided to give it the ol' yuppie try by starting with An Inconvenient Truth, which I always meant to see but wound up reading about and discussing instead; and Babel, the kind of film I have to get in a certain mindset to appreciate. Movies are escapism, after all, and it's usually more relaxing to escape to the mind of Christopher Guest or yet another English romantic comedy than face our self-destructive world head-on, with surround sound.
Maybe it was the real winter weather California decided to have over the weekend, but my mood was right. Bring on the politics.
I'll spare you plot summaries and pithy reviews. The gist: They're both important films, well worth your time and money. Here are a few things they made me think about.
The stats of doom from An Inconvenient Truth have been publicized enough that they didn't shock me, but seeing them onscreen did drive them home. In case you haven't heard, we're decimating our environment. Insanely quickly. Oh yes we are. Time for serious policy changes and personal changes. Write a letter to your representative, check your tire pressure, recycle everything, buy some compact fluorescent bulbs, get elected to Congress. Now, please.
While you're at it, get Al Gore to teach you PowerPoint—I had no idea how awesome it could be in the right hands.
The lessons in Babel were more subtle. They went something like this: The smallest action can become vital and dangerous, both for what it causes and how it's interpreted. Never assume that justice is clear-cut or forthcoming. Our immigration laws are a gigantic mess that ruins the lives of good people daily. Don't take E and then go to a Tokyo nightclub, especially if your self-esteem is already shaky.
And I still can't decide whether I'd rather go blind or deaf, if I had to choose. Both losses seem inestimable—but nowhere near as desperate as a single life can be, if any one of a million circumstances makes it so.
December 07, 2006
Portland
Before I start talking Portland, I want to apologize again for accidentally censoring all your comments. Just when you think you've mastered this newfangled technology, it bites you in the ass. Consider me schooled.
On to happier things, like Thanksgiving in Washington and Oregon.
The trip started with a night out in Seattle. Two great old friends were there—one just moved to town for grad school, and the other was spending the holiday with her husband's family. It was dark and pouring, so I have no pictures. But trust me, they're the coolest.
Next up: An epic drive with my bro and his lady friend from Seattle to Dallas, OR, where our stepbrother lives with his wife, their adorable and hilarious kids, and about 900 pets. Dogs and cats and snakes all over the place.
They cooked up a delicious feast on Thanksgiving. We all slept in the next morning, then ate homemade cinnamon rolls on the couch. Life is good in the country.
Their daughter, who's cheeky as they come, was only wearing clothes for about as long as it took to shoot this picture. She came to Thanksgiving dinner buck naked, and we were all jealous. "I just keep telling myself," said her optimistic dad, "that's she's going to be a strong woman."
Later that day, we headed back north to Portland. You know it's Portland because the trees look like fall:
And the vandals are clever, but only minimally disruptive:
I wrote my holiday blog post in this neat little café, which the owner has cleverly disguised as a roadside dive bar:
Albeit a roadside dive bar with croissants.
I stayed with friends who live around the corner from the Waypost. They got married over the summer and moved up from Oakland, and I miss them like crazy. By the way, they're totally in love:
Or, as Nikki would say, IN LOVE!!!!!!!!!
Their place is also near a used stuff emporium. There's no good noun available for this type of store, but it looks like a combination of Berkeley's Urban Ore and the East Bay Depot for Creative Reuse. The building has an open, friendly design and a fantastic fence:
In the afternoon, we drove up a street whose name I can't remember to a lookout point whose name I can't remember. It was only a few minutes from downtown Portland, but the views were clear and beautiful, with mountains all around us.
They had some pay binoculars I didn't use. The manufacturer did a good job naming them, though:
I lost my New England stamina and practicality years ago, so I didn't bring enough warm clothes. Nikki has mastered the northern coastal art of layering:
After mountain-peeping, we made a quick stop at Powell's, then met up with my brother and his crew to see Bobby (so bad, I won't even link it).
Downtown Portland has some groovy public art. For the most part, it's far from ostentatious—you almost have to search for it. But every once in a while, if you happen to look up, it offers itself to you:
Nothing says "Thanksgiving vacation" like a metal fish diving through a brick building. Or so they tell me.
On to happier things, like Thanksgiving in Washington and Oregon.
The trip started with a night out in Seattle. Two great old friends were there—one just moved to town for grad school, and the other was spending the holiday with her husband's family. It was dark and pouring, so I have no pictures. But trust me, they're the coolest.
Next up: An epic drive with my bro and his lady friend from Seattle to Dallas, OR, where our stepbrother lives with his wife, their adorable and hilarious kids, and about 900 pets. Dogs and cats and snakes all over the place.
They cooked up a delicious feast on Thanksgiving. We all slept in the next morning, then ate homemade cinnamon rolls on the couch. Life is good in the country.
Their daughter, who's cheeky as they come, was only wearing clothes for about as long as it took to shoot this picture. She came to Thanksgiving dinner buck naked, and we were all jealous. "I just keep telling myself," said her optimistic dad, "that's she's going to be a strong woman."
Later that day, we headed back north to Portland. You know it's Portland because the trees look like fall:
And the vandals are clever, but only minimally disruptive:
I wrote my holiday blog post in this neat little café, which the owner has cleverly disguised as a roadside dive bar:
Albeit a roadside dive bar with croissants.
I stayed with friends who live around the corner from the Waypost. They got married over the summer and moved up from Oakland, and I miss them like crazy. By the way, they're totally in love:
Or, as Nikki would say, IN LOVE!!!!!!!!!
Their place is also near a used stuff emporium. There's no good noun available for this type of store, but it looks like a combination of Berkeley's Urban Ore and the East Bay Depot for Creative Reuse. The building has an open, friendly design and a fantastic fence:
In the afternoon, we drove up a street whose name I can't remember to a lookout point whose name I can't remember. It was only a few minutes from downtown Portland, but the views were clear and beautiful, with mountains all around us.
They had some pay binoculars I didn't use. The manufacturer did a good job naming them, though:
I lost my New England stamina and practicality years ago, so I didn't bring enough warm clothes. Nikki has mastered the northern coastal art of layering:
After mountain-peeping, we made a quick stop at Powell's, then met up with my brother and his crew to see Bobby (so bad, I won't even link it).
Downtown Portland has some groovy public art. For the most part, it's far from ostentatious—you almost have to search for it. But every once in a while, if you happen to look up, it offers itself to you:
Nothing says "Thanksgiving vacation" like a metal fish diving through a brick building. Or so they tell me.
Oops
I just discovered a bunch of blog comments waiting for my approval. They've been sitting there for months, but I had no idea. Sorry, everyone! They weren't being ignored or rejected, just languishing in commentory.
Now that I know how to read and publish them, your comments will be free to roam.
Thanks for writing, it's great to know you're out there.
Now that I know how to read and publish them, your comments will be free to roam.
Thanks for writing, it's great to know you're out there.
December 04, 2006
They're following me
In the women's bathroom at work today: red fuzzies. I don't remember leaving them there, but I must have. Either that or they've learned to drive.
Curses!
Coming soon, an Oregon photo essay. Please be patient. Scanning takes time, and I keep it real like that.
Also I have a schmoozy media holiday party to attend tonight.
Air kisses,
The BCB
Curses!
Coming soon, an Oregon photo essay. Please be patient. Scanning takes time, and I keep it real like that.
Also I have a schmoozy media holiday party to attend tonight.
Air kisses,
The BCB
November 27, 2006
Mushy snow
Just in time for the flight home. Awesome!
Hear me now: I will never travel north of California without a warm hat again.
Humble pie duly eaten, Charles.
Hear me now: I will never travel north of California without a warm hat again.
Humble pie duly eaten, Charles.
November 25, 2006
Legacies revisited
Howdy from the Pac Northwest office of The BCB.
I'm at the Waypost, a downhome café around the corner from where I'm staying with friends who enthusiastically took part in the Great Oakland to Portland Migration of 2006. It's not raining for some reason, and we're all grateful.
Last night, my bro and I helped gather together a table of random friends from different places and stages in our lives, from childhood to six months back. We ate killer sushi and talked about a thousand things, from how to start a magaine to buying land in Nicaragua. And it didn't rain.
My old blog is about to expire from neglect, and that's okay. But there's an entry I'd like to save, and it seems to fit the place and the time of year.
Happy Thanksgiving.
*************************
Thursday, 12 May 2005
Instead of going to the Lyrics Born show tonight, I'm home with a fever. It's been so long I forgot they make me kind of woozy & sentimental. So I'm putting up this tribute I wrote the other night. 'Scuse the footnotes, a feverish haze...
I say “y’all” because of B.
