Miracle on North Street

It's 12:01 a.m. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Between bouts of gluttony and gift-opening, please stop by my photo blog for an exciting tribute to my old apartment. You'll laugh. You'll cry. Afterward, you'll be overwhelmed by the urge for more eggnog.

I'll be thinking of you later today, while I go to the movies and get Chinese food with all the other good Jewish children.

Tiny slice of fame

It's no secret that I'm a little shutter-happy.

After making the unprecedented decision to merge that hobby with the wide wide world of the Interweb, I started with a photo blog that I'd use a lot more if I could upload batches, instead of one picture at a time (any Bloggerheads out there know a shortcut?).

Then I finally succumbed to the lure of Flickr, thanks to wheedling friends who kept telling me how easy it was. And it really is. Less space for rambling photo essays, but more motivation to post stuff when it takes a few minutes instead of hours.

Anyhoo, that's all by way of letting you know that a random guy in the UK who works for an online travel company found my Flickr pictures of China, and he asked to publish one. And it's up!

It's not an exciting photo (see here for my favorites from the China rolls), but it's still neat to see the copyright symbol next to my name on someone else's travel site.

By the way, I moved.

You probably guessed that by now. But just to confirm why BCB posts have been shorter and farther apart than usual: My life is stuck in a cacophony of boxes that I'm slowly breaking down into bite-sized wavelengths. Or some other profound metaphor.

The point is, I just managed to unearth my living room today. It's very nice. I'll tell you all about it when things calm down.

Also coming soon: a photo tribute to North Street. I really do miss Oakland, but things are sweet in the big city.

Bzzzzzzzz

I rarely drink coffee, especially the caffeinated kind, but I had a cup this morning to gear up for what I knew would be a crazy long day.

And now! I'm! totally wired!

There's a giant pile of work on my desk, but I can't seem to stop watching this very fantastic thing made by two adorable geniuses I know. Also I think I'm actually levitating.

Coffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffee

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dude with a tuba

Walking toward me while I headed for BART tonight was a tall, lanky guy wearing a big, shiny tuba. He looked a little self-conscious but pleased with himself.

There's also been a bagpiper at the corner of Sansome and California all week during the evening rush hour, in full Scottish regalia. So every time I pass by, it's like I'm graduating from high school again.

Spectacular times for shopping at IKEA

1. Friday, 7:30 p.m. (except holiday weekends)
2. Saturday, 7:30 p.m. (except holiday weekends)
3. The day before Thanksgiving, 4:30 p.m.

If you know what you're looking for, you'll be in and out in less than 20 minutes. No lie. Plus you'll get a killer parking space near the entrance.

In other, more hypothetical news: I may or may not have bought the Sexiest Man Alive issue of People, with Matt Damon on the cover, from the impulse rack at Safeway.

If perhaps I possibly did, rest assured it's strictly for research—k2 asked the other day who would be on my celebrity list, and I couldn't think of anyone except Mos Def, Clive Owen, and the character of Josh Lyman on West Wing. So it's clear that I'm out of touch on the critical issue of celebrity sexiness.

School me, People. Hypothetically. Ahem.

The little town that reads

Two posts in one day! Unprecedented. But I have to give props to my hometown (and home valley), featured today in the New York Times for being the readingest spot in the land.

If you click on the slideshow to the left of the article, you'll see nice shots of the Odyssey Bookshop, my childhood bookstore down the street from my dad's house; and the Montague Book Mill, one of my favorite places on the East Coast. Broadside Bookshop, also mentioned in the piece, is another long-time family staple about a mile from my mom's house.

Born in the "Valley of the Literate" . . . that probably explains why it's taken me a week to pack just the books in my living room.

Snaps, sir

If you think copyeditors are reserved, formal, heady creatures permanently chained to our desks, you're a little bit right, but we can also kick some ass. Um, verbally.

