The Business Casual Backpacker

Running the numbers

2011-02-02T21:16:00.000-08:00

On the Slate site today, Meghan O'Rourke gives a succinct overview of a new study by VIDA about the breakdown of male and female writers in magazines, both mainstream and literary. Check it out for yourself to see all the stats, but here's a hint: XY > XX.

This doesn't surprise me much because, you know, I follow the news and live in the world. But my own professional experience in the publishing industry has been dominated by women to the point where it became a running joke to spot the guy—any guy—in the office. He was usually either the president of the company or delivering a package on his bike.

At San Francisco magazine, where I worked until last fall, the sole gentleman on the editorial masthead was the editor-in-chief.* In my current editorial department, at Apple, women outnumber men 2 to 1. Of the 12 bosses I've had since college, 6 are women.**

But here's the real question Slate's article raised for me: How does Canteen measure up? I've been there since the beginning, and I've helped select every word in its pages. So I tallied up the writers in our first six issues, and the count looks like this:

Issue 1: M9, F2
Issue 2: M6, F5
Issue 3: M6, F3
Issue 4: M7, F6
Issue 5: M7, F5
Issue 6: M11, F6
Total: M46, F27

Yikes. Despite my own background in womencentric publishing, have I sold my sisters short at the magazine that matters most to me—the one where I have the most power to make sure this kind of inequality doesn't happen?

I could admit fault, dust off the Friedan, and whack myself in the face with it. Maybe I should. But it's not that simple. We have regular conversations at Canteen about balance of all kinds: gender, race, geography. The last thing we want in a publication devoted to unveiling the creative process is a uniform set of voices.

Our core editorial staff spends months poring through unsolicited submissions, working with writers to develop original content, and weighing the mix for each issue. It's a slog. When I get to have the rare magic moment—and it is euphoric—of finding a gold nugget in the pile, I'm not thinking about who the author is at all. My only conscious thought is YES. YESYESYESYESYESYES. Which is exactly what my brain does when it reads anything great, whether it's for Canteen or not.

So what am I saying, that men write magic stuff more often than women do? My god, no. But at my magazine, at least, it's a challenge to keep gender equality topmost in mind when selecting work. I don't want Canteen to discriminate, and we do make an effort to include a range of perspectives. But in the moment of discovery, I'm not focused on making the magazine more feminist or even feminine. I just want it to be good.

At the New Yorker and the Atlantic, the editors aren't combing through the slush pile at midnight. They get to cherry-pick pieces from the finest writers in the world. I like to imagine that if I were in that position, I would have the freedom—the responsibility—to promote the work of all genders equally. To magazines at that level, I say: Step up. You have the luxury.

At Canteen, we often don't. Our resources are far more limited. So here's my basic criterion: If what you wrote makes my brain explode, I will ask you to let us publish it. And if you happen to be a woman, all the better.

* Save the occasional mantern. Yes, we called them that.
** And half of those are named Nancy. We'll need to do another study to figure that one out.

When clever people have too much time on their hands

2010-10-19T20:49:00.000-07:00

Mia Lipman fails to understand why nobody has invented a dance called the Chana Masala.
10 hours ago

Joe Ona, Ben Wurgaft, and Żanna Spacetraveler like this.

Brian Bussiere because it can only be done to the naan bread beat.

10 hours ago

Brian Bussiere ‎*which has also yet to be laid down...

10 hours ago

Mia Lipman Best get right on that, Red. Earn yourself a raita ovation.

9 hours ago

Brian Bussiere my inspiration usually comes in the form of spitting lyrical fire. I shall leave the beats to those better fit...

9 hours ago

Ben Wurgaft you've clearly got the raita stuff, Mia.

6 hours ago

Mia Lipman Thanks, Ben - keep baingan that drum.

5 hours ago

Brian Bussiere you'd better curry!

5 hours ago

Ben Wurgaft Ah, I always curry favor with baingan BARTha.

4 hours ago

Brian Bussiere tikka-tock, time is a-wasting!

4 hours ago

Mia Lipman Ghee whiz, you two atta take this show on the road.

4 hours ago

Joe Ona Is it similar to the Gulab Jammin?

4 hours ago

Mary Burnham ahaha, love it!!! I'm gonna do the Chana Masala next time we meet, watch out!

about an hour ago

Catherine Giayvia Alu people better tikka number, naan of you seem to get it. But that's neither paneer nor there. You roti to the left, then you roti to the right and then you shake your jalfrezie like a korma chameleon. Now, lassi you try it. Go, mango.

about an hour ago

Mia Lipman Miss Mobtown for the win!

about an hour ago

Catherine Giayvia ‎*bows*

26 minutes ago

Digitized

2010-10-17T21:36:00.000-07:00

The summer after my sophomore year, I spent almost every weekday afternoon in my high school photo lab. The photography teacher, Mr. Couch—this was prep school, so we called him Couchie—was a genial, absent-minded fellow with a kind smile and a wandering pair of glasses.

The semester before, I'd taken my first class with Couchie. He taught us the basics of framing and shooting, then each step of the development process: rolling back the film, measuring out the chemicals, and my favorite part—the heart-pounding few minutes in the dark when you load the film onto the spool, feeling around for the right angle, trying not to touch the delicate face of each square and ruin the roll.

I learned to take pictures on my mom's old Pentax, a satisfyingly heavy silver and black box with a manual winder. When I graduated from college, she got me the slightly updated version of the same camera, a Pentax ZX-M. It worked faithfully from day one; the most I ever had to do was replace the batteries, the filter, and (countless times) the lens cap.

The Pentax never stopped its tireless march from country to country, state to state, recording my life in piles of matching Walgreens albums with faux-gold lettering. But I did—reluctantly, nostalgically—send it into early retirement when I finally entered the digital age this past summer.

My new travel buddy is a Canon Rebel XTi. The endless menus and settings are mystifying, and I know it can do a thousand tricks I don't think to ask of it. Nothing is left to chance anymore, and that's a loss, but I've been pleasantly surprised to find it hasn't changed my eye or the excitement of capturing time and space in a frame.

And when I miss the adrenalin rush of slipping open the envelope at the camera shop to see what turned out and what didn't, I can always pull the Pentax off its pedestal and take it on a field trip. I just hope I don't forget how to load the film.

Cincinnati: Stephen & Minal's wedding

New York: Traipsing through Brooklyn

Chicago: Richard & Caralyn's wedding

Cape Cod: Patricia & Richard's wedding

Western Mass: A family visit

San Francisco: FallFest, Lit Crawl, Open Studios

F3 at the Cotton Mill: An art show in Oakland

Five and time

2010-07-25T21:43:00.001-07:00

It took me almost 10 years to become a runner. I used to hate anything beyond a quick soccer or squash sprint. Then, over the course of who knows how many sweaty, uncomfortable, oh-god-let-this-end, slow-down-or-you'll-die miles, I reached a point where nothing else felt like exercise, or meditation, or health.

It took less than a year of not being able to run for my legs and lungs to revert back to the same burn I used to feel doing time trials in college. But that decade of training for distance left a tiny legacy: the feeling that I really ought to run farther, that I genuinely want to. At this point, a few months after deciding that my abdomen can finally handle more than stairs, I can run about four miles at a tortoise-plus pace before discomfort (aka The Twinge) kicks in. It's not anywhere near the same kind of rush, but it's something.

It seemed like time to try a race. The idea of reinjury makes me very nervous, and The Twinge is an impulsive and unpredictable master, so I signed up for a 5K. That's 3.1 miles—half of a 10K, obviously, and 10.1 miles less than the second half of the San Francisco Marathon, the course I feel most attached to. It's shorter than my usual morning run, at least as of this month, but a year ago it wasn't close to possible. A year ago it hurt to walk to work.

This is how my brain spun it to make the short jog—in the marathon or half-marathon mindset, that's all a 5K is, a roll around the block—sound like an accomplishment. I'd never actually run a 5K before. It's a weird distance, like one lap of a track. You can't sprint it flat out, you'll crash way too soon. But if you take it too slowly, schoolkids breeze by you, giggling.

This 5K was inside the San Francisco Marathon. On Friday, I went to the race expo to pick up my official shirt and everything else sponsors throw in the faux fiber bag (best: smoothie coupon; weirdest: miniature bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, because real runners eat very, very small salads), feeling a little resentful about going to the Fun Run table instead of the serious Half.

The tent was full of wiry, tan families speaking all sorts of languages. The men had short hair and thin, clean-shaven faces; the women had strong calves and brightly colored visors. Everyone looked deeply healthy.

Yesterday, I didn't run. I tried to go to bed early, but the thing about 9:45 on a Saturday night is that my body has zero interest in rest. It decided midnight was more like it. Fun times.

This morning, I got to the starting line about half an hour early. It turns out the ragtag 5K runners are a different breed than the expo families. We come in a wide range of shapes and sizes, ages (toddler to ancient), outfits (spandex, jeans, wool sweaters), and accessories (fanny packs, backpacks, digital cameras). At two minutes till, a few serious-looking teenagers pushed up to the front. Everybody not sporting a fanny pack or a walker started bouncing on their toes. One gray-haired woman shuffled back and forth, punching her hands up and out, over and over.

Running in a herd isn't fun at first. Then comes the natural spread, and you find your small open place. The energy of the group shifts into a catalyst. So do the mile markers, the water stations, the hired hands clapping at prescribed spots with genuine, heart-twisting enthusiasm. The whole process is extremely organized, but it manages to feel like a spontaneous surge. Suddenly the city streets are full of people, thousands of them, all running in the same direction. It's clear there's a shared purpose to it.

Here's how a 5K feels to The Twinge and me: The first mile is nothing; the second mile is epic; the third is driven by the anticipation of stopping; and the last .1 has to be a sprint, even though it's probably a stupid idea, because I've sprinted the home stretch of every race I've ever run. There is nothing, anywhere, like a finish line.

I had a few moments where the run felt too long, like my ability and will have regressed to 10 years back; but for most of the time I spent moving, and for the rest of the day afterward, it felt like a blink. Next time I want it to take much longer for my eyes to close, then open.

This is a story about control

2010-06-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me recently that I hadn't had a real group discussion about birth control since college, when everyone was just paranoid about getting pregnant. But then my women friends and I took a decade or so to grow up, and we had all kinds of experiences, relationships, scares, pleasures, and kids along the way.

We clearly needed a poll. One simple question (in two parts)—What's your favorite method? Ring, IUD, diaphragm, patch, pill, chanting at the full moon?—inspired an onslaught of thoughtful, funny, and wise replies. The 35 women I asked range all over the map: married, single, partnered, straight, bi, pregnant, moms, post-hysterectomy, health professionals, one-method-only, every-method-under-the-sun. But they were uniformly curious to hear what the rest of the group had to say.

Everyone enjoyed the conversation so much that several participants asked me to publish the poll somewhere, so they can share the link with their own circles of women.

Ladies, this one's for you. Thank you for your voices.

THE CONTROL POLL

The numbers indicate how many women said a particular method is their preferred form of birth control. Comments follow, both pro and con, plus any recommended reading.

