Decembrist

At BCB headquarters, the past 12 months were more about pictures than words. We can discuss what each type of expression is worth another time. For now, a photo from—and in memory of—each slice of 2009.

My only selection parameter was that I couldn't repeat any of the images I've posted on here before. Harder than I expected, but more interesting than just choosing my favorites.

Happy new year to you.

january
entrance | de young museum, san francisco

february
snowshoe | lake tahoe, california

march
olive oil | south hadley, massachusetts

april
three knots | spirit rock, marin

may
pemberton clan | monte rio, california

in honor of jack pemberton, 1919–2009

june
off-center | guerrero street, san francisco

july
votives | avi & jenny's wedding, doe bay

august
fence flower | santa monica, california
in honor of miriam commisso

september
no parking | colón, argentina

october

fiddle dog | northampton, massachusetts

november

paint cans | jan & phil's home, galiano island

december
treasures | pebble beach, galiano island

Lingua mia

Words and phrases I use way too often, in no particular order:

1. It is what it is.
2. Definitely.
3. What can you do?
4. Horrendous.
5. Delicious.
6. No worries.
7. OK, great.
8. Sweet.
9. Right on.
10. Totally.
11. Pretty this / kind of that.
12. Absurd(ly).
13. It's all good.
14. Nice!
15. Hybrids I invent by adding random suffixes: friendiversary, New Englandish, etc.

I think this means I'm not exactly stealth about being Jewish, addicted to Bay Area slang from the late '90s, and a serious dork.

Argentina, captured

At long last . . . 170 moments have been scanned and dusted and posted and captioned, and now they're all yours: Argentina on Flickr.

Since I didn't write much on here about the trip, I tried to turn the photo sets into a mini narrative. If you'd like to read it, I recommend viewing the pics one by one, instead of in slideshow mode. (NB: Details are much easier to see in the slideshow.)

For those who prefer bite-size distraction, here are 10 of my favorites. But keep in mind you're only experiencing a seventeenth of the fun.

Passersby looked on in mild horror as I crouched to shoot this in Palermo, BA.

This shot in Congreso sums up BA's aesthetic for me:
gritty and colorful, with touches of elegance.

BA has exceptional graffiti. This curtsying girl is in San Telmo.

The spicy window display at El Gato Negro café, BA

Courtyard bench at my charming, musty hotel in Colón

Mi amigo poquito de Colón

Parroquia Santos Justo y Pastor, Colón

Mailbox on a side street, Colón

Bricklayer, construction site, Colón

I fell in love with these shoes in Colón on a Tuesday, brought them
back to BA on a Thursday for a photo shoot on Amy's terrace.

Rosewood, Cementerio de la Recoleta, BA

Claro que sí

I hoped to have all my pictures posted before I started telling you Argentina stories, but it turns out scanning and Photoshopping 10 rolls takes kind of a long time. How about that?

So we'll go bit by bit, starting with New England (full set here). It's a little-known fact that all great tales of South America begin with hot cider—all great tales of anything, really. Here's yours:


You should bring it along to keep warm at the Paradise City Arts Festival, especially in the sculpture garden.



Watch out for the dog on a hog. He takes no prisoners.


The leaves were just starting to do their magic thing. In Vermont, for instance:


Wait, what's that you said? You want to see my ride?


Yeah, baby. There ain't no party like a Delaware PT Cruiser party. That trunk is plenty big enough to hold a few of these:


But I didn't think they'd survive the trip from Boston to Argentina.

After a big pile of hours and a minor adventure with the prepaid cab company, I reached Amy's place (sans pumpkins) in Buenos Aires. Her new kitchen is stocked with all the necessities.


She lives in Villa Crespo, near the city center. This is the view from her very pretty, very sunny terrace.


Someday, I'd like to have a terrace. Or even a window box. But in the meantime, all I have is about a million more photos for you. Coming soon!

Sobriquettish

The so-called BCB has spent way too much time stateside lately. Not that I'd trade in any of the past year's jaunts to Orcas Island, New York, Seattle, Spirit Rock, SoCal—but my alter ego can't be fed on domestic travel alone.