Case in point, this recent excerpt from The Chicago Manual of Style's hilarious (if you're in my line of work) Q&A section:

Q. About two spaces after a period. As a U.S. Marine, I know that what’s right is right and you are wrong. I declare it once and for all aesthetically more appealing to have two spaces after a period. If you refuse to alter your bullheadedness, I will petition the commandant to allow me to take one Marine detail to conquer your organization and impose my rule. Thou shalt place two spaces after a period. Period. Semper Fidelis.

A. As a U.S. Marine, you’re probably an expert at something, but I’m afraid it’s not this. Status quo.

Newfangled

Walking home today, I saw a middle-aged guy careening down the sidewalk on what appeared to be wheels. But he wasn't riding a skateboard or wearing Rollerblades. Did he have wheels attached to the bottom of his regular shoes?

No. He had two mini skateboards, one for each foot. They were squarish and silver, and they looked hard to manage. His legs kept shooting away from each other, since he basically had to face forward and sideways at the same time to stay balanced.

It was all kind of ridiculous, but he seemed to be having a blast. What will they think up next?

Comfort zone

What comfort food has meant to me since as far back as my memory goes: mashed bananas on toast, cream of mushroom soup, and Domino's pizza. Don't worry, not in one repulsive three-course meal. It's situational.

English mother + any kind of ailment = mashed bananas on toast. I don't know if it was an honored Yorkshire tradition or an early parenting inspiration (can't leave the house, the kid's too sick...those bananas are about to go off...hey, here's a loaf of bread), but it stars in all my childhood sickbed memories. During a holy trinity of illnesses in spring 2005—flu, strep throat, double ear infection—it was the only thing I could stand to eat, once I could swallow. But if you offered it to me on a normal day, I'd be nauseated. Seriously, I don't even like bananas.

From seventh grade onward, staying home sick from school meant ordering Domino's pizza (terrible) and watching Dead Poets Society (fantastic). Every. single. time. Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track....

Following a round of jaw surgery when I was 15, I couldn't eat anything but protein milkshakes and soup for six weeks. "Eat" is the wrong word, really, since my teeth were busy being wired shut. It was a dark, dark time that turned me into a weepy pile of teenage angst but somehow didn't spoil my taste for milkshakes. I couldn't touch soup for about three years afterward, though.

That exciting anecdote doesn't explain why cream of mushroom soup is one of my comfort foods. It just is. It's warm and filling and doesn't require any real effort to make. Even so, I almost never get a craving for it unless I'm upset or diseased.

The end. Tra la la.

The sweetest words ever spoken by an automated phone system

"Your jury duty is complete for one year, and we thank you for your service."

Since it's ship week and there are piles of paper the size of an overgrown toddler waiting in my inbox, this means justice has been served.

And I didn't even have to leave my desk.

A little fall

The BCS is back! Is it her swan song? Possibly.

But before she'll even consider exiting stage left, she invites you to take a gander at these autumnal scenes.

Yes, it is a royal sort of day. Or so one presumes.

Office space

On Monday, my computer at work decided not to turn on. Poof! Dead.

So now I have to use an intern's old Mac mini, which is just as adorable and silver as it is likely to crash after running InDesign for more than an hour. I have named it Dupree.

You're cramping my style, Dupree. Hop to it.

Miationary

strungover strung • o • ver adj (2007)
1 : experiencing a state of fatigue, muscle tension, self-pity, irritability, and cold-like symptoms immediately following a prolonged period of intense editorial entrapment when a : accompanied by the realization that the extra work is not truly necessary and probably not that useful but feels intellectually obligatory, and has for years now b : exacerbated by a potential 30-day period of added physical, emotional, and financial stress caused by displacing and replacing oneself in different cities with an offensive amount of stuff c : compounded by the removal or suppression of love d : resulting in a profound suspicion that all of this is self-inflicted and the inflictor should really, come on now, just get up from the computer, get a grip, and get some damn sleep.

Presidential press conferences

I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to them.

Bright lights, big city

I love Oakland. I do. But even on this cold, rainy day in my drafty cube, I have to say—I’ve been feeling San Francisco lately.