I listen to hip-hop because of M.
I read poetry because of S.
I hit the low notes because of A.
I make curry because of D.
I have friend crushes because of K.
I’m a faithful correspondent because of S.
I practice yoga because of N.
I value white space because of J.
I drink tea because of B.
I kick a soccer ball with my left foot because of D.
I know tupperware1 makes a great gift because of S.
I call all little kids “munchkin” because of M.
I can flirt in French because of G.
I try to read more slowly because of A.
I write songs because of C.
I sing backup because of J.
I chew gum because of R.
I look everything up because of M.
I sign my name the way I do because of S.
I watch for flying ice walruses because of J.
I know a meal isn’t a meal without cheese because of C.
I revisit the good old boys because of H.
I carry my keys on a carabiner2 because of K.
I drink red wine because of A.
I can recite “Jabberwocky” because of S.
I honor ritual and silence because of J&P.
I’m coming to terms3 with the wanderlust/stability paradox because of A.
I have a blog because of B.
I can play whist because of R.
I remember the names of all the former Soviet republics4 because of D.
I still love playing dress-up because of C.
I look for shooting stars because of L.
I dance to reggae because of A.
I know how to smoke because of F.
I’m a nonsmoker because of C.
I eat avocadoes because of J.
I’m growing new dendrites because of S.
Each of those initials belongs to a different person. It’s funny how friends and lovers and family stick around, but also comforting somehow. Even when you’d maybe rather some of them exit your psyche stage left.
But the spotless mind is just a fantasy, and not the healthiest one. Our brains don’t discriminate between the accidental and the deliberate. They just keep everything.
Then turn it into a dream or a habit when you least expect it.
1 When it's full
2 Same one for nine years!
3 Slowly
4 By singing them to the tune of "Jingle Bells." For real.
I'm at the Waypost, a downhome café around the corner from where I'm staying with friends who enthusiastically took part in the Great Oakland to Portland Migration of 2006. It's not raining for some reason, and we're all grateful.
Last night, my bro and I helped gather together a table of random friends from different places and stages in our lives, from childhood to six months back. We ate killer sushi and talked about a thousand things, from how to start a magaine to buying land in Nicaragua. And it didn't rain.
My old blog is about to expire from neglect, and that's okay. But there's an entry I'd like to save, and it seems to fit the place and the time of year.
Happy Thanksgiving.
*************************
Thursday, 12 May 2005
Instead of going to the Lyrics Born show tonight, I'm home with a fever. It's been so long I forgot they make me kind of woozy & sentimental. So I'm putting up this tribute I wrote the other night. 'Scuse the footnotes, a feverish haze...
I say “y’all” because of B.
I listen to hip-hop because of M.
I read poetry because of S.
I hit the low notes because of A.
I make curry because of D.
I have friend crushes because of K.
I’m a faithful correspondent because of S.
I practice yoga because of N.
I value white space because of J.
I drink tea because of B.
I kick a soccer ball with my left foot because of D.
I know tupperware1 makes a great gift because of S.
I call all little kids “munchkin” because of M.
I can flirt in French because of G.
I try to read more slowly because of A.
I write songs because of C.
I sing backup because of J.
I chew gum because of R.
I look everything up because of M.
I sign my name the way I do because of S.
I watch for flying ice walruses because of J.
I know a meal isn’t a meal without cheese because of C.
I revisit the good old boys because of H.
I carry my keys on a carabiner2 because of K.
I drink red wine because of A.
I can recite “Jabberwocky” because of S.
I honor ritual and silence because of J&P.
I’m coming to terms3 with the wanderlust/stability paradox because of A.
I have a blog because of B.
I can play whist because of R.
I remember the names of all the former Soviet republics4 because of D.
I still love playing dress-up because of C.
I look for shooting stars because of L.
I dance to reggae because of A.
I know how to smoke because of F.
I’m a nonsmoker because of C.
I eat avocadoes because of J.
I’m growing new dendrites because of S.
Each of those initials belongs to a different person. It’s funny how friends and lovers and family stick around, but also comforting somehow. Even when you’d maybe rather some of them exit your psyche stage left.
But the spotless mind is just a fantasy, and not the healthiest one. Our brains don’t discriminate between the accidental and the deliberate. They just keep everything.
Then turn it into a dream or a habit when you least expect it.
1 When it's full
2 Same one for nine years!
3 Slowly
4 By singing them to the tune of "Jingle Bells." For real.
November 20, 2006
Red fuzzies: A damnation in verse
Some egregious yet heartfelt haiku in honor of my new red rug, which flings millions of fuzzy little loose bits far and wide into every single corner of my apartment. Every. Single. Corner.
I can vacuum until my floors shine like the top of the Chrysler building, but there's a parade of red fuzz in the hall an hour later. Good thing the rug is pretty and keeps the floor warm, or it'd be gone in a blazing bonfire by now.
Ahem.
I.
I had such high hopes
You matched everything just right
But you vomit fuzz
II.
I ought to have guessed
That IKEA-born "Ringum"
Had to spell trouble
III.
Round, red, and evil
You invade my very soul
And the bathtub. How?
IV.
Clog up my vacuum
Violate the clean white sheets
Get thee behind me
V.
Damn you, fuzzy foe
As you burn my will away
I'm too clean for this
VI.
You can't fight for long
The Hoover is on my side
Justice shall triumph
VII.
Or maybe physics
But either way, I swear it:
You're going down, red.
I can vacuum until my floors shine like the top of the Chrysler building, but there's a parade of red fuzz in the hall an hour later. Good thing the rug is pretty and keeps the floor warm, or it'd be gone in a blazing bonfire by now.
Ahem.
I.
I had such high hopes
You matched everything just right
But you vomit fuzz
II.
I ought to have guessed
That IKEA-born "Ringum"
Had to spell trouble
III.
Round, red, and evil
You invade my very soul
And the bathtub. How?
IV.
Clog up my vacuum
Violate the clean white sheets
Get thee behind me
V.
Damn you, fuzzy foe
As you burn my will away
I'm too clean for this
VI.
You can't fight for long
The Hoover is on my side
Justice shall triumph
VII.
Or maybe physics
But either way, I swear it:
You're going down, red.
November 16, 2006
Reminder
I wasn't a natural driver. Not even vaguely.
My intrepid father took me out in his old brown Toyota in the rural backroads of Hadley, Mass., and probably had about 200 heart attacks while I mercilessly ground down the gears and went the wrong way around stop signs at three-way intersections. For months and months.
It sucked. I hated every minute of those lessons—which can't have been anything close to fun for him either (thanks for the braces also, Dad!)—and was fully convinced I'd never be able to drive without endangering the locals. Never. Ever. Don't get it, can't do it. Hell no.
But eventually, some kind/foolish soul gave me a license. I went off to college and got a used car from my brother, then sold it back to him and got a used car from my mom, named it after a fictional racehorse, took it across the country, and turned it into a sticker fest with a personality.
Somewhere in there, I learned to drive. Then I started enjoying it. Then I loved it. Now I love it.
No idea when that happened. It wasn't a sudden breakthrough or moment I can pinpoint. I just noticed one day that I didn't have to think about it, that it was completely freeing, and it became a joy and a convenience all wrapped up in one glorious steel package.
The same cycle happens in little ways constantly, and in critical ways every once in a while. This is awful, it'll never end, I can't stand it, it's impossible . . . hey, it's over. And I can take myself anywhere.
Letting time pass is the only panacea I entirely trust.
My intrepid father took me out in his old brown Toyota in the rural backroads of Hadley, Mass., and probably had about 200 heart attacks while I mercilessly ground down the gears and went the wrong way around stop signs at three-way intersections. For months and months.
It sucked. I hated every minute of those lessons—which can't have been anything close to fun for him either (thanks for the braces also, Dad!)—and was fully convinced I'd never be able to drive without endangering the locals. Never. Ever. Don't get it, can't do it. Hell no.
But eventually, some kind/foolish soul gave me a license. I went off to college and got a used car from my brother, then sold it back to him and got a used car from my mom, named it after a fictional racehorse, took it across the country, and turned it into a sticker fest with a personality.
Somewhere in there, I learned to drive. Then I started enjoying it. Then I loved it. Now I love it.
No idea when that happened. It wasn't a sudden breakthrough or moment I can pinpoint. I just noticed one day that I didn't have to think about it, that it was completely freeing, and it became a joy and a convenience all wrapped up in one glorious steel package.
The same cycle happens in little ways constantly, and in critical ways every once in a while. This is awful, it'll never end, I can't stand it, it's impossible . . . hey, it's over. And I can take myself anywhere.
Letting time pass is the only panacea I entirely trust.