Pill: 10
“I kind of like my period. It reminds me of two things: A) I’m not pregnant, and B) my body is doing what is supposed to do.”
“I know there is a lot of newer stuff out there, but I’m sticking to what works.”
“I hate being on hormones. The last time I was on birth control pills, they became affectionately known as ‘bitch pills’ by all my friends.”
“The hard part for me is remembering to take the little suckers every day.”

IUD (Mirena): 4
“I love it. Never had a problem and I don’t even have spotting.”
“I am totally and utterly passionate about the Mirena hormonal IUD. No side effects except losing my period (who can complain?!), totally reliable, no action required, only local release of hormone rather than systemic, etc.”
“I had a great experience with Mirena. I had it for 5 years. There was cramping just when it was inserted.”
“I just got the Mirena myself, after a zillion years of pill use, and basically think it’s heaven. The insertion was uncomfortable but brief.”
“Love my Mirena! The insertion did actually hurt, but the pain only lasted for one full minute, and in exchange I get 5 worry-free years of protection.”

Condoms: 4
“I’ve been all condoms all the time for years now.”
“Condoms with spermicide are the way to go. You get used to it after a while, it is effective, and it has no lasting effects.”

Diaphragm: 3
“I am a big fan, Mad Men–ish as this may be. Noninvasive, cheap, takes two seconds to put in.”
“The only thing that I have found that is noninvasive and also has no side effects is the diaphragm. Drawbacks: It comes in a hideous package and you have to remember to have it with you.”
“I did the cervical diaphragm thingy based on a friend’s recommendation. She got pregnant on it.”
“I use a diaphragm, but I’m kind of retro.”

NuvaRing: 2
“You only need to remember it a couple of times a month, and no major hormonal effects.”
“Ring ring ring ring!!!! I love it. So easy, lowest hormones, and it cleared up my acne.”
“I tried the NuvaRing and liked it, but my melasma didn’t go away.”
“The NuvaRing is fabulous, but when I used it I got a lot of yeast infections.”
Recommended reading: http://motherjones.com/environment/2009/05/nuvaring-dangerous

IUD (Paraguard): 1
“Three of my coworkers sing its praises, and the bonus to Paraguard is that there are no hormones involved. It can also last for up to 10 years, as opposed to Mirena’s 5.”
“I have the Paraguard IUD and love the fuck out of it. It hurt like hell going in, but I’ve had no issues and no complications. My flow is much heavier, which I am happy with because it feels good to have that serious cleanse once a month.”
“The thing with the Paraguard is that it’s the only really good nonhormonal option out there, but it does tend to cause a lot of breakthrough bleeding and heavier periods.”

Rhythm Method: 1
“I don’t like to add any hormones to my body.”

IUD (unspecified type)
“I agree that it has many positives, but also some negatives...including really heavy cramping that is super painful for up to a couple weeks after they put it in. Another weird thing? The guy can sometimes feel it in you. It kind of bugged my husband.”
“My IUD had to be removed because of severe cramping and bleeding.”

Depo Injection
“You get it every three months, it’s low-hormone, it’s extremely effective, and you don’t get your period. The negatives I’ve heard is that it tends to cause more weight gain than other methods.”
“Research it carefully, as I believe this is what a friend of mine was on for about a year a few years ago, and she ended up with osteoporosis because of it. She wasn’t even 30 and was told she had the bones of an 80-year-old! Yikes.”
“Depo does cause a bit of weight gain, but we love a luscious lady. It also causes some decrease in bone density while you’re on it, but this comes back when you go off it again, so it's not necessarily a problem for a few years.”

Patch
“I had a friend who tried the patch and hated it. It was weird for her to have a ‘sticker’ on her all the time. She was off of it quickly.”

Sex with Women
“Let’s not forget the best, most natural, safest way to be sure not to get preggers...SEX WITH WOMEN!!!!”

Chanting at the Moon
“Fun, but you’ll be knocked up before you know it.”
“Interesting. Let me know if that works for you.”

Notes from a small island*

2010-05-10T21:53:00.000-07:00

So I wasn't kidding about yoga retreats—I really did go on one. In silence, for five days, on Marrowstone Island, in northern Washington.

Everyone asks about the silence first. Isn't it hard? For me, strangely, no. Not that I'm the quiet type, as you can attest. But I've lived alone and traveled alone and spent lots of time with myself, and there's no need to talk out loud then. I can hear easily enough.

But you know what is hard? Getting up at 5:30 a.m. every day to meditate. Meditating: also hard. Incredibly hard, in the same way that the last mile of a race is hard or drinking wheatgrass is hard—you can't wait for it to be over, but you know how good it is for you. According to our teachers, Jo and Jenny, everyone is always a beginner. All we can do is get better at beginning.

I wasn't one of those kids who loved camp. It's 10 a.m., they'd say. Time to swim! Thanks, but I don't really feel like swimming right now. I just got here. How about if I go read instead. You can imagine how that went over. Weeks of summer camp attended by me in the past 31.5 years: one. Five days, really.

I do love routine, though. When I travel, it's what I miss, and I'll go out of my way to create one—if you stop by the same coffee shop every day, no matter where you are, they'll know you by the third day. Familiarity isn't that hard to establish; connections aren't that hard to build. But I think it's only my own routines that I like, at least after the third day.

Still, if you asked (after asking about the silence and was it hard), did I like the retreat? I'd say yes. It stretched my brain and my hip and my concentration and made me want to sleep two days for each time I woke up before dawn.

But it's a gift to give yourself the time to do very little except reflect. Hike. Sit. Climb the stairs. Sit. Listen to the crazy wind storm, watch the rocking chair at golden hour, breathe air that doesn't know how to be urban, count the number of trees that look like dinosaurs and the open shells that look aerodynamic. Let someone else set the schedule, so you don't have to think at all about where to be.

* With apologies to Mr. Bryson.

On speed

2010-04-14T20:13:00.000-07:00

I finally started running again. Very slowly, mind you, and not very far. But it's been about a year since the injury (less than that since the accurate diagnosis), and it felt like time.

The trick is making myself stop; the opposite of the tricks I used to play to make myself keep going, back when I was trying to transform from a sprinter into someone with actual stamina. Insidiously, it worked.

The reverse is much harder, since every part of me except a tiny stretch of my abdomen wants to go go go go go. And it never hurts while I'm running, only afterward. So there's a point during the workout—usually right when I hit my stride in mile two—when I have to second-guess my brain for the sake of my body. Still working on the balance.

When I haven't been running, I've been flying. First to England, as you know, for what turned out to be a lovely visit with family I hadn't seen for years. After the sadness of Grandma Rosa's funeral, we all felt grateful to spend the afternoon together in a comfy room, catching up and toasting and watching my criminally adorable new niece, Rosie, devour almost an entire salmon in her high chair.

And in a meteorological phenomenon still under investigation by the MI5, the sun shone almost every minute we were there. In Yorkshire. In March. If you're not half or three-quarters or 100% English, that won't excite you at all. But trust me—crazy times. Here, see for yourself.

The trip home was much less delightful than everything before it, unless your idea of delight involves a lot of turbulence, flavorless peanut noodles, and nine hours in the Atlanta airport. Nuff said.

Five days after touching down from that trip, I headed back to SFO for the second half of GrandmaFest 2010: Savta's 90th birthday in Maryland. Songs were sung, walks taken, brunches brunched, photos snapped, red slippers worn, and cellos played. The sun continued its freakish extended appearance, although the cherry blossoms weren't as cooperative.

Then I flew back across the country and collapsed in a grimy, jet-lagged heap on the floor. I'm still here. Please send coffee and yoga retreats.

Uphill all the way

2010-03-05T23:56:00.000-08:00

This is for my Grandma Rosa, who died a few hours ago.

She was 95 years old, unmistakably English, stubborn, sweet, pocket-size. She told stories about the past that got more elaborate each time, but the unchanging factor was that she always starred in them.

Her mind had been on the way out for years. I hadn't visited her since the worst of it, and I don't know if she recognized who the Chanukah and birthday cards were coming from. I hope she did. I always included a recent photo with my brother's and my names on the back, hoping it would strike the match.

When I was in middle school, Grandma Rosa came to grandparents' day in her favorite black-and-white zebra-print shirt with a matching purse she'd made herself by weaving the extra fabric from the shirt through the chain handle. She was a huge hit. My friends and their parents and grandparents talked about her for years afterward.

Sometime—I don't remember how long ago—before she moved from her Sheffield apartment into a nursing home closer to my uncle and his family in Leeds, we took a long walk on the moors together. She wore a little wooly hat and kept reciting these lines by Christina Rossetti as we moved slowly, Grandma pace, along the path:

Does the road go uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Last night, she went into the hospital with pneumonia. The same thing happened last year; she made it through. This time, she didn't. She lived a long time and died quietly in her sleep.

I'm not sure what else to say except that I haven't seen my Grandma Rosa in five years, and tomorrow afternoon I'm getting on a plane to England to go say goodbye. Only part of my heart thinks it's too late.

Under the wire

2010-01-31T21:40:00.000-08:00

What a neglectful blogger I've become. I could say it's because of my day job plus Canteen plus freelance work, but I've been juggling that same combination for years without slacking on the blog front. Must be something in the new decade's water.

Or maybe it's because I've been on the road: hiking in Jack London State Park, playing craps with a gay softball team in Vegas. What? Yes. I'm terrible at craps, by the way. But the penny slots and I get along famously.

Last year was international, this year is domestic. Next up: Savta's 90th birthday in D.C., then a weeklong yoga and meditation retreat in Port Townsend, then a double header of weddings in Cincinatti and Chicago. Then a long nap.

Speaking of Canteen, Issue Five is here! It glows in the dark. We'll throw a party for it one of these days. And we're having a photography contest—you and your shutterbug friends should all enter.

I'm thinking of trying to run again. Everybody's favorite abdominal injury has been resting for more than eight months now, and it's feeling the urge to move. We'll see how much leeway I can give it.

Two great friends are leaving town next weekend to travel for a while. Malaysia, Thailand, and China, for starters. I'll miss them something fierce, and I'm jealous of the adventure. But sometimes it's a gift to stay put. Especially when it's raining, and somehow almost February.

Decembrist

2009-12-31T15:24:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-22T18:41:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-15T15:12:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-14T13:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-13T20:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-30T22:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-26T21:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-06T09:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-22T20:27:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-06-29T11:06:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-26T10:51:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-11T20:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

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:

Fantastically snarky things not written by me

2009-05-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

Because of the diverse sources of the wine [Two-Buck Chuck], absolute consistency is impossible. "It's a moving target," Karen MacNeil, a prominent Napa-based wine writer and educator, told me. Charles Shaw cabernet, which she had tried on a couple of occasions, left her unimpressed. "I thought, What's the fuss? It's merely a cheap wine," she said. "I don't understand how people put this in their mouths."
—Dana Goodyear, The New Yorker

Tonight, Tyra Banks will shrug her shoulders from her perch at the edge of the abyss, and halfway around the world, a young child in Madagascar will be overcome with a bout of heaving, uncontrollable sobs, the force of which will be so great that he will fall to his knees, tears leaking down his face, until the great wave of sadness finally, mercifully passes (at around 9 p.m. EST). Yes, it's that time again—time for Tyra to nod her impossibly teased hair in the direction of one shivering, frightened Popsicle-stick person and say, "You'll do."
—Amelie Gillette, The Hater

You might argue that I'm nuts for thinking Two-Buck Chuck and TV* are both gross, but at least I'm in pithy company.