I’m a charmed wanderer in Telegraph Hill (see below): RJ’s, Coit Tower, Levi Plaza, the busy piers, long lunchtime walks up the slopes and down through North Beach, and my very first city office a few blocks away on Lombard, in case I get nostalgic for ’99.

I’m a shutterbug downtown: the pricey cornucopia at the Ferry Building, the lean and elegant architecture, the curving cable-car tracks, the eye of MOMA, the half-buried ship at Yerba Buena, tea at Samovar, cocktails at B.

I’m a happy weekender in Noe: coffee at Martha’s, brunch at Fattoush, fruit and honey at the farmers market, foofs on Clipper.

I’m a greedy consumer in the Haight and the Richmond: everything used at Amoeba, shelves of Canteens at Booksmith and Green Apple, costumes at Buffalo Exchange, kitchen gear at Kamei, happy hours at Club Deluxe, the palate cleanser of windy jogging paths through Golden Gate Park and the Presidio.

I’m at home in the Mission: burritos at Papalote and Cancun, readings at the Make-Out Room, music at the Elbo Room, drinks at the Latin American, tango and run-ins at Revolution, party shirts at Weston Wear, books at Dog Eared, friends everywhere.

To be fair, the list is even longer for the East Bay—about 12 years’ worth, give or take college and France—but something tells me if there were ever a time to cross the bridge, it’s getting to be right about now.

We’ll see.

polefaces, telegraph hill

Lazybones

I admit it: Flickr is easier and faster than my photography blog, if nowhere near as satisfying. It's like the drive-through of photo sites.

But I seem to be extra busy this month, so please excuse my artistic sloth and take a look at some delightful pictures of my trip to the homestead and an assetful weekend in wine country.

Photo essays with real stories (made of actual words and thoughts) are forthcoming . . . any day now.

Possible high point of my life

I just hung up the phone from a conference call with Barry Manilow, Brian Boitano, and Dorothy Hamill.*

Yes, this is completely true. Don't all line up to touch me at once. The glow should last a while.

I love my new job.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarry!

* Weird footnote: If you do a search on Google Images for "brian boitano barry manilow," you wind up with this picture of Bill Cosby in the first page of results. Can any of my Google buddies tell me which part of the algorithm made that choice?

Toot, toot

I'm back! And I have the color half of my photos developed. There's one black-and-white frame left to shoot in roll #2, and damned if I won't find a way to use it.

While you wait for me to finish being obsessive about scanning and posting, here's a musical interlude. Some clever Wesleyanites put together this hilarious tune. Warning: It's rated PG-13 and probably only funny if you went to college there. But if you did, it's really, really funny.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I lived in Butterfield B (aka The Butts), Hewitt 10 (on Foss Hill), high-rise, and 32 Brainerd—and I spent quality time in the squash courts. If you get through the whole song, you'll understand.

Bicoastal

Off to the homestead for my annual fall visit! If you need me, I'll be frolicking in a big pile of leaves on Rte. 47 for a couple of weeks.

I might post from the East Coast office, aka my middle-school bedroom that my mom claims to have finally made into a guest room, despite all the poster holes in the walls and those goofy glow stars all over the ceiling . . . or I may take a li'l break from computering. We'll see if my willpower holds out.

In the meantime, please enjoy these photos of my crash course in ultimate at Golden Gate Park. No, I didn't play—I'm pretty much frisbee-challenged—but it was a kick watching k2 and his crew do their thing.

Autumnally,
The BCB

Brother knows best

My brother has great taste, mostly—except for when he called me up a few years ago, almost crying with laughter, to tell me how many times he'd seen Old School. It was an embarrassing number of times. I'd already seen it, thought it was OK for a guy flick, and forgotten about it.

No, no, he said. Funniest movie ever made. Watch it again. Um, no. My list of more interesting ways to spend two hours is endless.

But tonight I succumbed to a post-nacho coma at Alyssa and Jasper's house, and they put on Old School. And you know? It's actually kind of hilarious.

I only made it through about 45 minutes before sleep seemed like a better plan, but I still think Avi deserves a shout-out for knowing—like big bros always do—the score.