November 12, 2006
Les vieux
It's no shocker, I guess, that ramblers seek ramblers. Or it might just be a demographic foible (middle-class, overeducated, with European roots) that most of my friends and family are scattered all over the place.
Even the ones who've chosen to settle permanently or semi-permanently have picked spots far from where they started, including me. We all have a hometown, a home base, wherever we happen to be for now, and a list of 100 ideas for what's next.
Chapel Hill, Philly, Ann Arbor, Baltimore, Nashville, Mt. Vernon, Portland, Seattle, LA, Amherst, Cambridge, DC, San Francisco.
Lisbon, Glasgow, Beijing, Tours, Buenos Aires, London, Paris, Kyoto, Sydney, Dublin, Cape Town.
It's exhilarating and lucky to be this free to roam, but there's bittersweetness in not seeing each other much. Then again . . . we're all used to it, so it's easy to pick up right where we left off during the last stolen visit.
Maybe you were on your way to Italy while I was heading back from Paris, so we had dinner at the Amsterdam airport. Or you were in Jersey and I was in DC, so we met in New York, because everybody checks in there once in a while.
Last week, I had the chance to catch up with a friend I hadn't seen in about four years. We've never lived in the same place (California and France for me, Arkansas and China for him), but we've managed to get by well enough on letters, email, the occasional phone call.
You could say it's a phenomenon of our generation that we've figured out how to stay connected with people across the globe, but history illustrates otherwise. The real trick modernites have played is in discovering out how to make distance and time feel like little more than minor inconveniences.
I feel sure that most ramblers I know would agree: When you have a few hours in a shared city, a couple of drinks, a photo booth, and a DSL line, four years are just a hiccup. 21st-century friendship can handle it without thinking twice—while booking the next plane ticket.
Even the ones who've chosen to settle permanently or semi-permanently have picked spots far from where they started, including me. We all have a hometown, a home base, wherever we happen to be for now, and a list of 100 ideas for what's next.
Chapel Hill, Philly, Ann Arbor, Baltimore, Nashville, Mt. Vernon, Portland, Seattle, LA, Amherst, Cambridge, DC, San Francisco.Lisbon, Glasgow, Beijing, Tours, Buenos Aires, London, Paris, Kyoto, Sydney, Dublin, Cape Town.
It's exhilarating and lucky to be this free to roam, but there's bittersweetness in not seeing each other much. Then again . . . we're all used to it, so it's easy to pick up right where we left off during the last stolen visit.
Maybe you were on your way to Italy while I was heading back from Paris, so we had dinner at the Amsterdam airport. Or you were in Jersey and I was in DC, so we met in New York, because everybody checks in there once in a while.
Last week, I had the chance to catch up with a friend I hadn't seen in about four years. We've never lived in the same place (California and France for me, Arkansas and China for him), but we've managed to get by well enough on letters, email, the occasional phone call.
You could say it's a phenomenon of our generation that we've figured out how to stay connected with people across the globe, but history illustrates otherwise. The real trick modernites have played is in discovering out how to make distance and time feel like little more than minor inconveniences.
I feel sure that most ramblers I know would agree: When you have a few hours in a shared city, a couple of drinks, a photo booth, and a DSL line, four years are just a hiccup. 21st-century friendship can handle it without thinking twice—while booking the next plane ticket.
November 06, 2006
New England
Remember when I went back east? Yeah, it was a while ago. Sometimes a roll of film takes its time ending, then throw in daylight savings and a few freelance projects on top of that . . . .
But it feels like the beginning of Western Mass fall here today, overcast and a little humid, with a chill just around the corner. So it's the perfect time for pumpkins:
What's that you say? More pumpkins?
And what's New England without apples? Well, it wouldn't be Iowa. This I know.
All these excellent East Coasty things are courtesy of Atkins Farms, the greatest produce market for 50 counties. (The name wasn't ironic when I was a kid, but it only takes one big ol' doctor and his hifalutin ideas to change that.)
Atkins Farms also makes the yummiest cider doughnuts ever, but there aren't any photos of those, because it took us about three seconds to eat them all up. Yay.
Here are a few of the folks in my gorgeous and brilliant family:
And, of course, we can't forget about the classy dame known as my mom, whose 60th birthday was the whole reason for this trip. The party photos turned out orange and blurry, unfortunately, but I do have this stunner on file from her glam days back in London:
You can't really argue with genes like that. I'll take 'em. Also the sweater with the feathers, if she still has it stashed away somewhere.
But it feels like the beginning of Western Mass fall here today, overcast and a little humid, with a chill just around the corner. So it's the perfect time for pumpkins:
What's that you say? More pumpkins?
And what's New England without apples? Well, it wouldn't be Iowa. This I know.
All these excellent East Coasty things are courtesy of Atkins Farms, the greatest produce market for 50 counties. (The name wasn't ironic when I was a kid, but it only takes one big ol' doctor and his hifalutin ideas to change that.)
Atkins Farms also makes the yummiest cider doughnuts ever, but there aren't any photos of those, because it took us about three seconds to eat them all up. Yay.
Here are a few of the folks in my gorgeous and brilliant family:
And, of course, we can't forget about the classy dame known as my mom, whose 60th birthday was the whole reason for this trip. The party photos turned out orange and blurry, unfortunately, but I do have this stunner on file from her glam days back in London:
You can't really argue with genes like that. I'll take 'em. Also the sweater with the feathers, if she still has it stashed away somewhere.
November 01, 2006
Lie down in darkness
The superlative writer William Styron passed away yesterday.
Styron was the author of Sophie's Choice, one of the finest novels I've ever had the pleasure to read . . . and read . . . and read again. If you've never experienced it, you must. My copy is yours to borrow.
My other favorite is Darkness Visible, his memoir of a deeply depressed period in his life. It's brief, stark, wrenching, and eventually uplifting. I read the book in Paris, where it takes place, making his skillful prose all the more moving and evocative.
RIP, Mr. Styron. Tipping my hat and my pen.
Styron was the author of Sophie's Choice, one of the finest novels I've ever had the pleasure to read . . . and read . . . and read again. If you've never experienced it, you must. My copy is yours to borrow.
My other favorite is Darkness Visible, his memoir of a deeply depressed period in his life. It's brief, stark, wrenching, and eventually uplifting. I read the book in Paris, where it takes place, making his skillful prose all the more moving and evocative.
RIP, Mr. Styron. Tipping my hat and my pen.
October 31, 2006
Halloweenin'
Between Sunday night and tonight:
Happy Halloween.
- Realization that this month's epic DSL nightmare may not have anything to do with the DSL, but is probably the fault of my Mac and its stupid broken Ethernet port.
- New living room rug purchased after finally deciding to chuck old, stained, Craigslist rug turns out to be wrong for the room. So very wrong. Roll it right back up again.
- Weird bumpy rash decides to attack left shoulder.
- Insomnia at 4:15 a.m. after vivid dreams about giving birth in a fluffy white room filled with pastry. Totally Marie Antoinette's fault.
- Check Engine light goes on. Holiday gift budget recalculated to include car repairs.
- Cell phone screen actually dies after threatening to all week.
- Mac Genius assures me laptop will be whisked away to Tennessee and cured in the shortest possible time. For free.
- Incredibly bored IKEA staff truly excited to deal with the rug. They almost tussle over who gets to ring up the return. In and out in five minutes flat.
- Check Engine light goes off.
- Latest installment of West Wing from Netflix waiting in the mailbox.
- Antibiotics start to work.
- New phone dutifully copies entire address book from old phone like the little digital miracle it is.
Happy Halloween.
October 26, 2006
Perfect blustery fall day
It is one. And they say California has no seasons.
Ha! We know better here in the north.
That's all.
Ha! We know better here in the north.
That's all.
October 25, 2006
2:16:45
Yes, I survived!
Sorry it's taken me a few days to let you know, but my DSL connection is still on the fritz despite a dozen calls to customer service and a visit from tech support. Of course, the line worked perfectly the whole time the guy was here. At least he was nice about it. "Murphy's Law," he chuckled, and didn't charge me anything.
Anyway, the marathon: It was pretty chilly outside and the hills were brutal (five of them instead the two I expected, so unfair), but I didn't stop at all and finished just under my target time, so I feel great about the whole thing.
Miles 7 to 9 were the hardest for me, but once I got past 10, each step I took was farther than I'd ever run before. It's amazing what kind of adrenalin you can drum up by telling yourself that. Even manged a sprint at the very end.
The only time I felt uncomfortable was after eating a couple of nasty Clif Bar energy blocks. Stay far, far away from them. Otherwise, my head was clear and my legs kept on going, so it was all good.