* Except family/school dramas made in the mid-'90s. Completely awesome and available on Netflix.

Puzzlement

2009-05-13T21:07:00.000-07:00

I walked too much for my poor IT band today. It's sore.

But that's not the point, I'm just feeling sorry for myself. I'm really here to tell you about last Saturday and how it kicked off a series of run-ins with my past (and my brother's).

Everyone plus their kids and dogs and skinny jeans and sundresses and drum circles goes to Dolores Park on warm weekends. I usually avoid the crowds, but some of Cooly's friends were having a picnic, so I stopped by to say hi.

One of the guys looked familiar—not in a recent way, but in a face-from-the-ether way—and it didn't take us long to figure out that we were a year apart at Wesleyan. I also knew another friend of theirs who showed up shortly. He used to date a close friend of mine, another Wes grad (I'll see her in Seattle this weekend, just to tie it all together neatly). I'd never met classmate #2's wife, but it turns out she's a journalist with an English mom, and she used to live in Paris. We're planning to have tea soon and discuss how we're pretty much the same person.

That night, I went to dinner in North Beach and spotted a friend's ex. He came over to say hi and introduce his date, whose face rang a bell. As soon as we heard each other's names, she was instantly familiar: a childhood friend of my brother's. Hadn't seen her in at least 20 years, but we both got a big kick out of the chance meeting. We're planning to get a beer soon and reminisce about Avi's five-minute-long love affair with horseback riding.

And my college friend in Seattle? Her current boyfriend is also from my brother's toddler days. She just figured that out when they were talking about holiday traditions and he mentioned the Chanukah parties he used to go to at his buddy Avi's house.

On Monday, I ran into another Wes classmate on BART on the way home. Yesterday, I posted this Facebook status update: "Mia keeps accidentally finding little puzzle pieces from her past."

This morning, a package landed on my desk. That's normal—one of my job perks is constant delivery of free books. But this one wasn't a book. It came from an art PR firm, and inside was an unassembled puzzle.

Hipster

2009-04-30T20:42:00.001-07:00

I broke one of my toes on a tree during a trust-your-peers-while-wearing-a-blindfold game during a nature retreat in 6th grade. Two years later, I broke my thumb playing broom hockey. I guess I've pulled some muscles and been knocked out a couple of times, but none of it would inspire an Olympic-style human interest story.

But everyone gets a real sports injury eventually, and now my running habit has taken its toll on my hip. It happened gradually over a couple of weeks—first an occasional nagging ache late in the day after a morning run, then a repeating twinge in the same spot while running. Then it started popping up while I was walking, and last Saturday I woke up feeling it after sleeping on my left side. Not exactly a strenuous activity.

So this week I went to see a sports medicine specialist recommended by my regular doctor. She had thank-you notes from Kristi Yamaguchi and Brian Boitano in her office, so I figured she was legit. She told me I have mild inflammation at the spot where all the muscles connect at my pelvic bone, and she prescribed a month's worth of icing, Aleve, and two to three sessions of physical therapy a week.

Unfortunately, it turns out my health insurance—though perfectly willing to cover every drug known to man—doesn't really want to help pay for a course of nonaddictive, nonpharmacological treatment. It requires a giant deductible that doesn't include our $30-per-visit copay, then covers only 80% of subsequent sessions. Believe me, I know how lucky I am to have insurance at all. But I don't have a couple of grand to throw at a minor injury that I can essentially treat at home myself.

I decided to go to one PT session to get help setting up a stretching plan, and I'm glad I did. The therapist pinpointed the exact problem and walked me through a series of healing and strengthening exercises that I have to do twice a day until I see my doctor again in late May. Running and yoga are out, but the Stairmaster is in. It's going to be time-consuming and uncomfortable, but I trust it'll work if I'm disciplined about it.

Meanwhile, the injury isn't holding me back from daily life at all. I miss running already, but 30 days without it isn't the end of the world. And seriously, try having a conversation with a PT named TJ about your TFL and IT sometime, and tell me it's not hilarious—especially when you're paying $230 for it.

Accidentally awesome

2009-04-24T11:47:00.001-07:00

The bottom of my spine curves in a little more than most spines do. I remember briefly doing exercises for it as a kid (standing up against a wall, etc.), but that didn't last long.

I've never had any medical problems because of the curve—I just need to do a little extra work to get my whole spine on the ground during savasana—but I always have to get jeans altered because of it. Even when they fit everywhere else, there's a big gap in the back at my waist.

So I bought a new pair of Urban Boot Cut jeans the other day at Banana Republic and had the waist taken in as usual. The nice lady at my dry cleaner who does alterations probably didn't realize it, but she made them into the coolest jeans ever:

That's right: Banapublic Urbot Cut, the BCB's new custom line of denim. Good luck copying this look, fashionistas.

Clear mind, busy mind

2009-04-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

First night of silence:

Robert Sean Leonard was the headmaster at a boarding school. His name was Finnisch. He had lost his wife. We never learned how, but she was young so it was presumably tragic. They hadn't been married long and there were no children.

It was five years after her death. He never talked about it, but people kept being left alone in his living room, where they would find the wedding album. They would take the program out of its plastic sleeve—a tripart brochure with a fuzzy picture on cheap paper, like you'd see in the waiting room at a low-budget dentist's office—and the camera would zoom in: Maureen and Finnisch, April 17, 1983. They looked happy.

"Jesus," the person who found it would say. After a few minutes, the album would close.

This happened over and over again, with soft-focus lighting. It was an HBO movie of the week from my childhood. Not a real one, but I knew that's what I was watching.

Third night of silence:

My car was in the shop, so I was traveling across Oakland by bus. It was 11 p.m. when I reached the huge central station. By the time I got to the ticket window, I'd just missed a bus home. There wasn't another for 45 minutes, so I went to the Michaels next door to kill time. There was a list in my pocket with three things on it: puffy T-shirt paint, green thread, can't remember the third. The walk across the parking lot took ages.

Michael's had a clothing section, so I stopped to buy a shirt. I put it on right away, with the tag still attached, and went to the paint section. They didn't have what I needed, so I was heading to the exit when a security guard stopped me. "You stole that shirt," she said. "That's ridiculous, I just paid for it. Here's the receipt," I told her, pulling it out of my pocket: $14.19. She cut the tag off for me.

Outside, I passed a row of café tables filled with teenagers. The guys were catcalling in a good-natured way, with big grins, like they knew I wouldn't fall for it. "Hey baby, don't take the bus. I can give you a ride." Then Stephi turned the corner. "Hey," she said, "I'm in town for that conference. I'll drive you home. My car is in the usual place." I was glad but not surprised to see her.

We walked a few blocks to the corner of 22nd and Broadway, into a tiny convenience store and deli called 22nd & Broadway. A middle-aged Korean couple was wiping down the counter and closing up. They didn't acknowledge us. Parked in the middle of the store was a silver BMW convertible, lights on and engine running. "My dad made that deal with them in the '70s," she reminded me. "It's been really convenient."

I didn't see how we'd get the car out, but I figured there had to be an easy way since Stephi's parents lived down the road in Florence, MA, about 10 minutes from downtown Oakland. It all seemed easy and sensible. I felt bad for a moment because I wasn't sure if Stephi remembered that I don't live in Oakland anymore so she'd have to drive all the way to the city, but then I knew she wouldn't mind.

Chamomile wishes and valerian dreams

2009-04-08T10:13:00.000-07:00

I was standing in a giant gray warehouse, in charge of it somehow. A friend came up to me holding a tangle of slightly inflated plastic that almost filled the room. Not really holding it, more like wrapped in it, the longest inflatable beach raft you can imagine.

I can't fit all this in storage, he said, It's too much to handle.

"No problem," I said. "We'll flatten it out and fold it up, then you can fit the same amount in a smaller space."

Another friend came in next. He was trying to carry an uncountable number of long, snakelike pieces of styrofoam. They reminded me of ricotta cheese, they were soft and kept trying to escape.

I can't hold all of these, he said.

I said, "I don't think I can help you."

Germany, the biggest country in the universe

2009-04-04T18:03:00.000-07:00

I'm editing a guidebook to Germany. It's 800 pages long. While you ponder how that can possibly be possible, enjoy these fun facts:

1. There's a place called the Schmuckmuseum in Pforzheim. It's devoted to jewelry, which makes me wonder if calling someone a schmuck might have been a compliment back in the day. Or . . . wait . . . maybe you're watching me discover the etymology of the expression "family jewels." See how my brain did that?

2. Mainz, the birthplace of printing-press inventor Johannes Gutenberg, hosts an annual festival called Johannisnacht. Newly graduated printers are initiated in mysterious ways (not detailed in the book), and students just learning the craft are dunked in vats of water. Nothing like a little biblical hazing.

3. In Frankfurt, the Museum für Moderne Kunst has a number of pieces by Blinky Palermo. I think that might be the best name anyone's ever had. I hope it's real.

New Yorker quote of the week

2009-03-31T12:28:00.000-07:00

From "Unlikely Stories," by Alex Ross:

Nothing in these operas is any more implausible than the events of the average Shakespeare play, or, for that matter, of the average action movie. The difference is that the conventions of the latter are widely accepted these days, so that if, say, Matt Damon rides a unicycle the wrong way down the Autobahn and kills a squad of Uzbek thugs with a package of Twizzlers, the audience cheers instead of guffaws.

Matt Damon, the thinking woman's hottie. Who can kill people with candy.

This is what 89 looks like

2009-03-22T19:08:00.001-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for genes—

Plus a shout-out for olive oil and amphitheaters. Just because.

There are more Massachusettsian snapshots over here.

Jiggity jig

2009-03-16T20:53:00.000-07:00

Home again! I smell like airport. All I can handle right now is a shower before bed, but rest assured that photos and anecdotes from Savta's 89th are on tap for later this week.

I also wanted to share what it looks like when Dad and Ann's new kitten comes to visit my laptop, but Blogger won't let me post a screen capture for some reason. So let's just say that Google doesn't recognize "uuuuuuuuuuuuujghhhhhhhhhhhhh/9" as a search term.

Issue four is here!

2009-03-12T10:42:00.001-07:00

And I'm already in love with it. Such a sucker for that fresh ink smell.

http://www.canteenmag.com/

Coming soon to an indie bookstore (or, if you must, a B&N) near you.

Spametry

2009-03-11T18:11:00.000-07:00

The junkmail folder was full of riches today, just begging for free verse. And so:

Don't watch yourself while hanging over
Strange things in your window, dude.
Does she talk that does not love you?
I remember about you.