Selective memory

Walking to the subway from work last night time-warped me to childhood. The air was heavy—legitimately humid, East Coast naysayers—too thick for any kind of jacket. There was a slight breeze with no coolness to it. Just about the opposite of normal San Francisco.

It was 7 p.m., the sun was setting, and it felt exactly like every Massachusetts summer when all I wanted to do was lie in front of a fan and die. Until the heat broke and the warm rain made Indian Hill into a makeshift water park.

Tonight, the same walk at the same hour was cold and gray, with a sharp, lifting wind. Short sleeves didn't cut it, leather didn't cut it, I made a meal of my hair, and the last block to BART felt like a football field. Dry leaves crinkling across my path.

It's not that we don't have seasons here. They're just fickle, so you never have the time or will to master them. But there's also no real need to try.

15 minutes

Sean and I were interviewed recently about Canteen for a literary networking site called LitMinds, run by the friendly and supportive new owners of the Booksmith in San Francisco.

They just posted it today: http://litminds.org/blog/2007/09/litminds_literary_innovators_i.html

It's a long interview, so here's the gist: Sean is pithy, I'm verbose, and we entertain each other mightily. Also, he's much taller.

Hooray!

Mawwidge

It seems to be time for a photo essay to spruce up this blog, so it doesn't get jealous of the BCS. Because, you know, blogs have feelings.

Conveniently, one of my favorite people got married the other day. Hats off to Shmosh! And his bride, the lovely Rose of Frances.


Yes, they're the cutest. But let's not forget that every good wedding weekend starts with Canteen:




Plus a handful of Joshes. My brother and I both have a Josh (actually a bunch, but two are clearly the most important). To keep them straight, we call them My Josh and Your Josh—or the Rebbe and the Doctor.

Either way, their moms are proud. Just look at those faces.




After picnics come weddings, like so.

the bride prepares

the bride declaims

the bride chats

signing the ketubah

mark observes

the wedding party

marriage? hilarious.

No celebration is complete without at least one fabulous grandma whose accessories could be used as a powerful weapon.

i wish you could see that the belt was red

It seems like the thing to do

I just realized, am I supposed to say something about hitting the 10,000 mark on my blog counter thing?

So . . . um . . . BOO-yah!

Note to self:

Don't ever wear sandals in San Francisco at night.

It doesn't matter if it's 90 degrees all day long, if you can stroll around in a skirt and T-shirt in the sunny sunshine at lunchtime, kicking up your heels and wishing there were no such thing as an office or a deadline, imagining a beach or a meadow or a grassy knoll, possibly all three at once, without any shoes at all.

That very night, and every single night ever in the history of San Francisco, it will turn into the Arctic.

Shivering is for the weak. Just suck it up and wear boots.

In the hoods

Sorry for the quiet stretch, I've been Canteening and getting mud baths in Calistoga. It's all very draining.

I've also been tied up at work revising our house style guide, which is pretty much the first task any editor does at a new gig. There are so many discretionary points in spelling and grammar—a lot more than you'd imagine—that every publication needs to get its preferences down on paper.

And since I'm chiefing these days, that makes me The Decider. The Denizen of Style. The Grammarnator. The Comma Chameleon. They haven't given me a special hat and cape yet, but I figure it's only a matter of time.

Anyhoo, there I was working on the style guide, and it turns out there was no list of San Francisco neighborhoods for everyone in editorial to obey. So my boss and I put one together.

Here it is, including commonly used bastard hybrids (like BayCowGulch) and all the possible iterations of the biggies (Lower This, Upper That):

Bayview, Bernal Heights, the Castro, Chinatown, Civic Center, Cow Hollow, Diamond Heights, Duboce Triangle, Eureka Valley, Excelsior, Financial District, Glen Park, the Haight, Hunters Point, Ingleside, Inner Mission, Inner Richmond, Inner Sunset, Japantown, Lower Haight, Lower Fillmore, the Marina, the Mission, Mission Bay, Nob Hill, Noe Valley, NoPa, North Beach, Outer Mission, Outer Richmond, Outer Sunset, Pacific Heights, the Panhandle, Parkside, Polk Gulch, Potrero Hill, Presidio Heights, the Richmond, Russian Hill, South Beach, South of Market (SoMa), the Sunset, Telegraph Hill, the Tenderloin, Tendernob, Twin Peaks, Union Square, Western Addition, West Portal.