Here's my gear, by the way. Just imagine the runner has exited stage left:
My race rewards—other than the little Tiffany necklace handed to me by a tuxedoed fireman (seriously) after I crossed the finish line—were a stack of pancakes and 30 minutes in a rented hot tub. If I could always have those two things afterward, I'd run half a marathon every weekend.
Well, maybe not. But it's cool to be able to say I did it once.
Sorry it's taken me a few days to let you know, but my DSL connection is still on the fritz despite a dozen calls to customer service and a visit from tech support. Of course, the line worked perfectly the whole time the guy was here. At least he was nice about it. "Murphy's Law," he chuckled, and didn't charge me anything.
Anyway, the marathon: It was pretty chilly outside and the hills were brutal (five of them instead the two I expected, so unfair), but I didn't stop at all and finished just under my target time, so I feel great about the whole thing.
Miles 7 to 9 were the hardest for me, but once I got past 10, each step I took was farther than I'd ever run before. It's amazing what kind of adrenalin you can drum up by telling yourself that. Even manged a sprint at the very end.
The only time I felt uncomfortable was after eating a couple of nasty Clif Bar energy blocks. Stay far, far away from them. Otherwise, my head was clear and my legs kept on going, so it was all good.
Here's my gear, by the way. Just imagine the runner has exited stage left:
My race rewards—other than the little Tiffany necklace handed to me by a tuxedoed fireman (seriously) after I crossed the finish line—were a stack of pancakes and 30 minutes in a rented hot tub. If I could always have those two things afterward, I'd run half a marathon every weekend.
Well, maybe not. But it's cool to be able to say I did it once.
October 21, 2006
Blastoff
The marathon is tomorrow! I'm amazed. Given the usual breakneck pace of California time, I feel like the months leading up to this self-induced test of will (and leg) power have been trickling by.
But here I am, with an official number bib thing:
Plus a fancy dri-weave shirt and a collection of pouches that attach to different parts of my arms and waist to hold my cell phone. I kept trying to find one that's comfortable, see, and it turns out none of them are. But the Nike "arm wallet" doesn't cause actual pain and doesn't fall off after the first few miles, so it's the big winner. And you've already met my excellent running shoes.
Today was the ooh la la Nike Expotique at Union Square, where I joined 16,999 other energized ladies to pick up our race packets, mini Luna Bars, Macy's coupons, and power to the (female) people T-shirts:
You know this is a women-focused event because they had a tent for massages, manicures, and sport underwear fittings. It was all free, but I didn't feel like waiting in a three-hour line so a Nike rep could tell me my bra size and try to sell me pink sneakers. It was way too nice outside for that.
One neat addition to this year's expo was the huge list of runner names posted on the side of the Nike store, à la Vietnam Memorial (creepy reference, but they look just the same). I forgot to bring my camera, but I did find my name and grin at it a little.
Now it's time for me to revisit grade school by going to bed at 9 p.m. Anyone—ahem, Amy—who remembers last year's alarm fiasco will understand why I'm setting at least two clocks to wake me up in the morning. Maybe three.
See you in about 13.1 miles. Woo hoo!
But here I am, with an official number bib thing:
Plus a fancy dri-weave shirt and a collection of pouches that attach to different parts of my arms and waist to hold my cell phone. I kept trying to find one that's comfortable, see, and it turns out none of them are. But the Nike "arm wallet" doesn't cause actual pain and doesn't fall off after the first few miles, so it's the big winner. And you've already met my excellent running shoes.
Today was the ooh la la Nike Expotique at Union Square, where I joined 16,999 other energized ladies to pick up our race packets, mini Luna Bars, Macy's coupons, and power to the (female) people T-shirts:
You know this is a women-focused event because they had a tent for massages, manicures, and sport underwear fittings. It was all free, but I didn't feel like waiting in a three-hour line so a Nike rep could tell me my bra size and try to sell me pink sneakers. It was way too nice outside for that.
One neat addition to this year's expo was the huge list of runner names posted on the side of the Nike store, à la Vietnam Memorial (creepy reference, but they look just the same). I forgot to bring my camera, but I did find my name and grin at it a little.
Now it's time for me to revisit grade school by going to bed at 9 p.m. Anyone—ahem, Amy—who remembers last year's alarm fiasco will understand why I'm setting at least two clocks to wake me up in the morning. Maybe three.
See you in about 13.1 miles. Woo hoo!
October 18, 2006
Locally Grown: Mitama
Remember that one time when I said I was going to eat at all the places in my neighborhood I hadn't tried yet? Wasn't that an excellent idea? Especially the part where I didn't do it.
But wait! I finally did. Here goes, the inaugural meal in the soon-to-be-infamous Locally Grown series, brought to you by The BCB.
The other night was my first dinner at Mitama, a newish place (one or two years old) less than 10 minutes away by foot. It looks friendly and it's usually packed, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything other than convenience—it's the only sushi joint along that stretch of College. It also replaced the beloved Buttercup Café, so that's a wee pinprick in my back. But deep down, I suspected greatness. It just had that vibe.
There was no line at 8 p.m. on a Sunday, a promising start. I'm not a fan of the marathon waiting list, even though it seems to be a point of pride for most Bay Area restaurants. Then they had an eggplant and garlic appetizer on the list of specials . . . my idea of heaven on a little white plate. I ordered that to start, then an avocado roll and inari.
Just the basics. When a sushi place makes good inari and knows how to pick an avocado, most vegetarians will leave happy. (If you're looking for a review of their fish, try here.)
All three dishes were excellent, fresh and clean and carefully arranged. The inari wasn't too sweet, the eggplant was cooked just enough and spiced well but sparingly, and the avocado tasted like the reason why I live on this coast. Their green tea was a little bitter, but that's a preference thing, not a quality thing. The wine list was brief, straightforward, and Californian.
Mitama (fresh, simple, tasty) is located at 3201 College Avenue in Oakland.
But wait! I finally did. Here goes, the inaugural meal in the soon-to-be-infamous Locally Grown series, brought to you by The BCB.
The other night was my first dinner at Mitama, a newish place (one or two years old) less than 10 minutes away by foot. It looks friendly and it's usually packed, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything other than convenience—it's the only sushi joint along that stretch of College. It also replaced the beloved Buttercup Café, so that's a wee pinprick in my back. But deep down, I suspected greatness. It just had that vibe.
There was no line at 8 p.m. on a Sunday, a promising start. I'm not a fan of the marathon waiting list, even though it seems to be a point of pride for most Bay Area restaurants. Then they had an eggplant and garlic appetizer on the list of specials . . . my idea of heaven on a little white plate. I ordered that to start, then an avocado roll and inari.
Just the basics. When a sushi place makes good inari and knows how to pick an avocado, most vegetarians will leave happy. (If you're looking for a review of their fish, try here.)
All three dishes were excellent, fresh and clean and carefully arranged. The inari wasn't too sweet, the eggplant was cooked just enough and spiced well but sparingly, and the avocado tasted like the reason why I live on this coast. Their green tea was a little bitter, but that's a preference thing, not a quality thing. The wine list was brief, straightforward, and Californian.
Mitama (fresh, simple, tasty) is located at 3201 College Avenue in Oakland.
October 13, 2006
It won't be long
Last night, I went to hear some friends play at The Hemlock.
Hudson Bell, Stoo, and Brian are the latest touring incarnation of Hudson's band, and this show was the first in a two-week ramble across the U.S. for the boys and their wondervan. They kicked the adventure off right with a great set of guitar madness. Snaps all around.
Between bands, I stepped outside for some air. It's a sketchy neighborhood with the usual crowd of homeless folks wandering by, so it was par for the course when one of them stopped to chat.
"Can I serenade you?" he asked. Everyone has a gimmick. Really, to the point where you expect it. Just asking for change is old. If you want my money, give me art.
"Sure," I said, empty-handed, "but I don't have any cigarettes or money for you."
"I don't smoke," he said, and launched into "Lean on Me" in a rich tenor.
Back in 1995, my first summer in the Bay Area, I had a coworker and friend named Sarah. We used to kill time between houses (canvassing door-to-door for a nonprofit) singing that tune and another soul classic, "Son of a Preacher Man." We must have put on a thousand curbside shows of each one in a dozen neighborhoods between Bernal Heights and Woodside.
So the harmonies are embedded somewhere deep in my music brain, to the point where I think it might be physically impossible for me not to sing along. I did. The guy didn't seem to notice or care, but it sounded pretty good in the end. He mumbled something I didn't catch and then shuffled away.
No profound conclusions here, epiphanies about a universal language or the brotherhood of man. It was just a breath of air and a little night music, and I appreciated them both.