Come, your papers are in mess.
Lose all the offensive nicknames once and forever.
Shall we meet again?
It has a lot of benefits and no downside that I can think of.
Your weekend will not be good without good nights.

Eccentric lady waits for you in hall.
Just waiting for a Breitling.
Want to see her tears?
Don't ever let her down again.

In a nutshell

2009-03-07T15:57:00.000-08:00

From a New Yorker essay by Adam Gopnik about Damon Runyon:

Writers train for one length or another, and Breslin's [book] is essentially a series of eight-hundred-word columns strung together, all told in that good Breslin style—quick glimpses of Prohibition, the Hearst press, stealing coats in the Depression—so that the total effect is like watching the world's longest train go by at night.

Here, Gopnik is discussing veteran journalist Jimmy Breslin's biography of Runyon, but he also manages to sum up what it often feels like to be a professional repairer of other people's words—whereby you're responsible for retaining each writer's unique voice while fitting it seamlessly into the context and tone of a particular publication.

Shootwardly mobile

2009-03-03T21:25:00.000-08:00

iPhones are the wave of the future and all, but let's get back to film. I posted a couple of new sets over on Flickr: an afternoon at the de Young Museum and a weekend in Tahoe.

We got into a discussion at work today about whether or not professional photographers ever call themselves "shooters." I voted no, but that's because when I hear the word, I think of 1) hitmen and 2) tequila.

Our art director said a pro and a shooter are opposites: When you have a studio setup and a livelihood, you're a photographer; when you have an idiotproof digital and a Flickr account, you're a shooter. But I think I fall into the giant range between the two. So I'm a . . . shootographer? Phooter? Help me out.

While you're thinking, here are some highlights:

Buena suerte

2009-02-22T15:05:00.000-08:00

I'm sure you all remember Morse as fondly as I do. But after an appropriate mourning period, I replaced him with a first-generation iPhone that a coworker's friend had lying around. And like any good soccer mom, I projected all my hopes and dreams into his name: Suerte.

It's been more than a month, and he's lived up to it so far. In celebration, here are some photos I snapped with his crappy built-in camera. It's probably a lot more information than you need about my life, but hey—you're already reading my blog, so you have time on your hands.

Inaugural photo: What happens when you take a dusty road trip and don't wash your car afterward. Then come the cats of the night.

This is my trusty Pentax (i.e., real camera). I think I took this shot to assuage my guilt at going digital for even a minute.

Least consumer-friendly company name ever, and it doesn't even have the excuse of being Japanese:

Cooly and I took a trip to the Vivarium in Berkeley. This cheeky fellow was flirting with us:

Big snake, little box:

Gecko bellies!

At Sola Lucy, I found this cute Diane von Furstenberg dress for $56—an insane deal, but I couldn't bring myself to spend that much on any one thing at a thrift store. I'm working on the mental block.

Every year since she turned 16, I've made my childhood friend Stephi a birthday mix. Here's what it looked like this year (plus a bonus disc):

On inauguration night, I noticed these two signs while leaving 111 Minna. It's funnier if you know what the Power Exchange is. (Impressionable relatives, don't Google it.)

All sorts of exciting books land on my desk at work. One must-have volume featured useful things you can knit for your pets, like this classic hamster yurt:

On Superbowl Sunday, certain people got smoochy. All you need to know about the chicken and dog hats is that I have awesome friends.

During the walk home from yoga one day, I got a big kick out of the window of Dog Eared Books. Double score!

Wait, what's that on the left? I can't see it in your crappy photo.

Last weekend, Mr. Finney brought me to a schmoozy party at Gershoni design. Their offices are under a supercool dome.

After a while, everyone whipped out their iPhones at once to decide where to go next. I almost passed out from the sheer urbanity of it all.

My righteous big brother sends flowers every Valentine's Day. He started when I was in college, and I don't plan to ever discourage the habit.

By the time my carpool got to Tahoe on V-Day night, the early arrivals had decorated the kitchen with balloons and candy. It inspired me to write this Sweethearts haiku. If you can read it, I'd like to trade eyes:

On the drive back from Tahoe, we stopped for pizza during a blizzard. These napkins made up for the fact that it took seven hours to get home.

Soyspiracy theory

2009-02-08T21:21:00.000-08:00

During my new year's road trip, I spent time with some thoughtful and very well trained practitioners of bodywork and alternative medicine. In discussions of how to take better care of ourselves, a couple of them said—emphatically—that soy is not beneficial to health, contains minimal protein, and has been known to increase the risk of breast cancer.

Since soy is a central part of my diet and (so I thought) one of my main protein sources, that freaked me out. I've been eating cereal with soy milk for breakfast every weekday for years, and I have tofu as a main dish at least a few times a week.

For most of January, I tried to avoid soy: I switched to rice milk in the morning, cut back on tofu, and even bought some dried TVP at Safeway (weirdly, Whole Foods doesn't have it). But I don't know how to cook the TVP and—for real, pinky swear—I love the taste and texture of tofu.

So although I take my friends' opinions seriously, I decided to do some research of my own before making any permanent diet changes. Here's what I learned.

Soy contains phytoestrogens, a type of chemical that can act like estrogen. Higher exposure to estrogen over a woman's lifetime has been strongly linked with increased breast cancer risk. However, "it is currently unclear whether phytoestrogens from soy foods affect breast cancer risk."

A handful of widely publicized studies have been done on the impact of soy on women's health, but nearly all were conducted in Asian countries where women consume diets that are much higher in soy than standard American diets, and all were conducted on small (200 subjects or fewer) groups of women, many of whom were postmenopausal. The results did not indicate that their lifetime soy intake had significantly affected their health.

Studies have also been done on breast cancer patients to see if soy actually has a beneficial impact on their illness. Other studies indicate that consuming soy during puberty may decrease a girl's risk of developing breast cancer later in life. But again, the results were mixed, inconclusive, and controversial.

All of the dozen or so scientific articles I read suggested that since we know very little about the long-term effects of soy on women's bodies, the best idea is to consume soy in moderation and not to worry about it—unless you're a postmenopausal woman who already has cancer, in which case you may want to limit your intake, just in case. When combined with healthy eating (fruits and vegetables, very little sugar, the usual stuff) and regular exercise, soy consumption has not been proven to increase the risk of breast cancer and may even help lower it.

As for the level of protein in soy, the FDA recommends 25 grams of soy protein per day as beneficial for heart health, and the agency reports that replacing animal protein with soy protein lowers fat intake while supplying your body with many of the same nutrients as lean meat. A four-ounce serving of firm tofu contains 13 grams of soy protein.

Whew. Now let's fry up some tofu. I'll bring the TVP if you can figure out what to do with it.

Snapshots

2009-01-27T21:20:00.001-08:00

When Amy was in town, we spent most of Sunday afternoon taking a photo walk through the Mission and the Castro. I usually prefer black-and-white horizontal framing in the city, but lately I've been feeling more colorful and vertical.

I wound up shooting almost the entire roll on a short block of Fair Oaks, just around the corner from my house. I'd never been on it before, and it had a lot of great small details.

Here are a few of my favorites. The rest are stashed over here.

Running for office

2009-01-20T10:26:00.000-08:00

I got up an hour early to run this morning, so I could make it home in time to shower and head downtown for inauguration viewing with coworkers. Usually it's dark when I reach the gym and light when I leave, but today it was dark for both. Obama: Worth a run before sunrise.

No matter how far I run, I like to sprint the last short stretch. It takes the kind of energy I can only summon when I know I'll get to slow down afterward. In honor of our 44th president, that final push will now be called the Obama Minute.

I'd offer him even more of my time, but let's be honest—I can't sprint for eight years straight.

Congratulations, Mr. President.

Warmed over

2009-01-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the brief hiatus. We just finished shipping the February issue, thanks to several late nights and most of Saturday; and Amy was in town from BA, so we had some very important wandering and shopping and eating and dancing to do.

Tonight I have a little downtime at home and I finally got my surly scanner working again, so you can see what snowy Mt. Baker and my nephew the Stormtrooper look like. It's probably strange to post these photos after SF temperatures hit the 70s today, but that's just how I roll.

I owe a bunch of you good people email and phone calls. I promise to get on that as soon as I finish drinking tea and sleeping for about a hundred hours. Give or take.

In the meantime, please enjoy today's special bonus: My unexpected guest appearance over at the Sensible Rebel, penned and photographed by a longtime travel friend.

1,700 miles into aught nine

2009-01-04T21:27:00.000-08:00

Gibson is covered in grime and proud of it. I wore everything in my suitcase, including the extra hats. This was a four-hat trip. The weather cooperated beyond expectation, so we didn't even need to dip into the emergency food box my brother made me pack (along with a sleeping bag, extra oil, extra windshield fluid, chains, wool socks, and flares). OK, I didn't have flares.

The only letdown was forgetting extra camera batteries, but I managed to squeak a few shots out of the old Pentax toward the end. Coming soon.

Eugene is a sweet town, complete with friendly displaced hipsters, a great dive bar, and a bakery with blueberry–cream cheese vessels for sale. There's no cell reception in Fox Hollow, but the woodstove rules. I slept in the standalone hut and wore giant galoshes to get around. CE's people are generous with their space and their mad culinary skills.

We made road mixes to help ease out of last year. I sang with Dolly Parton and Bonnie Raitt in the car along 5, for hours. Those ladies can bring it.

Mount Baker is covered with tightly packed Douglas firs, heavy with crystallized snow. Their roots must be impossibly tangled. The drive to the lifts was like passing through Narnia.

We took a hike on the second day, after a lazy morning. I tried to make a snow angel but Avi said it looked more like a butt angel. Josh is still fierce when he channels Wham. I'm glad we've grown seamlessly into our adult selves.

'Tis the seasons

2008-12-26T23:32:00.000-08:00

It's New England fall in the Mission, as in right around early November. The green and red trees on 22nd are dropping their leaves, and it's been crisp and sunny enough for long enough that they crackle underfoot. (If you shuffle just a little.)

Yesterday I went to the only Christmas bikram yoga class, at noon. It was packed. The teacher called changes like an auctioneer doing an infomercial, but everyone seemed cheerful.

At 9, I headed out to meet Jews and half-Jews and non-Jews at an Irish bar called—wait for it, it's perfect—O'Greenberg's. We ate egg rolls. I won a round of Liar's Dice. $7, baby.

The neighborhood was empty and quiet. This is a small town when everyone's away. I know because you can cross the street wherever you want. All the cars and the cops are sleeping.

Tomorrow Gibson and Cooly and I are driving north, and eventually I'll get to the mountains. See you in 2009.

Love,
The BCB

File under: Slightly mystifying

2008-12-21T22:27:00.000-08:00

I haven't been looking for much lately, just a few practical things: toothpicks, sandwich bags, and Chanukah candles. Here's how that worked out for me. Thanks, 2008!