Natives and transplants: If we're missing any, please let me know. There's a shiny copper penny and a big hug in it for you.

Summer photos

There are some new pictures of recent adventures up in the Business Casual Shutterbug's lair:

Livermore Rodeo
Independence Day
Seattle

And now it's long past time for bed. There can't be anything about a cold and achy quads that a few solid nights of rest won't fix.

Plus a case of Emergen-C, that nectar of the homeopathic gods.

Sleep tight.

Second half

My legs are achy and my belly is full of pancakes. That's right, today was San Francisco Marathon day.

I woke up at 5:24—not to my alarm, since I forgot to turn it on (oops)—but the old internal clock served me well. Zipped into the city on deserted streets, then caught the shuttle to the starting line for the second half of the race.

Then I spent 45 minutes standing around in the rain waiting for it to start. Let's not dwell on that part. We'll just say I got some really good stretching in.

Mile 1 passed by like water. Miles 2 and 3 were strangely hard, but after that I found a zone and didn't really notice miles 4 to 7. The course is blessedly flat, with only a few minor upgrades and several significant downgrades about halfway through.

The section through the Haight and the Mission was pretty cool—the slightly illicit feeling that we were running where only cars are supposed to go. Then miles 9 to 11 ticked by like torture, especially when I mistook mile 11 for mile 12, and pushed faster than I should have.

The last 1.2 miles were like doing endless sprints in high school during preseason soccer, having to talk my way (yes, out loud) through each step. "I'll never do this again," I swore.

Then it was over! And the repulsive electrolyte drinks flowed like...um...nectar. Or anything that tastes better than electrolytes.

Here are my official results:

Bib: 20141
Age: 29
Hometown: Oakland CA
Place overall: 919 out of 2050
Women: 400 out of 1227
F 20-29: 150 out of 372
Finish: 2:05:43
Pace: 9:36

So I won't be representing you in the Olympics anytime soon, but I'm proud of improving my time by about 10 minutes over the Nike Women's Marathon half last fall. It's a direct result of the course—no big hills, compared to five brutal ones in the Nike route, including a really evil climb at mile 11.

After a trip to the hot tubs and the sauna this afternoon, plus an excellent dinner and the refreshing G&T that's a critical part of any training program, I feel great. Drained, mind you, but hearty enough that I can almost forget the pain of the final stretch.

Maybe I'll run the first half next year.

Dear Gibson...

You saucy devil. I'm finally done paying for you.

In exchange for the return of your soul from the credit union, will you please lay off the check engine light? I bought you from a dealer, man. I know your repair history. Stop being coy. The guys at Frank's are very nice, but I don't need to visit them quite so much.

But come to think of it—if you're planning any major electric illnesses, do me a favor and cough them up before the end of the year. That's when your extended warranty expires, and it'll take much more than a dashboard light for me to fix your pricey li'l bod then.

You're a young buck with a lot of good years left. Let's not spend them at the Golf hospital when we could be on Highway 1.

Love,
The BCB

p.s. Also: You're the greatest! Turbo still rules, and you're so green and shiny. Don't ever change, except maybe be a little less grumpy. Thanks.

Eighth circle, sort of.

I mean, if you're going to get dramatic about it. And by you, I mean me.

Every time I fly Alaska Airlines, I fool myself into thinking: This time, it won't be delayed. Even though every single flight (truly) I've ever been stupid enough to purchase from them has been anywhere from one to three hours late taking off, they're the primary carrier between Oakland and Seattle, and my big brother lives up north, so . . . this would be an awesome time to rant about monopolies.