Hudson Bell, Stoo, and Brian are the latest touring incarnation of Hudson's band, and this show was the first in a two-week ramble across the U.S. for the boys and their wondervan. They kicked the adventure off right with a great set of guitar madness. Snaps all around.
Between bands, I stepped outside for some air. It's a sketchy neighborhood with the usual crowd of homeless folks wandering by, so it was par for the course when one of them stopped to chat.
"Can I serenade you?" he asked. Everyone has a gimmick. Really, to the point where you expect it. Just asking for change is old. If you want my money, give me art.
"Sure," I said, empty-handed, "but I don't have any cigarettes or money for you."
"I don't smoke," he said, and launched into "Lean on Me" in a rich tenor.
Back in 1995, my first summer in the Bay Area, I had a coworker and friend named Sarah. We used to kill time between houses (canvassing door-to-door for a nonprofit) singing that tune and another soul classic, "Son of a Preacher Man." We must have put on a thousand curbside shows of each one in a dozen neighborhoods between Bernal Heights and Woodside.
So the harmonies are embedded somewhere deep in my music brain, to the point where I think it might be physically impossible for me not to sing along. I did. The guy didn't seem to notice or care, but it sounded pretty good in the end. He mumbled something I didn't catch and then shuffled away.
No profound conclusions here, epiphanies about a universal language or the brotherhood of man. It was just a breath of air and a little night music, and I appreciated them both.
October 08, 2006
Iowa
I somehow managed to drive across the country a couple of times without ever seeing Iowa. Without even passing through it. I guess it's not that hard to avoid—just don't take 80—but I was still a little ashamed to call myself a traveler while skipping most of the midwestern U.S. Then came a chance for redemption.
If you've never been to Iowa, here's the scoop: It's exactly what you imagined, except for the sharpness of its beauty. It's truly beautiful, full of corn, gentle neighbors who always say hello, and gasoline so cheap it made my West Coast brain hurt.
I landed at the tiniest airport ever—Quad City, in the heart of Moline, IL—to visit my childhood friend who teaches at Cornell College (go Rams!) in Mount Vernon, IA. One of her students cleverly nicknamed her Pro Mac, so that's what we'll do here in Blogland also.
After landing, I gave Pro Mac the usual call to strategize finding each other outside the airport. "Don't worry," she said with that special touch of wryness reserved for anyone who lived in Manhattan for the better part of a decade and then wound up in Iowa, "It's like a bus station. It won't be a problem."
don't blink
Right she was. I was one of two people standing outside when her car pulled up in the little airport driveway. There wasn't a white-gloved officer in sight to order us along, the way they do at Oakland and SFO if you spend longer than 10 seconds by the curb. Pro Mac got out to walk the dog, Roscoe, who quickly made friends with the other woman who was waiting.
Welcome to the Midwest.
Pro Mac and I spent a relaxing few days wandering along Mt. Vernon's cute downtown, the pretty Cornell campus, and Iowa City. Since the celebrated Iowa Writers' Workshop is based there, the city has a literary charm, with nice restaurants, lots of coffee shops, a few overpriced boutiques and funky vintage stores, and a collection of wise bon mots engraved in the sidewalks:
"poetry is nothing but its own madness"
I also got to visit Pro Mac's class. That was a huge kick, because even when you know your friends are great at their jobs, you almost never get to see them in action. Also I got to feel like a big, scary grownup for a couple of hours, with a roomful of cherubic, brace-toothed, 18-year-old faces eyeing me nervously.
It's OK, kids. I was you five minutes ago. Trust me . . . life gets easier.
you will escape the dorms
But my favorite Iowan pastime is officially apple-picking, followed closely by apple-eating. Pro Mac and pals planned a date for us at Wilson's Orchard, where a crowd of locals had gathered to spend a perfect fall Sunday shaking down the trees.
farmscape
what century is it again?
the rogue apple in its natural habitat
Each variety of apple has its own row or set of rows, with the trees spaced generously apart and supported by posts:
The varietals are neatly marked by name, season, and hybrid recipe (if applicable):
sorry, dad, just missed your season
Hungry? Here, you can have one. I just took a little bite:
Before I sign off, I'd be remiss not to mention the two most popular Iowan modes of transportation. First is the tractor, of course:
there's a john deere shop at the airport
shocking but true
And the second is anything—from shiny SUVs to ancient pickups to minivans stuffed with apples and kids—with a vanity plate. I've never seen so many vanity plates. Every other car seemed to have one:
Now if I'd only spotted a tractor with a vanity plate . . . traveler's bliss.
If you've never been to Iowa, here's the scoop: It's exactly what you imagined, except for the sharpness of its beauty. It's truly beautiful, full of corn, gentle neighbors who always say hello, and gasoline so cheap it made my West Coast brain hurt.
corn!
And it's in the middle of nowhere. But you suspected that part.I landed at the tiniest airport ever—Quad City, in the heart of Moline, IL—to visit my childhood friend who teaches at Cornell College (go Rams!) in Mount Vernon, IA. One of her students cleverly nicknamed her Pro Mac, so that's what we'll do here in Blogland also.
After landing, I gave Pro Mac the usual call to strategize finding each other outside the airport. "Don't worry," she said with that special touch of wryness reserved for anyone who lived in Manhattan for the better part of a decade and then wound up in Iowa, "It's like a bus station. It won't be a problem."
don't blinkRight she was. I was one of two people standing outside when her car pulled up in the little airport driveway. There wasn't a white-gloved officer in sight to order us along, the way they do at Oakland and SFO if you spend longer than 10 seconds by the curb. Pro Mac got out to walk the dog, Roscoe, who quickly made friends with the other woman who was waiting.
Welcome to the Midwest.
Pro Mac and I spent a relaxing few days wandering along Mt. Vernon's cute downtown, the pretty Cornell campus, and Iowa City. Since the celebrated Iowa Writers' Workshop is based there, the city has a literary charm, with nice restaurants, lots of coffee shops, a few overpriced boutiques and funky vintage stores, and a collection of wise bon mots engraved in the sidewalks:
"poetry is nothing but its own madness"I also got to visit Pro Mac's class. That was a huge kick, because even when you know your friends are great at their jobs, you almost never get to see them in action. Also I got to feel like a big, scary grownup for a couple of hours, with a roomful of cherubic, brace-toothed, 18-year-old faces eyeing me nervously.
It's OK, kids. I was you five minutes ago. Trust me . . . life gets easier.
you will escape the dormsBut my favorite Iowan pastime is officially apple-picking, followed closely by apple-eating. Pro Mac and pals planned a date for us at Wilson's Orchard, where a crowd of locals had gathered to spend a perfect fall Sunday shaking down the trees.
farmscape
what century is it again?
the rogue apple in its natural habitatEach variety of apple has its own row or set of rows, with the trees spaced generously apart and supported by posts:
sorry, dad, just missed your seasonHungry? Here, you can have one. I just took a little bite:
Before I sign off, I'd be remiss not to mention the two most popular Iowan modes of transportation. First is the tractor, of course:
there's a john deere shop at the airport
shocking but trueAnd the second is anything—from shiny SUVs to ancient pickups to minivans stuffed with apples and kids—with a vanity plate. I've never seen so many vanity plates. Every other car seemed to have one:
Now if I'd only spotted a tractor with a vanity plate . . . traveler's bliss.
September 29, 2006
Ten
Hello from the Mighty East. Soon I'll be home with lots of Iowan and Massachusettsian tales to tell.
But this post is a digression, because I happen to be rather proud of myself, and what's the point of having a blog if you don't get to tell all 15 or so of your readers (you guys are the best!) when you do something you think is worth bragging about?
So . . . I ran 10 miles yesterday! All right in a row, without even stopping to remind my legs what blood circulation feels like. It took forever, but I didn't actually die, so I'm counting it as a triumph.
My favorite place to run is the Smith College track. It's down the road from my mom's house and surrounded by beautiful trees, and it lets me exercise outside while keeping a close eye on distance. The reason I usually run on treadmills—other than the gnarly impact of pavement on my joints—is that I'm terrible at maintaining pace. On city streets, I always start too fast and then get tired before the end.
But treadmills are weird and unnatural, as everyone knows, while running in neatly labeled circles on a slightly rubberized manmade surface is just one step away from nature.
It's only three weeks and counting until the half marathon, so this was an important milestone. I figured it wasn't the best idea to try going twice as far as I'd ever run when there were thousands of other people around to watch me keel over. But 3.1 miles farther than I've ever run . . . that should be okay.
Woo hoo!
But this post is a digression, because I happen to be rather proud of myself, and what's the point of having a blog if you don't get to tell all 15 or so of your readers (you guys are the best!) when you do something you think is worth bragging about?