Item: Toothpicks
Quest: Walgreens (4), Safeway (2), the corner store (1)
Barriers: Not only did none of these places have toothpicks, but the Walgreens staff actually looked bewildered when I asked. "Don't we have those? I'm sure we have those. Try aisle 7 [the dental aisle]." Hmm, not so much. There was a fancy pop-up dispenser at the second Safeway, but it only came with decorative toothpicks that had colored plastic on one end. Impractical and too expensive.
Solution: One of the zillion dollar stores in the Mission must have toothpicks. Now it's just a matter of always being at work on the other side of town when they're open.

Item: Sandwich bags
Quest: Walgreens (4), Safeway (2)
Barriers: Each of the Walgreens I walk past on a daily basis had a small selection of sandwich bags, but they were all too big or came with that fancy Ziploc feature. Being relatively eco-friendly, I prefer the smaller bags that just fold over. Target has them for sure, but driving 15 minutes on the highway for a $3 box of plastic bags cancels out the eco-friendly part. Also Target has this unfortunate habit of sucking all the money out of my wallet and sending me home with bulk cleaning supplies and cheap wooden DIY furniture. It's best to stay away.
Solution: Safeway #2 came through, but it took 10 full minutes of wandering the household aisle before I finally spotted them. Hiding. On the bottom shelf.

Item: Chanukah candles
Quest: Safeway (3)
Barriers: I've never had trouble finding Chanukah candles before, but this was my first time looking for them in the city. Berkeley Bowl and the Shattuck Safeway always had huge displays of Jew gear for the holidays, but grocery stores here weren't as forthcoming.
Solution: I was ready to make a trip across the bridge when the saving grace arrived: package from Mom. Instead of waiting until tonight to open it like a good patient child, I figured it might have candles and tore in early.

Score! Happy Chanukah. I'm going to bed now, to dream of a world where errands are easy.

London dreamscape

2008-12-15T19:46:00.000-08:00

During the 10 days (give or take infinity) that I've had this cold, I've been rereading my journal from 10 years ago. I spent a couple of months subletting in Dublin, then wandered around Ireland, France, and the UK after taking a semester off from college.

I don't really sound different, so that's sort of funny on its own. Then, in the final few pages, there's a description of a dream I had about a week before heading home. It's one of the most vivid dreams of my life; I still tell people about it sometimes, but only the first part, and apparently with some of the details mixed up.

So this is the BCB, Time Machine Edition: You're me, and it's 1998. Go.

Had very odd and disturbing dreams last night, which I'm putting down to nerves at my latest transition/travel. I don't remember them all, but the last sequence I do.

I was in a car, trying to drive, and a dark-haired girl took a knife and began carving a story into my chest and back. I remember that it hurt in a pinpricking way, and I had a white t-shirt on so the letters appeared in a bright blood red as she worked away. I was thinking that she was crazy, and the way to avoid being injured any further was just to let her finish. She was saying the story out loud as she carved it into me, in a hysterical and terse voice.

Then she left me in the car with the knife, and the wounds dried up instantly on my body. I got out of the car and found myself in a nearly deserted parking lot, the one next to Caldor where the Food Mart used to be. [Note from the future: That's in Northampton. I think it's a Wal-Mart now.] Got out of the car and found a set of keys in my hand, attached to a square, orange keychain. (Hey, at least I know I dream in color.) Then Erin S. was there, and a young black guy I knew in the dream but don't actually recognize.

I was trying to steal a car that wasn't mine, but I had somehow wound up with the keys. It was a very old, beat-up white thing that had a shape like Kipp's 4Runner—and it had newsprint all over it, torn off in some spots. The guy took a picture out of his wallet and showed it to me; it was a brand-new, shiny model of the car in the lot. "This is my dad's car, you can see I have a picture of it." But I kept insisting it was my mom's car, and much older than the one in the picture.

This conversation went on for a very long time. Erin and the guy both knew I was lying, but neither of them could prove it, and also I had the keys. Then I woke up.

Immune system FAIL

2008-12-05T22:21:00.000-08:00

What I was supposed to do tonight:

Feel healthy, leave work on time, go to First Fridays in Oakland, go to a housewarming party in Hayes Valley, decompress from ship week.

What I'm doing tonight:

Coughing up a lung, sitting on my couch, watching Felicity, drinking my 17th cup of tea with honey, going to bed early, resenting ship week.

Urbanniversary

2008-12-02T11:33:00.000-08:00

After almost eight years in the East Bay, I finally gave in and moved across the bridge to the Mission a year ago today.

What I miss: cheaper rent, quieter streets (yes—in Oakland), Mama's, La Note, Cafe Temescal, Bakesale Betty, running Lake Merritt, Berkeley Bowl, Albatross, Van Kleef, Starry Plough, Stork Club, Joaquin Miller Park, Yoshi's, Sola Lucy, Pegasus, street cred.

What I love: commute that doesn't involve driving or underwater tunnels, running into friends on the street all the time, being within walking distance of everywhere I want to go out, Papalote, Que Tal, Latin American, Aslam's Rasoi, Suriya, Ritual, Green Apple, Dog Eared Books, Elbo Room, Make-Out Room, Fattoush, Bar Tartine, Kamei, constant availability of tacos.

So how am I celebrating tonight? You get one guess. It starts with "b" and ends with "ito."

Fall in the big city

2008-11-23T23:24:00.000-08:00

There's a new photo essay about New York over at the long-neglected Business Casual Shutterbug, if you're feeling nostalgic for the East Coast (or, if you're already back east, for the warm weather).

But if you've had enough words for one day, you could just look at the pictures over here. So many options!

If I can't control the economy, at least I have a handle on all the high-tech routes available to encourage my narcissism.

RIP, Morse

2008-11-17T21:29:00.001-08:00

I've never lost my wallet, my keys, my passport, or my phone. I've never had my identity stolen. Except for the one robbery, it's been a good run so far on the possessions front.

But somewhere on the Pittsburgh/Bay Point train between SFO and 24th Street yesterday afternoon, in a jet-lagged stupor, I didn't snap my coat pocket shut and my brand-new iPhone slipped out into the great beyond. May as well have set that freelance project on fire.

Likelihood of getting it back: 1 in you're totally kidding yourself. I hope whoever found it really needs the money.

Morse the iPhone
October 26–November 16, 2008

Unglamorous but ulcer-free

2008-11-16T22:02:00.000-08:00

I'm back from a Canteenful trip to New York. Our first fundraiser, held in the ridiculously cool and weird apartment of Arnold and Pam Lehman, was a big success. Check out T magazine's video tour of their place.

I also had the chance to help teach at our new creative writing workshop for middle-school students. The kids were amazing—more on that another day.

For now, I'll leave you with these Fair and Honest Appraisals of My Appearance courtesy of The Bumbys, who provided party entertainment. For $2, they each look at you for about five seconds, then type out an index card (on an actual typewriter) that says something like this:

i feel that you're from a coastal area...
little things that upset most people
do not faze you...you will likely lead a long life
that is completely free from ulcers...
i feel that you smile when there is an awkward pause in the
conversation. luckily you have exceptionally
white teeth and fantastic oral hygiene habits.

—Gill Bumby

you look like a surfer chick or a snowboarder or
heck maybe even a telemarketer. if we went jogging
together, you would smoke me. your hair
is very luxurious and if you wore more glamorous
clothes you could totally rock the
flapper-girl finger waves
hippies can wear lipstick without sacrificing their morals

—Jill Bumby

For the record: I was wearing lipstick, and the one time I tried to surf was a serious failure. But I do floss regularly.

Badness of marketing

2008-11-06T10:49:00.000-08:00

We interrupt our regularly scheduled political outrage to bring you a whole different flavor of outrage: Why is the name of the new James Bond movie so f#%&ing stupid?

I just saw it on the side of a bus, and let's just say it's a good thing they don't make enormous red sharpies that I carry around with me. Yeah, good thing about that.

Die Another Day, Goldfinger, A View to a Kill . . . Quantum of Solace?

Most Americans don't even know what those two words mean on their own, much less what they could possibly mean when they're strung randomly together. Somebody at Columbia Pictures PR should be sent back to the mailroom.

"Paradox of bloviate, Mr. Bond?"
"No, circumspect of tangent. But you look good enough to eat."

Platinum lining

2008-11-05T20:30:00.000-08:00

Last night was amazing here, with thousands of people flooding the streets to cheer Obama's victory. The only comparable scene I can imagine in modern U.S. history is V-J Day: August 14, 1945, when World War II was declared over and a sailor permanently kissed a nurse in Times Square.

In the Mission, the police looked on bemused as crowds blocked intersections and danced on cars. But a coworker said that a cop in the Castro said he was nervous what would happen when everyone found out that Prop. 8 had most likely passed.

As a left-of-left liberal and native Northamptonite, I'm hugely disappointed by the fact that my chosen home state has denied its citizens the right to marry anyone they want. It's an affront to human rights, and I can't wrap my head around the idea that anyone who was proud to elect our first black president is unable to see the prejudicial parallel between racism and homophobia. That unfairness kept me from fully enjoying last night's celebration.

But as a local gay friend was gracious enough to remind me this morning: If losing on Prop. 8 is the only downside of an otherwise triumphant election and a new direction for our country, then at least we can take some solace in having come far enough for the vote to happen at all. Eight years ago, he said, legalizing gay marriage would have been unthinkable.

Then I heard from my savta, whose lifelong political involvement (alongside my hell-raiser grandfather, when he was with us) has always inspired me.

This is a great moment! Despite the deeply serious problems facing us all, I feel much less anxious, secure in the knowledge that we now have leadership that is intelligent, thoughtful, competent, informed, and imbued with a deep sense of justice and public responsibility. Barack is a gift to us all! And I'm so grateful that you, my children's and grandchildren's generation, have responded to his challenge with determination and passion.

Her voice is wise. So are countless others I heard expressing the extraordinary joy and hope that captured millions of Americans last night. We're not at the end of the road, by any measure—but I'd be crazy not to appreciate the giant step forward we just took.

I have a proposition for you

2008-11-03T22:13:00.001-08:00

Actually, I have 12 of them. Plus 22 measures. This is San Francisco, man, and we just can't get enough of exercising our rights. Researching this election felt like prepping for the most obnoxious midterm ever. But I still love voting.

After yesterday's marathon study session—fueled by coffee, tacos, and sources ranging from the LPOV to lawyer brothers—and some extra cramming tonight, I think I'm ready to brave the polls tomorrow.

For local friends who are curious what other like-minded people are thinking, here's how I plan to vote. I don't have the energy to explain all my decisions, but rest assured none were made quickly or lightly. If you know me well enough to bother reading this blog, you're probably familiar with my politics also.

The BCB Slate

Prop 1A: Yes
Prop 2: Yes
Prop 3: No
Prop 4: No!
Prop 5: Yes
Prop 6: No
Prop 7: No
Prop 8: No!
Prop 9: No
Prop 10: No
Prop 11: Abstain*
Prop 12: Yes

Measure A: Yes
Measure B: Yes
Measure C: No
Measure D: Abstain
Measure E: Yes
Measure F: No
Measure G: Yes
Measure H: No
Measure I: Yes
Measure J: Yes
Measure K: Yes
Measure L: No
Measure M: Yes
Measure N: Yes
Measure O: Abstain
Measure P: No
Measure Q: Yes
Measure R: Yes
Measure S: Yes
Measure T: Yes
Measure U: Yes
Measure V: Abstain

* If I don't understand or feel strongly enough about an issue to hold a definite yes or no position, then not voting on it seems like the most responsible option.