So tomorrow seems like a fine day for Argentina, doesn't it? But I stopped at the homestead en route, to say hi to my family and the color wheel of leaves and the chill that seeps into your bones. There's nowhere prettier than here right now.

Saturday: Boston. My cousin Shira showed me around Brighton, a quiet little neighborhood with the best twin bartenders a girl could ever shack up with. During dinner at Brown Sugar, the lights suddenly went out (not romantic dimming, but total blackness) and a green strobe light started up. Then a pulsing beat, then a Thai man singing a husky rock version of "Happy Birthday" to someone we couldn't see. For a full five or six minutes. Nobody reacted. Then the lights came on, and it was business as usual. Who's free next July 10? I'll see you there.

Sunday & Monday: Northampton. Blew a kiss to the old gray dog and picked up my sweet rental car, a metallic blue PT Cruiser immediately christened Skymall. (If you're looking for me, I'm the one in the pimp hearse. You can thumb wrestle Chuck D for shotgun.) Mom and I checked out the Paradise City Arts Festival, followed by a double-header of gorgeous, relentless biopics: Bright Star and Becoming Jane. They neatly reconfirmed my belief that the critical ingredients for British literary genius are shackled love and early mortal illness. (American genius = epic road trips and really good drugs.)

Tuesday: Vermont & South Hadley. Google Maps sent me on a complicated backroads route through Bennington with a turn every few minutes, mostly unsignposted but all pristine. Lunch with the Rabbis Boettiger and the samba dog. Back through the rain to Dad and Ann's, tested out my memory and took the Holyoke route off 91. Only got almost lost once. Rewarded with corn risotto and Scrabble.

Today has been lazy and logistical, tomorrow back on the bus and then the plane, a speed-demon layover in Miami and 10 more hours and hey! Good morning, South America. I don't believe I've had the pleasure before.

Fall cleaning

In late August, it was beginning to look a lot like cleanse season. I'm taking a few weeks off from the gym so my friend the abdominal tear can actually heal, instead of just pretending to, and a new month is always a nice, clean time to start a project.

At first, I thought I'd go the basic route: no caffeine, alcohol, dairy, gluten, or processed foods for two weeks. Not much fun, but not torturous. Then I remembered how great I felt after each 24-hour juice fast I've done annually for the last few years, usually combined with an overnight at some hot springs. How long could I keep that up? And how about a Master Cleanse, would that be head-clearing or demented? It's meant to last 10 days, but that sounded more like starvation than health. So I cut it in half. I figured I could handle anything for five days.

The Master Cleanse people recommend two days of easing in before officially starting the program: one day of raw foods, then one of fruit and vegetable juices. The raw day was fine. I ate a lot of salad and got a little grumpy at work. But the juice day was rough, especially when I wound up at Papalote watching a group of friends get their burrito on. And my energy level was so low that I started to feel kind of loopy.

When I woke up on day three, I realized the Master route wasn't for me. There was no way I could function normally on a diet of spicy lemonade. So I decided to alternate raw days and juice days for the rest of the cleanse. This was over Labor Day weekend—the magazine gave us an extra day off, so the timing was right. It's much easier to follow strict food guidelines when you can make meals at home. The shopping and prep become part of the exercise. I spent quality time at Rainbow Grocery.

I don't have any hilarious anecdotes about the rest of the experience, but I survived. The evenings on juice days were the hardest and hungriest, so I went to bed early and slept longer and much more deeply than usual. In the mornings, I felt fantastic and had plenty of energy.

I broke the cleanse at Harbin Hot Springs with a peach-ginger muffin. To say it was the best muffin in the history of muffins doesn't do it justice. Let me tell you a story.

Seven or so years ago, I went on a first (and only) date with a short, tan man who decided we should go surfing. Note to guys: That's an extreme first date, especially if you don't tell the girl beforehand—you just show up and say, "Hey, I thought we'd go surfing in Bolinas"—and most especially if the girl has never surfed before and isn't all that interested in it.