So . . . I ran 10 miles yesterday! All right in a row, without even stopping to remind my legs what blood circulation feels like. It took forever, but I didn't actually die, so I'm counting it as a triumph.
My favorite place to run is the Smith College track. It's down the road from my mom's house and surrounded by beautiful trees, and it lets me exercise outside while keeping a close eye on distance. The reason I usually run on treadmills—other than the gnarly impact of pavement on my joints—is that I'm terrible at maintaining pace. On city streets, I always start too fast and then get tired before the end.
But treadmills are weird and unnatural, as everyone knows, while running in neatly labeled circles on a slightly rubberized manmade surface is just one step away from nature.
It's only three weeks and counting until the half marathon, so this was an important milestone. I figured it wasn't the best idea to try going twice as far as I'd ever run when there were thousands of other people around to watch me keel over. But 3.1 miles farther than I've ever run . . . that should be okay.
Woo hoo!
September 21, 2006
Snapshots
I haven't been living up to this blog title lately in an international way, but I have been strolling around the excellent city where I live, as well as that other prettty town across the water (emphatically not called Frisco by anyone who's spent more than 10 minutes there. You may call it SF or just "the city").
Here are some of the neat things I've seen.
First off, we have the Ferry Building Market, where I've assembled many a gorgeous, overpriced picnic. The peppers at this stand taste as good as they look:
Parking near the Ferry Building is an exercise in frustration. It's not that you can't find a spot—it's just that they all have 30-minute time limits and require a Radio Flyer full of change. Behold the Most Expensive Meter in the Universe:
You can't really see the prices in that shot, but it costs five cents a minute. The Boy and I stood staring at it for about $1 worth of time, giggling to ourselves about how many souls we could buy and sell for the same amount it would cost to leave the car during lunch.
Then we went and parked a mile away in a cheap all-day lot, enjoying every minute of the sunshiny stroll back through the Financial District:
Then we met some friends at Market Bar, where they make killer pancakes but claim to have no bathroom for patrons. I had to stand in the public john line for about three years after drinking all this lovely tea:
But I survived. Mixing with the rabble can be humbling, after all.
The next weekend, I visited another farmers market in Noe Valley, this time to hear my friend Claudia read from her charming children's book, Meerkat Safari. The local cherubs had a blast, especially when she pulled out some animal finger puppets and played them the safari song:
It's hard to top toddler elephant noises on the coolness scale, but this license plate I spotted a few minutes later managed to make my day yet again:
Don't even try to say that doesn't rule.
Next up: Lunch at Fresca with the fabulous Erinia, who came to pay her respects to her former hood. Our food was Peruvian and very photogenic.
lemonade
ceviche
But the crown jewel of the weekend was our trip to my buddy Mr. O's Annual Pork Chop and Mint Julep Festival, now in its 11th decadent year. As Miss E said of the wine—and this could really apply to everything the party had to offer—"It has a very good nose."
I have some photo souvenirs from my side of the bay also, but we'll save those for when I get back from a weeklong jaunt to Iowa and the homestead. Will do my best to write from the road, but I might be too busy napping in the cornfields and celebrating my mom's 60th.
The BCB over 'n' out.
Here are some of the neat things I've seen.
First off, we have the Ferry Building Market, where I've assembled many a gorgeous, overpriced picnic. The peppers at this stand taste as good as they look:
Parking near the Ferry Building is an exercise in frustration. It's not that you can't find a spot—it's just that they all have 30-minute time limits and require a Radio Flyer full of change. Behold the Most Expensive Meter in the Universe:
You can't really see the prices in that shot, but it costs five cents a minute. The Boy and I stood staring at it for about $1 worth of time, giggling to ourselves about how many souls we could buy and sell for the same amount it would cost to leave the car during lunch.
Then we went and parked a mile away in a cheap all-day lot, enjoying every minute of the sunshiny stroll back through the Financial District:
Then we met some friends at Market Bar, where they make killer pancakes but claim to have no bathroom for patrons. I had to stand in the public john line for about three years after drinking all this lovely tea:
But I survived. Mixing with the rabble can be humbling, after all.
The next weekend, I visited another farmers market in Noe Valley, this time to hear my friend Claudia read from her charming children's book, Meerkat Safari. The local cherubs had a blast, especially when she pulled out some animal finger puppets and played them the safari song:
It's hard to top toddler elephant noises on the coolness scale, but this license plate I spotted a few minutes later managed to make my day yet again:
Don't even try to say that doesn't rule.
Next up: Lunch at Fresca with the fabulous Erinia, who came to pay her respects to her former hood. Our food was Peruvian and very photogenic.
lemonade
ceviche
But the crown jewel of the weekend was our trip to my buddy Mr. O's Annual Pork Chop and Mint Julep Festival, now in its 11th decadent year. As Miss E said of the wine—and this could really apply to everything the party had to offer—"It has a very good nose."
I have some photo souvenirs from my side of the bay also, but we'll save those for when I get back from a weeklong jaunt to Iowa and the homestead. Will do my best to write from the road, but I might be too busy napping in the cornfields and celebrating my mom's 60th.
The BCB over 'n' out.
September 15, 2006
FDA deems all food unsafe
OK, not all food.
But this New York Times piece offers some dire warnings about what can happen to me if I continue to eat bagged spinach. Which I cooked up with some garlic and cilantro last night, thank you very much, and it was quite tasty.
It's just . . . come on. I'm already a vegetarian, which is supposed to eliminate the need to worry about heart disease, mad cow disease, and anything else you might get from a Jack in the Box burger. Including (I thought) E.coli. How very wrong I was.
At least there's a silver lining. It's this quote from the article:
Asked if consumers should also avoid bagged salads, Dr. Acheson answered somewhat tentatively, saying, “At this point, there is nothing to implicate bagged salad.”
Am the only one who thinks that's hilarious? I keep picturing bagged salad in a chair somewhere in an undisclosed location, bright spotlight in its eyes, stammering through the roughshod questioning and brutal interrogation tactics of U.S. government officials.
Huh. Maybe it's not that funny after all.
But this New York Times piece offers some dire warnings about what can happen to me if I continue to eat bagged spinach. Which I cooked up with some garlic and cilantro last night, thank you very much, and it was quite tasty.
It's just . . . come on. I'm already a vegetarian, which is supposed to eliminate the need to worry about heart disease, mad cow disease, and anything else you might get from a Jack in the Box burger. Including (I thought) E.coli. How very wrong I was.
At least there's a silver lining. It's this quote from the article:
Asked if consumers should also avoid bagged salads, Dr. Acheson answered somewhat tentatively, saying, “At this point, there is nothing to implicate bagged salad.”
Am the only one who thinks that's hilarious? I keep picturing bagged salad in a chair somewhere in an undisclosed location, bright spotlight in its eyes, stammering through the roughshod questioning and brutal interrogation tactics of U.S. government officials.
Huh. Maybe it's not that funny after all.
September 11, 2006
15 minutes
Continuous Peasant played our biggest show ever last night, opening for the Silver Jews at Mezzanine on the other side of the bridge.
Only about .03% of the packed house was there to see us, but it was still pretty amazing to look out over a sea of faces filling a space that big. I'm probably the world's worst estimator, so I won't even try—but Mezzanine's website says the club can hold up to 1,000 people, and it looked close to full from our vantage point. Wow.
The sound system was insane, meaning really clear but really loud, so I couldn't hear much of anything while we were playing. But the set felt tight enough (especially considering our lineup morphs all the time and we only had a few practices with the whole cast before the show), and we had a great time. Many truckloads of adrenalin whizzing through peasant veins.
Just to top it all off: I found out today that Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and Jurassic 5 have all played that club, three key members of the hip-hop canon in my record collection. Wow. Standing in the footprints of giants. I like it.
Before and after were almost as fun as being onstage. They had a plush greenroom setup upstairs in the back, with two sitting/dressing rooms, a mini kitchen, and a comfy lounge with a huge flatscreen view of the stage and a balcony overlooking the club floor, so you could perch on a stool and watch everyone entering down below. There were big ice buckets full of water and beer, a bunch of security guys, and a fleet of attentive skinny kids in black with tousled hair who kept coming by to see if we needed anything.
Monotonix came on after us. My blood sugar was reaching the level where I get grumpy and confused, so I went to find a late dinner with friends and missed most of their set. From what I did see, they were entertaining but certifiable. The hairy little lead singer crowd-surfed, scaled a stair railing, and ran around the audience poking pretty women and shrieking—all during the first song. My vote went to Thai food instead.