Oh, and there's this guy:

He looks pretty comfortable, right? We may as well let him stick around.

Daylight saving

2008-10-28T22:04:00.001-07:00

The last couple of weekends are why so many people (like this person) mortgage their souls to live here. It's been beautiful. I'm trying to spend as much time as possible outside, and it's been easy to find great excuses for it.

First there was the insane soapbox derby in Dolores Park:

Then Cooly (aka Little Marlow) had three days of open studios to show her artwork:

this photo doesn't include cooly's art, but that is her hand

Then Megan very wisely decided it was picnic time:

There are more pictures of all the excitement over in my Mission album.

Upstairs neighbor haiku

2008-10-25T14:25:00.000-07:00

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP CRASH! THUMP
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

More bitter haiku is here.

Third time's a charm

2008-10-20T21:17:00.000-07:00

I seem to have a constant election theme going on at BCB headquarters, but I promise I still think/talk/read about lots of other things. Just humor me one more time here.

A post I wrote about last Thursday's fundraiser was posted today in the San Francisco magazine blog. Please click through at your leisure.

And as long as we're on the subject, my fellow volunteer Rachel Sarah wrote about the first Power of Words event over on her blog, with a couple of photos courtesy of my trusty Pentax.

OK, moving on: My next post won't involve a single Obama pun. You can Barack my head if I'm lying.

Obamottoman

2008-10-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

Today, in the annals of ridiculousness:

As reported by everyone's favorite snarky blogger, The Hater, a furniture store in New York has started selling a matching chair and ottoman covered in a print of Almost President Obama's face. For $2,495. Choice quote: "It's just disgusting when fancy furniture stores make their overpriced wares so partisan."

In more promising news, I'm volunteering tomorrow at another literary Obama fundraiser where famous writers say pithy things for a very good cause. Pledges are already at $150K! I wish somebody would add just a little more to the check to cover the balance on my college loans, but it's probably gauche to ask.

Photos from the first Power of Words event are over here.

Yeti sighting

2008-10-07T23:08:00.000-07:00

On my way down to the laundry room, I crossed paths with one of my neighbors. He's in his 70s, with a gentleman's brogue, and he usually calls me Jennifer (the friend who passed this apartment along to me). Tonight, he called me Anna.

Him: "Hello, Anna. So were you watching the debate?"
Me: "Yes, I was listening to it."
Him: "McCain seems much better suited for the job, don't you agree?"
Me: [Masking incredulity with broad smile] "Well. I have to say I don't. But they both . . ." [struggling for diplomacy] ". . . made some good points."
Him: "I can practically see him in the president's chair!"
Me: [Escaping out the back door]

In this month's issue of San Francisco, we published a short piece about local McCain supporters called "The Loneliest Republicans in the World." I figured they all lived in Pac Heights, but it turns out there's one just upstairs.

Weddings & waterfalls

2008-10-01T21:21:00.000-07:00

For all you romance junkies, some pictures from my childhood friend Danielle's wedding to a sweet guy named Jeremy (full set here). For anyone who's keeping track, I went straight there from my citizenry jaunt in Boston.

They had the only themed wedding I've ever been to: "The Golden Age of Hollywood." I figured it was just a great excuse to wear stuff with fringe.

While I was in Portland, I stayed with my old neighbors Nikki and Gregg in their awesome green house. On Sunday, we went to Columbia River Gorge for a beautiful hike in the rain (full set here):

Now that the epic wedding season is winding down, I think I'll rest my feet until next year rolls around (woo hoo, Avi and Jenny!). Yeah, my dancing shoes are falling apart—but I can still bring the fringe.

Sunday city sidewalks

2008-09-28T21:25:00.000-07:00

1. Head east on 22nd St. toward Guerrero St. 33 ft.
2. Turn left at Guerrero St. 1.0 mi.
3. Turn right at Duboce Ave. 387 ft.
4. Turn left at Elgin Park 0.1 mi.
5. Head northwest on Elgin Park toward Market St. 23 ft.
6. Turn right at Market St. 207 ft.
It’s Tops – 12:30 p.m.

7. Slight right to stay on Market St. 246 ft.
8. Turn right at Valencia St. 0.2 mi.
9. Turn left at Duboce Ave. 0.1 mi.
10. Continue on 13th St. 0.2 mi.
11. Turn left at Folsom St. 0.4 mi.
Folsom Street Fair – 2 p.m.

12. Head northwest on 9th St. toward Clementina St. 0.4 mi.
13. Slight left at Hayes St. 0.4 mi.
14. Turn left at Gough St. 344 ft.
15. Turn right at Fell St. 0.4 mi.
16. Turn left at Webster St. 0.1 mi.
Dina’s Barbecue – 3:15 p.m.

17. Head south on Webster St. toward Rose St. 351 ft.
18. Turn left at Haight St. 0.3 mi
Helena & Jordan’s Tea Party – 4:30 p.m.

19. Head west on Haight St. toward Octavia St. 0.2 mi.
20. Turn left at Laguna St. 0.2 mi.
21. Continue on Guerrero St. 1.1 mi.
Home – 7 p.m.

Newly minted

2008-09-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

I'm home from Boston and Portland, having witnessed a citizenship, a marriage, a big green house, the final episode of Firefly, a waterfall, and the insides of five planes.

My only plans this week are to make it through each workday vertically, get Gibson's tail lights fixed, and sleep a lot, so I'll save the travel stories for now.

In the meantime, here are some photos of my adventures in Fenway with my American mom and about 3,000 other brand-new citizens of this fine and very large land.

While I'm recovering, may I offer you an Obamint?

"I can see Russia from my house!"

2008-09-14T15:58:00.001-07:00

It's never been a big mystery, but now I really understand why every guy I know is in love with Tina Fey. This is one of the funniest sketches ever made—even if Fey and Palin hadn't been separated at birth, it would still be comic genius. Just watched it about 17 times in a row, and it keeps getting better and better.

It couldn't matter less to me that Palin is a woman, any more than it does that she's a brunette. I wouldn't vote for her if she were a member of my family. She's toxic.

"In conclusion, I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."

Colorful imagination

2008-09-08T21:53:00.001-07:00

On my way to the market yesterday, I stopped by Papalote to pick up lunch. It takes just about a generation for them to fill orders, so I was waiting outside in the sunshine, reading a magazine, my ears peeled for number 38.

A slightly strange guy was also waiting. That's normal enough—people have to be exceptionally weird around here for anyone to care—so I didn't pay attention until I noticed him staring at my feet and shuffling back and forth.

After a few minutes, he sidled over to me, visibly worked up his courage, and said: "Um, excuse me. Are you a stripper?"

Um, what? Was it my T-shirt and grubby jeans, the New Yorker in my hand, my choice of soyrizo tacos? I don't even know if all strippers have the same favorite taco. I was mystified.

"No," I answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Well . . . your toenails. They're red."

It's true. I got a pedicure in honor of tomorrow's Canteen party, and my toenails are red and sparkly. But it's safe to say that half the women in San Francisco have painted toenails at any given time, most of them some shade of red, so I had no idea what to make of this. The angels of Papalote called my number, and I left.

Red toenails: the new scarlet letter, at least in the seedy underbelly of the taqueria world at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. You can ask Pitbull Palin or you can ask me, but it's clear that America is going to hell in a handbasket. At least my feet will look cute for the ride.

the toes (and pajama bottoms) of a fallen woman

The precious gift of knowledge

2008-09-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

Somebody out there must have said once that each day of your life is another opportunity for a small but valuable lesson. Assuming that's true, here is today's:

No matter how great it feels to run because it's so crazy beautiful outside, don't be tempted to keep going for even another 10 minutes, especially if you're already late for work.

Because then you'll rush, a clumsy and unhelpful sort of rush, and when you leap out of the shower to turn on the fan (which you forgot to do because you were rushing), you might accidentally catch the corner of the bathroom cabinet with your shoulder and open up the door, and when you reach out to balance yourself, you might accidentally knock into a half-full bottle of perfume so it shatters all over the floor.

Because if you run that little extra and the rushing happens and then the breakage, it's 100% guaranteed that—even though you cleaned it up right away, including mopping with industrial-strength chemicals and taking out the trash with the bottle shards and all the perfumey paper towels—your apartment will still reek of perfume when you get home 12 hours later.

Not a faint, pleasant whiff of perfume. More like an anvil made of perfume whacking you in the head.

Please tuck today's lesson in your back pocket on an unscented page of an organic notebook, and never ever misplace it.

Know anyone in Memphis?

2008-08-30T22:46:00.000-07:00

One of my closest friends from college is looking for a kind soul in Memphis who can put up her younger brother temporarily. He's being evacuated from New Orleans due to the impending storm.

If you know anyone who's willing and able to help, please be in touch. Thanks.

Stone cold genius

2008-08-27T14:08:00.000-07:00

Everyone at The Onion should get a Pulitzer for this immediately. Or this.

I love them.

You define me.

2008-08-26T22:05:00.000-07:00

During my senior year of college, when I realized I might want to work in publishing, I interned over winter break at Merriam-Webster. Before then, I had no idea the dictionary gurus were headquartered 20 minutes from my hometown.

On my first day, my boss gave me a tour of the building. We turned the corner from the computer lab and entered a room full of tiny cubicles and the biggest card catalog I've ever seen. "These are the definers," she said.

The definers? It sounded like the most powerful job in the universe. Turns out it's done by a bunch of twentysomethings who spend all day reading magazines, websites, newspapers, and books. When they notice a new word appearing frequently, they write all its sources on an index card and put it in the card catalog. (This is probably done on computers by now, but I kind of hope not.)

When it comes time to update the company's collegiate dictionary, about every five years, they go through all the words in the catalog to see which ones are still in common usage. Then they nominate the most popular—and, I'd like to imagine, the most logical—for inclusion. I forget how many make the cut, but I think it's no more than 25 or so per new edition.

I'm remembering this today because Laurence Urdang just died. According to his obituary, he edited more than 100 dictionaries, including the first edition of the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, which weighed around nine pounds. "Mr. Urdang’s view of language," writes the NYT, "was that of an enjoyer, someone who delighted in its flexibility and invention, rather than that of a guardian always on alert against violations of precedent."

It's my job to be a guardian on high alert, so it's good to be reminded of the incredible pleasure inherent in working with words. Mr. Urdang, sleep well. You're my kind of definer.

Wedding encore

2008-08-24T18:12:00.000-07:00

I was one of three official friendtographers at Bene and Aisha's sunny, pretty Piedmont wedding last weekend, so I took about twice as many rolls as usual. It was a pleasure to do, since everyone was beautiful and in a fantastic mood.