But I just paid $10 for this scant 25 minutes of Wi-Fi time—no, really, because I've been sitting in this sweaty chair for an hour and a half and that's just how bored I am—and it'd be a crying shame if I didn't entertain you somehow. Whining is not the way.

So here's a story about a different monopoly, and if you wanted to draw some kind of parallel, who would I be to stop you?

In the 15ish-minute walk from the Montgomery BART stop up Sansome to my new office, I pass half a dozen Starbucks and about eight other places to get coffee. If I split the walk between Sansome and Battery, I can totally double that number. Even the places that aren't Starbucks pretty much feel like Starbucks, except they don't carry the new McCartney album with a no-way-I'm-65-now-what-about-all-the-LSD title that references computers. You know, so the kids can relate.

I also pass the city's central Immigration Services office, which always has a long line out the door of nervous-looking people holding sheaves of documents. Why do they make everyone line up on the sidewalk? Today I thought about photographing the scene, the juxtaposition of American greed and the quantities of good people trying to become part of it.

But if I were uncertain about my immigration status, I probably wouldn't want some curious local chick taking my picture.

Ah, they're calling my flight. Alaska, you're semi-forgiven. Just get me up there, let me sleep, don't drop into the sea, and we're back in business.

On turning 29

It's funny to have been around this long and still be ridiculously young.

Edging toward three decades of memories and reshuffled details, still counting on friends I made 20 years ago (or at least 20 days). You'd think we'd all be seasoned and wise now.

It doesn't seem to work that way, but I do know their insights keep gaining value, like triple-cream illegal French cheese.

Thank goodness other people can write poems.

When I snap my fingers

You will wake in a dear yet unfamiliar place
You will scarcely remember your travail
You will be eating green caterpillars over a small fire
An awesome congeries of youthful men and women
Will be brushing these very tracks away

—C.D. Wright—

New job!

Goodbye, zbufs.

Hello, San Francisco.

It may take a little while to get used to the quintupling of my commute time and the return to cube-dwelling, but it's all to the good.

Now if I could just figure out the voicemail system. Why is that always the hardest part?

Whew.

When I got home last night, all my stuff was still there.

Knock wood for another year—

Speed reader

I'm in that floaty space between the old job and the new one, trying to wind down and ramp up at the same time. It involves shuffling big stacks of paper.

Other editors may purge their files like clockwork, but I expect we're mostly pack rats. You never know when you might need to reference that thing you worked on a few years back. The one where that guy was talking, with the clause you fixed just right, and it may come up again, so . . . you understand.

Looking over two-plus years of work reminded me of the painful, sweet, inevitable learning curve, its steepness and pace. As the new kid, you know the least about what's going on; as the editor, you're supposed to correct what all the seasoned writers have to say about what's going on. It's an odd situation.

I've always read quickly, and I imagine that's no small reason I wound up doing it for a living. That and the fact that people were willing to pay me. (I'm still amazed.)

But reading for pleasure tends to go much faster than reading for work. A novel passes by like so much ethereal distraction. The more I like it, the sooner I want to move forward and see what's next.

Reading with an eye to correct is a very different beast: slower by necessity, less about immediate gratification than about establishing a prolonged relationship with the words. Context is king either way—but in a pleasure read, I aim for total immersion with no awareness. In a professional read, I'm constantly aware.

This is all by way of observing that my professional reading pace has increased lately, and so has my snap judgment of what I read. It might just be a survival mechanism, since the volume of work has been vast in this job. But I'd like to think it's also a sharpening of instinct.

The deeper I dig into this craft, the more often I look things up. Back in the day, I thought I was supposed to have the rules down and recite them on command. The biggest surprise has been the flexibility of language within those rules. Not everything can be argued—thank goodness, Mr. Strunk and Mr. White—but it can often be discussed.

So why the honed instinct? How does it help? I'm still sussing this out, but I think it means I'm starting to understand when the discussion is worth having.

How to please your heart and anger your knees

run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run

China highlights

What's that, Biz Cas? You were in China?

Yes, my Beijing photos are finally up at the BCS. Please take a look at them all if you'd like, or just enjoy these 10 favorites:

And it doesn't get dark until 8:30

I just took my hammock out of storage. Then I went to the market for these:

Y A Y
S U M M E R T I M E

Campin'

Warning: Inside jokes ahead. They're probably only funny when box wine is involved, and maybe not even then. But who would know?

CAMPIN'
A Jujubes for Jesus™ How-To Guide

First, find an open road. Put them car wheels on it.

A possibly stolen talisman is essential for highway safety. Give it a common name to avoid suspicion.


Take your time. Enjoy the scenery, sample the bounty of the roadside stands.


When you reach your destination, spend a while appreciating nature's burbling.


Let your mind become peaceful, and your body numb.


Become one with the trees.




Stop and say hello to your many-legged friends.




Do not stray from the clearly marked trail.

Record your greatest hits album. Having prior hits is not required.

Stroll on back to your campsite. Play a little tune, light a little fire.

[Musical Interlude]

Wake up slightly worse for wear. Ask yourself what happened.

Consult the Semiotician to the Stars for answers. She'll want to confirm that you brought along all the outdoor essentials:

remote-controlled latern . . . check.

plastic mallet . . . check.

pedicure . . . check.

the naughty . . . check.

Decide not to sweat it. Observe your fellow campers at rest.

the tent mahal

it's for his own good

Turn and see the woodland creatures scatter. Consider the carnage.


Finally, remember this: If it starts with Franzia, it ends with smiles. Or something like them.

And if the good lord doesn't smite you down soon, the neighbors will.

kathmandon't, b.w. slim, h. mcgraw, a.m. johnson, the fiddler, ladyboy, magic hands.
not pictured: penelope.

Leave the woods as pristine and unscathed as you found them.

Half of China

The epic post-vacation photo project marches onward.

And so do I, to Big Sur. First camping trip of the year! Bringing my woolies and a warm hat.

Please enjoy some pictures while I'm away:

China (1) The 798
China (2) The Forbidden City
China (3) The Great Wall

Two unexpectedly fantastic things

Forever Stamps
Let's play a game. The one where I'm no longer 28, but magically 90. Ready?

I remember when pay phones cost a dime and stamps cost 20 cents. Not postcard stamps, real stamps. Only a handful of pennies to mail a handwritten letter or a nice birthday card to anyone all over our fine country.

But since my childhood ended and Norman Rockwell moved away, they've been jacking up the price every other month, and suddenly stamps are 41 cents! Ridiculous.

Except for this saving grace: the Forever stamp. Whether you ignore its stupid name or write it all over your Trapper Keeper, you have to admit these expiration-free stamps are the best idea America has ever stolen.

(Thanks, England! And 29 other countries.)

Tilex® Mold & Mildew Remover
OK, in this part of the game, I'm Donna Reed. You can be her doctor husband or the family dog, whatever you're into.

I love my apartment more than most things, but the shower is a serious drag to clean. Not that any shower is fun to clean, but some are easier than others, and this particular shower has an evil brand of tile with a stubborn soapscum/mildew fetish. It just can't get enough.

Until now! After trying quite possibly every brand of tile cleaner available in California, from the most organic to the most chemical-infested, I finally found The One that works: Tilex Mold & Mildew Remover.

Spray it on, give it some privacy for about 15 minutes, then come back and rinse. No scrubbing, no ruined nails, no coughing fits from all those gnarly chemicals.

Don't get me wrong: Tilex is chock full of ingredients people were never meant to inhale. But you don't have to touch them, and that's beautiful. So is my sparkly, sparkly shower.

That "new magazine" smell

Canteen is here! We had launch parties on both coasts to celebrate.

Here's what we looked like at the beginning of the San Francisco event, all frayed nerves and cautious grins:

© Susan Walther

And here we are four hours, 200 guests, countless cheek kisses, several reporters, and one Miranda July later:

no idea who took this picture

For the record, that's a bottle of mineral water. We're just happy because of all those empty boxes—we sold out of copies.