When we got back, the Silver Jews were playing. I don't know much about them, but every music person I've met out here has a take on the band ranging from respect to worship, so I figured they must have something special going on.
We only stayed for a few songs (it was midnight on a Sunday, after all), but I think I get it. They're a group of normal but preternaturally thoughtful-looking people who write contemplative poetry, set it loosely to melody, then play it with a quiet but definitive personality that speaks to a range of people and moods. It was like watching a conversation between the band and the audience, if they were friends that went way back.
A thousand people listening that attentively—and with that much familiarity—can only be what every fledgling rockstar dreams about.
Only about .03% of the packed house was there to see us, but it was still pretty amazing to look out over a sea of faces filling a space that big. I'm probably the world's worst estimator, so I won't even try—but Mezzanine's website says the club can hold up to 1,000 people, and it looked close to full from our vantage point. Wow.
The sound system was insane, meaning really clear but really loud, so I couldn't hear much of anything while we were playing. But the set felt tight enough (especially considering our lineup morphs all the time and we only had a few practices with the whole cast before the show), and we had a great time. Many truckloads of adrenalin whizzing through peasant veins.
Just to top it all off: I found out today that Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and Jurassic 5 have all played that club, three key members of the hip-hop canon in my record collection. Wow. Standing in the footprints of giants. I like it.
Before and after were almost as fun as being onstage. They had a plush greenroom setup upstairs in the back, with two sitting/dressing rooms, a mini kitchen, and a comfy lounge with a huge flatscreen view of the stage and a balcony overlooking the club floor, so you could perch on a stool and watch everyone entering down below. There were big ice buckets full of water and beer, a bunch of security guys, and a fleet of attentive skinny kids in black with tousled hair who kept coming by to see if we needed anything.
Monotonix came on after us. My blood sugar was reaching the level where I get grumpy and confused, so I went to find a late dinner with friends and missed most of their set. From what I did see, they were entertaining but certifiable. The hairy little lead singer crowd-surfed, scaled a stair railing, and ran around the audience poking pretty women and shrieking—all during the first song. My vote went to Thai food instead.
When we got back, the Silver Jews were playing. I don't know much about them, but every music person I've met out here has a take on the band ranging from respect to worship, so I figured they must have something special going on.
We only stayed for a few songs (it was midnight on a Sunday, after all), but I think I get it. They're a group of normal but preternaturally thoughtful-looking people who write contemplative poetry, set it loosely to melody, then play it with a quiet but definitive personality that speaks to a range of people and moods. It was like watching a conversation between the band and the audience, if they were friends that went way back.
A thousand people listening that attentively—and with that much familiarity—can only be what every fledgling rockstar dreams about.
September 03, 2006
Locally Grown: Introduction
I have dinner out a couple of times a week, on average, but never in my neighborhood. If I'm that close to home, then I'm close enough to my kitchen to cook. That probably sounds either noble or crazy, depending on what type of eater you are, but I decided today that it's high time I explore what's cooking in my corner of North Oakland.
Starting tonight until whenever I'm done, I plan to try a new restaurant in my hood every week or so. The only rules are:
1. No chains (sorry, Col. Sanders).
2. Lunch or dinner only. Cafés are a whole separate universe, and I drank it dry when I was a full-time freelancer.
3. Each place will get a mini review of five words or less (I'll put them in red italics and parentheses so they're easy to spot), plus a longer review if I'm feeling inspired.
4. "My hood" means anywhere within 20 minutes of my house by foot.
It was going to be 10 minutes, but that would limit my options to the handful on my actual corner, plus the Elmwood district. There's a short main drag in Elmwood with a small collection of great low-key places, including delicious La Mediterranée (get the Middle Eastern plate), but I've already tried them all over the years. This experiment is aimed at finding some new gems.
The list of places within a few blocks of my corner includes: Mitama, Grasshopper (pricey and overrated), Saysetha Thai (mountains of noodles), and Café Colucci (slow but yummy). A little further north, over the Berkeley border, are Café Valparaiso, Sconehenge, Solé, and La Familia Taqueria. I'll have to bring in the carnivorous reserve troops to try the parade of Korean barbecue places between here and Temescal.
Brunch digression: RIP to Hideaway, a tasty breakfast place with a pretty outdoor garden that closed while I was in France. I was so excited to live a block away that I dashed over there the day after I moved in. The windows were whitewashed and barren. My only consolation was finding myself just a lazy half-hour walk from a mind-blowing breakfast at La Note or the bustling Thai temple Sunday brunch in Berkeley. (A special shoutout to La Farine bakery on College Ave. for their buttery pastries, hearty breads, and charming little website.)
In Temescal, my former hood and still home to my favorite café, there's a longer list of places to sample: La Calaca Loca (friendly, no black beans), Café Pippo, Genova Deli (big piles of meat), Asmara, Bakesale Betty (best. scones. ever.), Doña Tomas (upscale and fabulous Mexican), Milano Pizza, Pico Paco Taqueria, Tanjia, Your Own Black Muslim Bakery (creepy politics, great pies), Lanesplitter (decent pizza and beer), Pyung Change Soft Tofu House (I like my tofu firm), and Pizzaiolo. I'll add others as I remember or notice them.
Here's to keeping my belly local, at least part of the time.
Starting tonight until whenever I'm done, I plan to try a new restaurant in my hood every week or so. The only rules are:
1. No chains (sorry, Col. Sanders).
2. Lunch or dinner only. Cafés are a whole separate universe, and I drank it dry when I was a full-time freelancer.
3. Each place will get a mini review of five words or less (I'll put them in red italics and parentheses so they're easy to spot), plus a longer review if I'm feeling inspired.
4. "My hood" means anywhere within 20 minutes of my house by foot.
It was going to be 10 minutes, but that would limit my options to the handful on my actual corner, plus the Elmwood district. There's a short main drag in Elmwood with a small collection of great low-key places, including delicious La Mediterranée (get the Middle Eastern plate), but I've already tried them all over the years. This experiment is aimed at finding some new gems.
The list of places within a few blocks of my corner includes: Mitama, Grasshopper (pricey and overrated), Saysetha Thai (mountains of noodles), and Café Colucci (slow but yummy). A little further north, over the Berkeley border, are Café Valparaiso, Sconehenge, Solé, and La Familia Taqueria. I'll have to bring in the carnivorous reserve troops to try the parade of Korean barbecue places between here and Temescal.
Brunch digression: RIP to Hideaway, a tasty breakfast place with a pretty outdoor garden that closed while I was in France. I was so excited to live a block away that I dashed over there the day after I moved in. The windows were whitewashed and barren. My only consolation was finding myself just a lazy half-hour walk from a mind-blowing breakfast at La Note or the bustling Thai temple Sunday brunch in Berkeley. (A special shoutout to La Farine bakery on College Ave. for their buttery pastries, hearty breads, and charming little website.)
In Temescal, my former hood and still home to my favorite café, there's a longer list of places to sample: La Calaca Loca (friendly, no black beans), Café Pippo, Genova Deli (big piles of meat), Asmara, Bakesale Betty (best. scones. ever.), Doña Tomas (upscale and fabulous Mexican), Milano Pizza, Pico Paco Taqueria, Tanjia, Your Own Black Muslim Bakery (creepy politics, great pies), Lanesplitter (decent pizza and beer), Pyung Change Soft Tofu House (I like my tofu firm), and Pizzaiolo. I'll add others as I remember or notice them.
Here's to keeping my belly local, at least part of the time.
August 31, 2006
Elk road
Hello! I'm back. Sorry for the brief hiatus. I spent it working and taking a little road trip. You don't want to hear any more about zbufs, so let's talk about how it feels to ride along the PCH on the back of a sporty Italian motorcycle.
It feels good. Also cold. And maybe certain parts of me fell asleep in uncomfortable ways around hour five, but not to worry—the spectacular views eased the pain. There are still a few shots left in my camera, but I'll try to post sunset photos later. I swear Hwy. 1 is the prettiest slab of cement you can drive in America.
The Boy, being gadget-minded, got a super cool helmet communication system (add that to your buzzword arsenal) so we could listen to music and talk to each other during the epic ride. In addition to being extremely handy and possibly sanity-saving, it had the special bonus feature of coming with the most hilarious, Britishest instructions ever. If they were here, I'd quote them, but you'll just have to trust me. Priceless.
We left the city after a late brunch, figuring the drive would take about four hours. But that didn't include several stops to adjust the communication system wiring in my helmet, stretch our legs, and drink cocoa in a Laundromat across from a store called Candy & Kites. Candy and kites!! If I were in grade school, I'd have passed out from happiness. It was actually kind of exciting, anyway, even though I'll be 30 soon enough and I'm really very mature.