The full set is Flickred, of course—here are some of my favorites.

When editors get punchy

2008-08-21T14:04:00.000-07:00

I don't understand why even when I say it "i-boo-pro-fen," it comes out sounding like "i-bee-pro-fen," or why there's a u in there in the first place. They should officially rename it Wal-Profen and call it a day.

There's really no good reason for Emeril to design a line of clogs, or for clogs to exist at all. I guess people think they're comfortable, but so are my jammies, and nobody claims those are fashionable or fills entire store racks with them in different colors. Plus my jammies aren't made of neon plastic.

The prefix über just doesn't apply that often. And yes, it needs the umlaut. I don't care if you think it looks weird. I'm the decider.

Weddingpalooza

2008-08-13T21:10:00.000-07:00

Here's a handful of photos from last weekend. The whole set is up on Flickr, if you're feeling matrimonial. Remember that all brides should wear red, and nobody should ever drink Manischewitz.

I can hear the bells

2008-08-11T21:55:00.001-07:00

I'm back from Seattle and my oldest friend Claire's sweet, mellow, beautiful wedding on a small stone patio beneath a tremendous weeping willow tree. The bride wore draped red satin and pearls and looked like she was attending the Oscars in 1925. The groom included Cyndi Lauper lyrics in his vows. Songs were sung, tears were shed, and pie was eaten.

Photos coming soon, though sadly not of her new slightly round, bespectacled, Chinese American in-laws dancing to "Billie Jean" in the basement rec room. You'll just have to trust me on that.

In fact, her wedding was so nice, I think I'll go to another this weekend. Three cheers for love! Plus an extra cheer for the fact that this one is in Oakland, so I don't even have to get on a plane.

Fourth (and probably final) half

2008-08-04T22:29:00.000-07:00

Another season, another half-marathon. You'd think my body would be used to this occasional punishment by now, but it really wasn't happy during the second half of yesterday's SFM.

After three miles, I felt as exhausted as it usually takes seven or eight miles to feel, with none of the euphoria. My feet hurt, my breathing hurt, and my vision got blurry for the last mile or so. Around the 10-mile mark, I had to stop and walk for a while—that's never happened to me in a race before.

It was an incredible relief to finish, as always, but without the adrenalin rush that makes the whole experience worthwhile. I just felt sore and tired and nauseated, and I couldn't even eat. I took a shower and slept for almost three hours.

I felt a little better when I woke up, but it still seemed like a sign that it's time to switch to 12K races. I've never been a natural runner, it's always work—but this was very unpleasant work with little reward. It's been in the back of my mind that my body would tell me when the long runs got to be too much, and I think that happened yesterday.

This realization brings a potent combination of disappointment and relief. I still love the camaraderie of official races, the numbers and timing chips and water stops and free granola bars at the end. It's just that 13.1 miles is really far for a regular human body to run. My legs are staging a protest, and they're unionized.

I'm proud of myself for having trained to the point where I can run a half-marathon at all. My objective was never to beat a certain time or hit a loftier goal—I don't secretly want to run a full marathon or triathlon or become one of those people who dress entirely in wicking. The half was my goal, and I got there. But in the end, if something makes me feel physically terrible, then it's no longer healthy.

And no, this isn't all because I'm in my 30s now. Shut up. Unless you mean that it's the wisdom of age talking, in which case . . . you might be right.

Bib: 23041
Gender: F
Age: 30
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Place Overall: 1195 out of 1984
Women: 579 out of 1145
F 30-39: 207 out of 395
FINISH: 2:15:21 Pace: 10:20
1.7 miles: 15:59 Pace: 9:25

I want a new drug

2008-07-28T21:21:00.000-07:00

It happened so fast—I finished another TV series on Netflix. There are a few nostalgic standbys in my queue (Party of Five, My So-Called Life), but really, I'm looking for a whole new thing.*

People of the Internet, please help me decide what to watch next. Some helpful guidelines:

Yes: Families, drama, escapism, intelligent rapid-fire conversation, witty banter, likable people, complicated relationships, excellent outfits that someone might actually wear
No: Homicide, crime rings, cops, laugh tracks, plucky underdog sports teams, open-heart surgery, home improvement, monsters with giant slimy jaws, Manolo Blahniks, "reality"
Acceptable: Lawyers, if there aren't too many court scenes
Best shows ever: The West Wing, Flight of the Conchords

Any ideas? My mind is waiting to be wasted. It needs you.

* At least until they release season 4 of Weeds on DVD.

There will be blood

2008-07-27T21:37:00.001-07:00

This is my last blood post, I swear. And it's a much better story this time.

I was talking to Savta yesterday on my way home from the donation center (I didn't faint and they had a fine selection of donuts—two thumbs up), and she said, "Oh, your saba would be very proud." I asked why.

She told me that during World War II, he was in charge of the blood donation program at Hebrew Union College, where he was a rabbinical student (he later served as an Army chaplain overseas). On Sunday nights in the dining hall, he'd make a short speech after the meal to try and recruit donors. Eventually, the other students knew what was coming—so every time they saw him head to the front of the room, they'd stomp their feet and start chanting, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" He was a lifelong donor.

The fierce, the proud, the bloody Lipmans.

Platelets

2008-07-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

It's been more than a year since I last gave blood—it's harder to motivate when they don't park one of those donation vans right outside your office, like they did quarterly at Wind River, and HR would send lots of encouraging emails about all the lives we could save. So it was effortless. But I'm in the big city now, and there's no convenient bloodmobile.

Then today, I realized: The perfect storm of editing projects that all landed at once (yes, they're done!) has been followed by a perfect storm of open space before the perfect storm of weddings swings back around in early August. If I may bludgeon the metaphor to death.

Suddenly, I have most of a weekend with nothing pressing to do, and also someone brought insane-looking fancy donuts to work this morning. I think they involved maple and bacon.

Donuts? Yes. Almost never my food of choice—except right after I give blood, when my sugar level drops to my ankles and my body can actually handle the sucrose blast of the common donut. So there was the plate of donuts, and the storm of calm, etc., so I called and made an appointment to give blood this weekend.

What a long story, with a not very interesting ending! It's true. I'm just glad the onslaught of work is over and I can get back to posting about things that don't involve the number 30.

Also, I've always enjoyed the word platelets. I feel like a parade of little tiny plates should appear every time someone uses it.

The other side

2008-07-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, I made it. No, I don't think I'm any wiser yet . . . give it time.

My trip back east was action-packed, to put it mildly, and my liver is still recovering. It was amazing to see old friends and all kinds of family for three sunny days of talking, dancing, eating, hiking, cooking, and polishing off a vat of sangria. Everyone either generously traveled or hosted to make the weekend happen, and I can't say thanks enough times.

Photos of the birthday tribe are here on Flickr. The only party animals not pictured are the approximately 10 million bugs who bit me everywhere. But let's not speak of them.

Also posted: Some mementos of my weekend in Santa Monica last month. Viva Erinia!

left to right: too much pasta salad, too much potato salad,
the perfect amount of sangria

30 till 30: Days 28 & 29

2008-07-09T20:24:00.001-07:00

Squeaking in under the wire: 36 minutes to go until my youth is a distant memory. Spent a million hours in transit yesterday (thanks, JFK air-traffic control!), but now I'm sweating safely in my hometown, watching the summer lightning.

But this post isn't about me. It's about my mom, who just passed her certification test to become an American citizen—after living here for 36 years. For a secret peek into the inner workings of our country's bureaucracy, check out the six questions they asked in her citizenship test:

1. How many stars are there on our flag?
2. Whose rights are guaranteed by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?
3. How many senators are there in Congress?
4. What is the most important right granted to United States citizens?
5. Who is the vice president of the United States today?
6. In what month do we vote for the president?

So how'd you do? My mom, soon to be sworn in as our newest citizen, got 100%. Then she went right out and bought an Obama sticker. I think we should all be proud.

30 till 30: Day 27

2008-07-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

I just ate the last Mission tacos of my 20s. A burrito would've been more poetic, but I didn't have the stamina tonight. Luckily, an old friend took the fall and put most of one away.

It's getting late, and BART beckons at the wee hours to whisk me off to the airport. I should edit another chapter now, but I won't, because sometimes things don't tie up neatly and closing my eyes for a while feels like a much smarter idea.

See? I won't even be old for another 49 hours, but I'm already getting smarter. Watch out for this firecracker, New England. Your humidity can't stop the wheels from turning.

30 till 30: Days 25 & 26

2008-07-06T22:32:00.001-07:00

I don't think I could possibly have done more work this weekend, but my projects still aren't finished. Oh well. At least I learned these fun! facts! about the animals of the Galapagos Islands:

! Flamingos are actually white, but they turn pink from the carotene pigments in the shrimp they eat.

!! The harlequin wrasse is covered with spatters of orange, red, black, and white. It's also a protogynus hermaphrodite, meaning it can spontaneously change sex from female to male.

!!! Male lava lizards do pushups.

!!!! Albatross couples were thought to mate for life—meaning for up to 50 years—but a recent study counted 1,724 matings among 300 albatrosses. (One female mated with 49 different gents.) They also demonstrated other human relationship behaviors, like adoption, adultery, and rape.

30 till 30: Days 22 & 23 & 24

2008-07-04T18:18:00.000-07:00

Happy 4th! I suppose I should write something patriotic, but since I already gave my little homage to voting a while back, there's not much more that seems worth celebrating under this administration. Also I just edited for six hours and my neck hurts. Grump.

On the upside, it's nice and chilly outside, and I'm going to try and find some fireworks with friends. Watching things explode might actually be the perfect backdrop for my mood.

30 till 30: Days 20 & 21

2008-07-01T23:39:00.001-07:00

Recommended drink of the day: bitters and soda. Free of alcohol, it looks and tastes kind of like beer, except without the aftermath. A fine alternative for weeknights. I was told I'd feel zingy tomorrow, and I think it's already working.

30 till 30: Day 19

2008-06-29T22:11:00.000-07:00

I saw Wall-E last night, and now I have the entirety of Short Circuit running on loop in my head. If you think that's helpful when you're trying to put together the table of contents for a literary magazine—well, no.

Separated at birth? Perhaps. Indelibly etched in the BCB's mind? Oh yes.

30 till 30: Days 17 & 18

2008-06-28T19:04:00.001-07:00

The last few books I've read make a weird trio: John Berger's Here Is Where We Meet, Lisa Lutz's Meet the Spellmans, and Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation.

The first is a lovely, spare novel by one of my favorite writers (try At the Wedding by way of meeting him), the second is a cheesy but entertaining local mystery that I snagged from the shelf of advance copies at work (I heart free books), and the third is by a very funny writer who turns up on NPR a lot—but it took me an incredibly long time to get through, because I just don't care that much about the minutia of dead presidents' lives. Daughter of a historian and all.

The main lesson I learned is that mysteries aren't great bedtime reading. My brain is active enough when I'm trying to make it rest. I should stick with short stories that tie up neatly and don't complicate my dreams.