But it was a beautiful day and I'm a trouper, so off we went. Another tip: Wetsuits should never be part of a first date. It took me 20 minutes to put the damn thing on, and I fell over at least three times. Local children pointed and laughed. Truly.

Eventually, we made it into the water, where I proceeded to spend two freezing, uncomfortable hours failing to stand up on the board. Mostly, I paddled around shivering while tan guy happily caught wave after wave.

When I couldn't stand it anymore, I chucked the wetsuit and took an epic nap on the beach in the sun. Being warm and dry, instead of clinging to a slippery board while encased in rubber, was like showering for the first time after a month in a mud pit. I slept so well that I felt like an entirely different person afterward. I forgave the mocking children; I even forgave tan guy his trespasses, although I don't remember his name. It was the most glorious nap of my life.

The muffin that broke the cleanse was the muffin equivalent of that nap. Food just doesn't get any better, especially if your head and belly know exactly what they've been missing.

Summer photo roundup

It's suddenly almost September, which makes me feel like I took a wrong turn and tripped over a hole in the space-time continuum or the Flux Capacitor or whatever.

But the point is, I've been remiss in posting photos. Sorry about that. First, we have my favorite brother's beautiful wedding out on Orcas Island. Full set on Flickr, and here are some highlights:





Then I drove down to Santa Monica in my trusty green steed to visit Ms. Erin Jourdan, who was hosting a fundraiser for her housemate's lymphoma treatment. The sun shone the whole time, with nary a forest fire in sight. Full set here, highlights here:





If I ever break up with Gibson, it'll be for this guy. I call him Zipper.

In like the lion

On my walk to work this morning, I was thinking about how healthcare reform—assuming some version of it eventually passes—will have Ted Kennedy's fingerprints all over it, regardless of his untimely shuffle off our mortal coil (RIP, sir).

If Kennedy and his wicked Mass accent were still around to raise hell in Washington, and I really wish they were, then he'd have continued to make the passage of this legislation his top priority. And it would have happened, and—all due respect to President Obama—it would have been so much better than it'll likely turn out to be sans Kennedy's policy acumen and bipartisan savvy.

But maybe, just maybe, our crotchety governmental bodies will stop bickering over pennies and votes long enough to honor their colleague's legacy. Not with yet another heartfelt speech or wreath or A&E Biography interview, but with comprehensive reform that gives every living, breathing person in our absurdly wealthy and oft mismanaged country the right to stay that way without going into unconscionable debt.

One basic human right in exchange for 46 years of backbreaking public service. Seems like a decent deal, doesn't it? Let's cross the aisle and shake on it.

Flash of genius

They don't happen often, and only when I'm driving. Today's commute epiphany:

I'm going to make my first million with my new line of "Have Grammar?" bumper stickers. They don't seem to exist yet anywhere on the Interweb, which is kind of miracle, and it's clearly within the best interest of my very narrow demographic to capitalize on that miracle immediately.

You heard it here first! Well . . . I also posted the idea on Facebook just now. So it's, like, a simultaneous first. (It will not be Twittered because I f$%&ing hate Twitter.)

But either way, ™, baby.

[Update: You thought I was kidding. But behold! The BCB store over at CafePress is now open to satisfy all your grammaring needs. Don't be fooled by the crappy onscreen resolution—that typeface is clear as a bell.]

. . . and we're back.

Hey everyone, sorry for the brief hiatus. It's been a hectic month here at BCB HQ, what with dyeing my hair all the same color, turning 31, and heading to the islands (well, just one) for my big brother's wedding.

I'll tell travel stories and post oodles of Orcas pictures soon enough. While those are in the works, here are some other recent snapshots from an excellent July 4th picnic at Crissy Field—we actually saw fireworks! above the boats! no fog!—and a little self-portraitish rambling around the city.

Can I get a hey-yea?

Please admire this headline typo from today's Times home page before they fix it:

41 Yeas Later in Chicago, Tense Days Remembered

Almost as satisfying as finding mistakes in the New Yorker and CMS, but not quite.

No glove, no love

Welcome to my requisite Michael Jackson post. It can't be helped—I'm a child of the '80s.