The courtesy of motorcycle culture was neat to experience. There's the one-handed biker-to-biker salute immortalized in song and on T-shirts; plus the unprecedented willingness of car drivers to pull over and let bikers pass. Almost every car did—instantly. I've never gotten that kind of respect while trying to get Gibson past a crawling Hummer full of coast-peepers.
It wasn't too cold in San Francisco, but the highway wind picked up around 5 p.m. Then we rode into a fog bank and the temperature dropped like an anvil. Our destination was the little town of Elk, highly recommended by the well-traveled Miss Mobtown and National Geographic. After a final half hour marked by lots of shivering and a sharp decrease in witty banter on the Autocom, we finally pulled in at Greenwood Pier.
The inn was exactly what you'd want it to be, complete with flighty and eccentric owners: She of the breathy hippie voice, he of the hobbit-like stature and long pointy fingernails. The jets weren't working in the hot tub, but it was hot enough to soothe, and our room had a real fireplace (The Boy proved his inferno-building mettle with flying colors) and enough space for a dozen or so people.
Their restaurant was dismal, its saving graces only that it was bad enough to be funny and we were too tired to care. But in the morning, they brought us tea and scones in a cute wire basket. Then we wandered down to Queenie's Roadhouse Cafe, now officially my favorite diner in the world next to O'Rourke's, for a spectacular breakfast.
Diner food on the road is like the rice and beans you cook when you're camping. You've put in enough time and sweat to reach the point where eating feels like an earned privilege, so it always tastes like nectar. Even so, Queenie's takes top honors.
Then we sped back along Rte. 128, a beautiful sweeping road through the woods, before deciding we'd had enough moto magic for one weekend and would like to feel our legs again and take a nap.
Hwy. 101 is no coastal wonderland, but sometimes it's just the right direct route home.
It feels good. Also cold. And maybe certain parts of me fell asleep in uncomfortable ways around hour five, but not to worry—the spectacular views eased the pain. There are still a few shots left in my camera, but I'll try to post sunset photos later. I swear Hwy. 1 is the prettiest slab of cement you can drive in America.
The Boy, being gadget-minded, got a super cool helmet communication system (add that to your buzzword arsenal) so we could listen to music and talk to each other during the epic ride. In addition to being extremely handy and possibly sanity-saving, it had the special bonus feature of coming with the most hilarious, Britishest instructions ever. If they were here, I'd quote them, but you'll just have to trust me. Priceless.
We left the city after a late brunch, figuring the drive would take about four hours. But that didn't include several stops to adjust the communication system wiring in my helmet, stretch our legs, and drink cocoa in a Laundromat across from a store called Candy & Kites. Candy and kites!! If I were in grade school, I'd have passed out from happiness. It was actually kind of exciting, anyway, even though I'll be 30 soon enough and I'm really very mature.
The courtesy of motorcycle culture was neat to experience. There's the one-handed biker-to-biker salute immortalized in song and on T-shirts; plus the unprecedented willingness of car drivers to pull over and let bikers pass. Almost every car did—instantly. I've never gotten that kind of respect while trying to get Gibson past a crawling Hummer full of coast-peepers.
It wasn't too cold in San Francisco, but the highway wind picked up around 5 p.m. Then we rode into a fog bank and the temperature dropped like an anvil. Our destination was the little town of Elk, highly recommended by the well-traveled Miss Mobtown and National Geographic. After a final half hour marked by lots of shivering and a sharp decrease in witty banter on the Autocom, we finally pulled in at Greenwood Pier.
The inn was exactly what you'd want it to be, complete with flighty and eccentric owners: She of the breathy hippie voice, he of the hobbit-like stature and long pointy fingernails. The jets weren't working in the hot tub, but it was hot enough to soothe, and our room had a real fireplace (The Boy proved his inferno-building mettle with flying colors) and enough space for a dozen or so people.
Their restaurant was dismal, its saving graces only that it was bad enough to be funny and we were too tired to care. But in the morning, they brought us tea and scones in a cute wire basket. Then we wandered down to Queenie's Roadhouse Cafe, now officially my favorite diner in the world next to O'Rourke's, for a spectacular breakfast.
Diner food on the road is like the rice and beans you cook when you're camping. You've put in enough time and sweat to reach the point where eating feels like an earned privilege, so it always tastes like nectar. Even so, Queenie's takes top honors.
Then we sped back along Rte. 128, a beautiful sweeping road through the woods, before deciding we'd had enough moto magic for one weekend and would like to feel our legs again and take a nap.
Hwy. 101 is no coastal wonderland, but sometimes it's just the right direct route home.
August 22, 2006
Amph'd up
The Greek Theatre in Berkeley is the ideal place to see a summer show, at least on this coast. It's big and friendly, it's an honest-to-god amphitheater with stone seats and great sound, and there aren't really any bad places to sit (unless you get there after curtain and wind up stuck on the grassy hill). It's always light when the first band goes on, then you can kick back and watch the sunset before the headliner.
I'm a fan. I try to see at least one show a year there, and it's usually Ben Harper.
Oh Ben. He doesn't fit easily into the rest of my music collection, which ranges from blues to jazz to hip-hop and back again. But he's a spectacular guitarist, a powerful singer, and the consummate crowd-pleasing performer. His shows run like clockwork, too, with a bevvy of guys backstage who each seem to be in charge of a single Ben Harper guitar. Between songs, they come scurrying out to hand him a new one, perfectly tuned.
He has a solid band, but my favorite part is always when he pulls out a chair with some kind of hippie wall hanging over it, sits down, and plays heartbreaking solo ballads on a lap steel guitar. The other musicians get quiet and back into the shadows, and Ben proceeds to fully tear it up.
By comparison, Damian Marley's opening set was rough around the edges. But that's not a bad thing. His breakout album, Welcome to Jamrock, has been blasting out of my car for the last month—it's awesome—and he has the live chops to back it up. He's a tiny little man with glorious hair, springs in his feet, and two singer/dancer ladies who could kick my ass any day of the week. He actually bounced all over the stage during his entire set, like a cloud of dreadlocks on a pogo ball.
Marley works the I-sound-like-my-dad-did-I-mention-who-he-is? angle a little too much, but you can't really blame him for it. He has tons of energy and hometown pride, plus a dude in his entourage whose sole job is to wave the Jamaican flag around wherever Marley goes. I figured it was a cousin or childhood friend. "Daaaamiaaaaan . . . I wanna be in the baaaaaaand with you-ou-ou-oooooooooou . . . ."
Given that Marley is just getting his feet wet and Harper has been playing to stadiums full of worshipful stoned college kids for a decade, the difference in their styles makes sense.
I was just happy to be there on a warm summer night, watching Damian prance his kid-like way to nightfall and listening to Ben offer up rockers and lullabies with a practiced hand.
I'm a fan. I try to see at least one show a year there, and it's usually Ben Harper.
Oh Ben. He doesn't fit easily into the rest of my music collection, which ranges from blues to jazz to hip-hop and back again. But he's a spectacular guitarist, a powerful singer, and the consummate crowd-pleasing performer. His shows run like clockwork, too, with a bevvy of guys backstage who each seem to be in charge of a single Ben Harper guitar. Between songs, they come scurrying out to hand him a new one, perfectly tuned.
He has a solid band, but my favorite part is always when he pulls out a chair with some kind of hippie wall hanging over it, sits down, and plays heartbreaking solo ballads on a lap steel guitar. The other musicians get quiet and back into the shadows, and Ben proceeds to fully tear it up.
By comparison, Damian Marley's opening set was rough around the edges. But that's not a bad thing. His breakout album, Welcome to Jamrock, has been blasting out of my car for the last month—it's awesome—and he has the live chops to back it up. He's a tiny little man with glorious hair, springs in his feet, and two singer/dancer ladies who could kick my ass any day of the week. He actually bounced all over the stage during his entire set, like a cloud of dreadlocks on a pogo ball.
Marley works the I-sound-like-my-dad-did-I-mention-who-he-is? angle a little too much, but you can't really blame him for it. He has tons of energy and hometown pride, plus a dude in his entourage whose sole job is to wave the Jamaican flag around wherever Marley goes. I figured it was a cousin or childhood friend. "Daaaamiaaaaan . . . I wanna be in the baaaaaaand with you-ou-ou-oooooooooou . . . ."
Given that Marley is just getting his feet wet and Harper has been playing to stadiums full of worshipful stoned college kids for a decade, the difference in their styles makes sense.
I was just happy to be there on a warm summer night, watching Damian prance his kid-like way to nightfall and listening to Ben offer up rockers and lullabies with a practiced hand.
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