30 till 30: Days 15 & 16

2008-06-26T13:18:00.001-07:00

Happy halfway point!

To celebrate the fact that I get to spend the remainder of my 20s reading about Ecuador, I just went to Peet's for one of their new blended tea thingies with the sort of human name. I'm not sure what was in there, except for tea and a lot of whipped cream, but it was a good excuse for a walk.

30 till 30: Day 14

2008-06-24T23:31:00.000-07:00

I like to think of myself as pretty quick on the uptake, but it took a really long time to dawn on me that I didn't just have to suffer in my sweat lodge of an apartment. That's why natural selection made landlords.

One phone call and one plumber visit later, the insatiable radiator in my living room has been shut down for the summer. Apparently, the whole building is on the same heating timer, so I have no control over it when it's attached to that system. But it can be disconnected at will.

All together now: The heat is . . . OFF!

30 till 30: Day 13

2008-06-23T22:08:00.000-07:00

Say that on the way home from work, you get the urge to make soba sesame noodles. Then you realize how delicious it would be to have some sautéed spinach with garlic on the side. So you stop at the little market a block from the subway to buy spinach, and there's a display of enormous red cherries. Fruit and greens in hand, you head home and drop your bag and take off your winter coat, because San Francisco has no idea if it wants to be Hawaii or Iceland. Then you cook up the noodles and the vegetables, and the whole thing only takes 20 minutes, and you put it in a bowl and eat it and it tastes exactly like you imagined it would. Then you have some cherries, and they're sweet and perfect.

Instant gratification in real time. That's the only reason (well, plus Netflix) I can sit down to edit again after editing all day, and maybe even enjoy it.

30 till 30: Days 10 & 11 & 12

2008-06-22T19:05:00.000-07:00

So the daily post isn't turning out that way, but I promise I'm doing my best. It's probably smart to reset expectations by saying that I'll post as often as my gorilla-size schedule allows between now and birthday time. A few random snippets from the weekend:

First my electric toothbrush died (but it did set longevity records first), now my electric kettle seems to have died. The funny part is that I stood there for a full five minutes being pissed that I couldn't make tea, then turned about two degrees to the left and saw my regular old teapot all squat and red and functional on the stove. Poor outdated technology gets no respect.

The heat wave broke none too soon—I loved that I had to wear a coat today. But my leather jacket fell apart a few months ago (today's theme: possession death), and I'm really sensing the void. I can't remember ever not having a leather jacket as an adult. It feels like a weirdly critical part of my style. But I've spent some long afternoons in Mission and Haight thrift stores, and my new leather baby just hasn't shown up yet. Keep your fingers crossed.

I got to walk through a tunnel and swing on a swing and slide down a slide and climb around on a jungle gym yesterday. Remember being a little kid? Those were some fun times.

30 till 30: Day 9

2008-06-19T21:04:00.001-07:00

For the past few days, I've had that nagging about-to-get-a-cold feeling, made worse by nights of tossing and turning in my extremely warm apartment.

I'm a believer in trying homeopathy before reaching for the hard drugs. But staying home, going to sleep early, avoiding caffeine and alcohol, not running too hard, inhaling steam, popping the occasional Wal-Profen, and drinking so much water that I feel inflatable haven't done much.

This afternoon, my wise friend Mary recommended hot water with lemon, honey, and a little whiskey. I have a jar of honey from my stepbrother's bees, but the only liquor I keep on hand is clear. Then I remembered: that fifth of a bottle of Maker's Mark left over from my 28th birthday party. Did it survive the move from Oakland?

It did. I put a few drops in my tea, and my throat feels about a thousand times better. I'm still heading to sleep at a preschool hour tonight, but my mental magic 8-ball says the outlook is good for a healthy weekend.

30 till 30: Days 7 & 8

2008-06-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

Two things I'm proud of today:

1. A little, in a nostalgic way: The Celtics winning their first championship since the mid-'80s, which is probably the last time I saw them play. (My bro was a huge Lakers fan when we were kids. Guess we were destined for the West Coast even back then.)

2. A lot, in an it's-about-time way: All the absolutely thrilled couples getting married at San Francisco city hall and across the state. Seriously, even a 30-second report about this on NPR makes me cry. I've never heard people sound so happy.

30 till 30: Day 6

2008-06-16T22:13:00.000-07:00

Today marks my head-first dive into enormous piles of work that will munch away at my sanity until early July. Three things: Canteen #3, Moon Handbooks Ecuador, the August issue.

I wish I had more exciting news, but sometimes this is just how I roll. So sleepy. See you tomorrow.

30 till 30: Day 5

2008-06-15T20:38:00.000-07:00

Every time I go to L.A., it feels like a difference place, and I haven't liked any of those places too much. But now I think I've finally found my Brooklyn of the lower West Coast: Santa Monica.

Thanks to my enthusiastic and creative hostess, I learned that there are great bookstore/cafés and really cheap massages and underground dance parties and an uncrowded waterfront for strolling, plus a Big Blue Bus™ that shuttles you around when you're too weary for the afternoon walk home.

We also discovered the world's most delicious potato tacos at 3 a.m., which is exactly when potato tacos should be eaten. Please stash that bit of wisdom in your back pocket.

30 till 30: Day 4

2008-06-14T09:34:00.001-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the birthday card bar has been set—and set high.
(Grandma warning: Mild obscenity to follow, with flagrant use of italics. Cover your eyes.)

Cover: Two women chatting.
W1: "Where's your birthday party at?"
W2: "Don't end a sentence with a preposition."

Inside: Same two women.
W1: "Where's your birthday party at, bitch?"

As always, the Semi knows what's what, and I dare you not to love her for it.

30 till 30: Day 3

2008-06-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

It's so nice out, I think I'll go to L.A. to visit the Semiotician.

Tales of southern hijinks coming soon.

30 till 30: Day 2

2008-06-12T22:03:00.000-07:00

I was obsessed with musicals when I was a kid. My Fair Lady, South Pacific, A Chorus Line, Oklahoma, Bye-Bye Birdie...I'd listen to nothing else.

My family sat through epic performances by the children's theater company I joined. They patiently watched me play Elsa in The Sound of Music, the Artful Dodger in Oliver, a pregnant hooker in Kurt Vonnegut's God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. All the standard roles.

In college, musicals started to annoy me. Since then, I haven't been able to listen to one without wincing. Except for a few nostalgic favorites—see above—I don't have the patience to sit through that kind of show today.

Unless it's free. Last night, I took advantage of some press passes and went to see Hairspray at the elegant Orpheum Theater. And I have to admit, it was kind of awesome.

The lights! The songs! The costumes! The hair! All around us, delighted schoolgirls and flammable men applauded and whistled and danced in their seats. So now I'm not afraid to say: Every decade or so, bring on a good musical. I'm in.

30 till 30: Day 1

2008-06-11T16:48:00.000-07:00

In exactly 30 days, I'll wake up with no more 20s left. How about that?

To commemorate the transition to adulthood, I think I'll post a little something every day from now until then. Last time I did this, I was getting ready to leave Paris (warning: very ugly, outdated website), and it really helped pass the time.

I'll also buy a house, throw away my "Fabulous Disaster" T-shirt with the skull and crossbones, and register for a complete set of CorningWare.

Or, you know, not. But the posting idea seems good.

This is my brain on ship week

2008-06-09T21:37:00.000-07:00

Our daily lives consist of work and human connection. Even when we're not doing one of those two things, we're trying to do them or thinking about them or worrying about them or feeling pleased about them.

During the day, I work and I communicate. Reading, typing, talking, fixing, disseminating, running into old friends in the street, assessing strangers from behind sunglasses. When my brain kicks into overdrive at bedtime, I'm either going over work in my head or anticipating it, or I'm thinking about my relationships and where they are and where they're going, including the ones that don't exist yet. Sometimes it all melds into an impossibly tangled panorama called dreams.

My dreams are often long, colorful, shot in widescreen format, full of people I haven't seen in years or never knew very well. Childhood friends whose real faces I'm not sure I could pick out of a lineup. Or entire work days, totally banal and so realistic that I feel like I haven't slept when it's time to get up and start all over. Nightmares are always anticipation, too—nothing bad ever happens, but I know with complete clarity that it will. It's just a matter of waiting.

When I run, I tell myself I need to stay healthy because of the energy my life requires, because I have to be able to take care of friends and family and children, of everything on my desk and in my house. Also because of how lucky I am that my body has the strength to run in the first place. Don't fool yourself, exercise is work. It's also meditation, but meditation is work.

When I take photographs, it's a matter of capturing that moment so I can share it. Also for the pleasure of preserving it, because otherwise it's only ether. Then I wind the film and stop at the photo place on the way to the office, get it developed and pay for the prints and scan them, post them and comment on them and show them to people who care because the images came from me, or are of them, often both.

When a flight is about to take off, I hope it won't crash in a big fiery ball, because I have so much left to do and so many people to know better.

It's not that I mind either of these two reasons for operating. I actually love most of it, most of the time—feeling useful and productive, feeling connected. But it's also essential to remind myself that not every moment and action has to be in service of something or someone, including myself.

It's all very well to take a picture or record a word for its greater utility, but sometimes it's best just to sit on the couch and not worry about it. It doesn't all have to get done, and sometimes the meaning gets lost in the doing. Sometimes empty is best.

Californians: Please vote NO on 98

2008-06-02T21:25:00.001-07:00

If Proposition 98 passes in California tomorrow—which it's expected to, because homeownership advocates across the state outnumber cash-strapped San Francisco renters—all forms of rent control in our city will become obsolete. Landlords will be able to raise rents as much as they want for new tenants.

I can only speak for myself, but it means I'd never be able to afford to move from my current place. I imagine many other young professionals are in the same boat.

It's already hard enough to pay for our lives here. Let's not be part of letting it become impossible. Please vote against Prop 98 on June 3.

* * * The BCB says NO to 98 * * *

To the wedding

2008-06-01T21:49:00.001-07:00

200 Brazilians + 50 Jews + a rabble of rabbis + infinite goodwill = a transcendent celebration.

The sun was shining on High Meadow when I arrived late Friday afternoon, and it never stopped. I don't think I've ever been part of a happier group. We all gathered, an extended family, to give Josh and Vanessa the joyful, raucous launch into marriage that they deserve. Each of them inspires remarkable loyalty and love in their relationships, and I expect they'll be an unstoppable force together.

Along with feeling lucky to be part of their village, I got to catch up with my own (there's a lot of overlap). Parents and grandparents, brother, cousins, childhood friends. There's nothing quite like spending time with people who've watched you grow up, even as they're growing up themselves. They help me appreciate familiarity in tandem with constant change, and they're a powerful reminder of how kind people can be to each other.

We stayed in the same rambling house where Avi and his band of brothers have been gathering for years, down the path from the wooden building where he and Josh first apprenticed as carpenters, down the road from the farm where Josh's parents met. The place came full circle, along with the rest of us.

I put some pictures over here. I might post a photo essay about the wedding sometime, but more likely I'll just let the faces speak for themselves.