Truth be told, I'm not having much of a reaction to the king's death. There's no doubt in my mind that he was nuts, and my only thoughts about him in the last 10 to 15 years were that he looked creepy and terrible, and that he shouldn't have custody of his own kids or anyone else's. I felt sorry for the guy. He became the poster child for the inevitable mental illness of overexposed, obscenely rich child stars in the midst of a constant identity crisis.

But he did have a heyday—a few of them, really—and he could be inarguably awesome. His death feels like one of those cultural moments we'll all recall for our grandkids: JFK, 9/11, MJ. I've never seen everybody on Facebook discuss the same topic simultaneously before.

My Jackson memories are probably a lot like yours: Thriller was one of the first tapes I ever owned (along with Air Supply and Like a Virgin). I had a Michael Jackson doll with midlength curls, a sparkly red jacket, and a sparkly silver glove. It got along famously with my Barbie after I shaved her head and ditched her high heels for some little black boots. She wound up pregnant, and it's a long story but I'm pretty sure Michael came through with child support.

I think the always wise Miss Mobtown summed it up best yesterday:

"RIP, MJ. Hope your life wasn't as awful as it seems like it would have been to the casual observer."

Slow burn

After six weeks of diligently doing uncomfortable hip stretches twice a day, plus giving up all exercise three weeks ago to let the injury rest, I went back to the doctor today to check in. Confused that I'm not healed by now, my original PT had recommended a cortisone shot. But the doc said not yet, even though there's still inflammation. She sent me down to the lab for an X-ray. Everything looks normal.

She diagnosed that the stretching has actually been making the injury worse—great!—and she prescribed a treatment called Active Release Therapy. I spent quality time talking to my insurance company and eventually realized there's no way to avoid paying for these appointments if I want my hip to heal anytime soon. And I really, really do.

Matt, the new PT, stuck some sort of steroid patch on me with a battery attached. It sent tiny pins and needles into the most painful spot. It didn't feel good, but it felt productive.

Still, the whole process took hours. I was tired and frustrated when I finally got to work. Did a few things, then slogged on home feeling very put upon by life.

I was making dinner with Josh called. He's a college friend and one of my favorite people. He lives in Baltimore, so I keep tabs on him via email and Facebook and his in-laws' annual holiday party in Walnut Creek.

He called to tell me that his childhood friend Mark died last night from complications resulting from a long-standing brain tumor. When Mark was diagnosed five years ago, his doctors gave him six months to live. Instead, he finished school in furniture design, started a business, became an avid mountain biker, and got married. I only met Mark a handful of times, but it didn't take more than 10 minutes to be impressed by him. His energy and enthusiasm were palpable.

This morning, the PT teased me about being in my 30s. "I'm sorry, this is just how it goes," he said. "Our bodies start to wear down. It's time." I know people my age who've been seriously ill, divorced, miscarried, lost a parent. We're entering those stages reluctantly but naturally. But it's not time for us to start dying. That's not on the calendar yet.

Now I keep thinking about Mark and his wife. Diving into their very new marriage, they both knew what would happen and the losses they'd have to face. It should have been time for them to wear down, but they didn't.

It's extraordinary what our bodies can endure; even more so our hearts. My stupid little injury suddenly feels like a lucky charm.

Dude, this pyramid is hella big

Reason #742 why I love President Obama: For an exceptionally articulate scholar type, he keeps it real.

From the New York Times, about his recent travels:

A particular favorite seemed to be in Giza, Egypt, where he spent more than an hour and a half marveling at the Great Pyramid.

“This thing’s huge,” Mr. Obama said in amazement.

Rahm Emanuel, the White House chief of staff, took a camel ride in the 100-plus degree heat. When the president learned of it, he seemed interested, too, until he glanced over at the pack of reporters and photographers who were standing watch.

“If you weren’t here,” Mr. Obama said, “I’d get on a camel.”

Buddhas & birthdays

In mid-April, I went to Spirit Rock for a three-day silent meditation retreat. The grounds were very beautiful. Highlights from the full set:






A few weeks later, I headed to Monte Rio to help celebrate my step-grandfather's 90th birthday. Highlights from the full set: