Newly minted

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!"

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

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

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?

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

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

I love them.

You define me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Skedaddle

The parade of summer weddings is beginning, and I need to go watch the magic happen. While I'm traveling and eating and dancing and dancing and eating and probably sitting down with my family for another nice meal before I get back on the plane, please enjoy these pictures of (see the theme here?) flowers and food.

Have a great weekend.

Breakerdancing

Today's news: 12K is my new favorite distance, especially when it means running next to a trio of butterfly nymphs, a fleet of Elvises, and more Vikings than you can throw a tortilla at.

Yes, Bay to Breakers is all they say and more. I'm a fan.

Favorite sightings, other than eight naked people (shouldn't there be more?), included a woman dressed as a pair of scissors with a guy in a T-shirt that said, "Don't run with scissors"; a dude in a banana suit with a lady dressed as Carmen Miranda (her banana-laden hat somehow stayed on); the biggest afro ever; and two pairs of Juno & Bleekers in maroon shorts and yellow headbands. I wish I'd seen the Storm Troopers, but they must have come by later.

The extreme Jesus freaks were out in full effect also, just in case the drunken, giddy masses needed to be reminded of their multitude of sins. It would have been more disturbing if most everyone hadn't seemed to find the condemnation hilarious, but it was still pretty disturbing.

If I ever decide to try and win this race, remind me to become Kenyan. But I think I might need to take pictures of it next year instead.

Seasons? Yes, we have those.

What's the weather like out there?
"It's hot! Damn hot! Real hot! Hottest thing is my shorts, I could cook things in 'em. Do a little crotch-pot cooking."
Well, tell me what it feels like.
"Fool, it's hot! I told you, damn! Were you born on the sun? It's damn hot! It's so damn hot, I saw those little guys, their orange robes burst into flames. It's that hot! Do you know what I'm talking about?"
What do you think it's going to be like tonight?
"It's gonna be hot and wet! That's nice if you're with a lady, but it ain't no good if you're in the jungle."

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/05/13/BAM110LIGD.DTL&tsp=1
http://www.wunderground.com/US/CA/San_Francisco.html

What's that other thing we have? Oh, right: global warming.

Fake meat products

Sometimes scary, sometimes delicious. Always an exciting surprise.

Yeah, what he said.

Yesterday on Slate, a guy named Taylor Clark posted one of the best articles I've read in a long time about being a vegetarian. Check it out.

I agree with almost everything in there, except the part about bacon. It must be because I've never eaten the stuff, but bacon has always smelled gross to me, even when I was a carnivore. It makes me feel the same way olives do—disgusted and slightly envious, because people who love bacon and olives looooooooove bacon and olives. But those foods just aren't my thing.

What I mean is, pass the extra-sharp cheddar and the cherry tomatoes and the crusty baguette. Thanks.

In other news, John Updike took 1,800 extra words in the New Yorker to say almost exactly the same thing about Andy Greer's new novel that I did in this month's issue of San Francisco. So he may be way more famous and whatever, but I said it a week earlier. And faster. Ha!

Photographiness

I've been spending unfortunate amounts of time on Flickr lately, but there's an upside: It motivated me to scan a bunch of portraits I've taken over the last, say, nine years. Here you go.

There was also a barbecue in Martinez the other day.

And . . . the boys of Canteen generously brought back a Lomo fisheye camera from their trip to Barcelona last year. It's a cool little thing, feels like a toy and has all kinds of features that let me take crazy pictures like these.

Third half

I've been meaning to post about the Santa Cruz Half Marathon, even though it's already an ancient, sweaty memory.

Highlights include the beautiful ocean views, the friendly crowd, and the fact that I managed to finish without dying. Lowlights include the heat, losing my sweet new running cap, the amount of horse crap on the trail, and the fact that I was too busy trying not to die to appreciate the beautiful ocean views.

The first eight miles felt great, then I realized my legs were about to stop working if I didn't slow down. So I missed my goal of beating my time from last summer's San Francisco Marathon, but I did do better than my first try at the Nike Women's Marathon.

Bib: 965
Age: 29
City: SF
Place: 876 out of 1558
Finish: 2:11:36.2
Pace: 10:03
Soundtrack: Big Soul, Jurassic 5, Ministry of Sound, Mary J. Blige, The Roots, Automatic Duo, Damian Marley, OK Go, Mos Def, MC Solaar, Madonna, Amy Winehouse, Lady Sovereign, Lauryn Hill, Moby, Moloko, Outkast, Edwin Starr, Blackalicious, The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy

Something to read, something to watch

Read: More about the April 9 poetry and judgment fest known as the Literary Death Match, Episode 8.

Watch: A remarkable talk by a brain scientist about what she discovered during her own stroke. I was thisclose to studying neuroscience, so the technical parts fascinated me, but her insights about how our brains and bodies translate the world are even better. (Warning: 20 minutes long and there's a real human brain onstage. But: totally worth your time.)

Grandes dames

Last Friday, I saw the documentary Young at Heart for two reasons: It takes place in my hometown, Northampton. And it stars a group of elderly rock 'n' rollers known as the Young at Heart Chorus, whose annual performances were one of the highlights of my childhood.

It's a magical movie, and not just because of all the long shots of the same Main Street I spent 16 years wandering up and down, or the scenes at the hospital where I was born (half a block from the house on North Elm Street where my family lived for six years).

The members of the chorus—ages 70ish to 90ish—are by turns insightful, hilarious, and inspirational. There's nothing like watching a 92-year-old lady flirt with the cameraman, then learn the words to "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" It changed my perspective on what talent means, and reinforced my belief in the power of performance to sustain energy and spirit.

Like my own Savta says, you have to keep growing new dendrites to keep your mind alive. She came to visit a couple of weeks ago, and all 88 years of her are vibrant. During her short stay, we went to an Annie Leibovitz exhibit, lunched in an outdoor garden, drove to the beach, watched a movie, and met friends for dinner.

Savta is beginning, much to her frustration, to have some medical problems. But she handles them gracefully and has no intention of letting them slow her down: She and a friend have booked tickets this fall to see the fjords, complete with Elderhostels. I hope the Norwegians can keep up.

On the other end of the spectrum, my Grandma Rosa is in the hospital in England right now with pneumonia. She lived in her own home for nearly 90 years, and until recently spent her days almost unassisted. Alzheimer's is taking its toll, though, and we finally have to admit she's older than she ever let us realize. She's in my thoughts all the time.

I understand and appreciate how unusual my grandmas are, and how lucky I am to still have them around. They're the original Young at Hearts—if their amazing genes hold out, I expect to live just about forever.

And I can promise you we'll all go down singing.

Judgment day

Last Wednesday afternoon, the Olympic torch passed through San Francisco on its way to undisclosed locations in other countries. Downtown was intense—thousands of people, with the crowd divided about equally between enthusiastic support and boiling anger about the event and its significance for China and Tibet.

The mayor kept changing the torch route while it was being run, so nobody had any idea what was happening. Every so often, a huge wave of people would start sprinting toward the part of town where they thought (or heard third-hand via cell) the torch would go next. It basically turned into a giant, frenetic game of Red Rover.

To give you a sense of the scene, there are photos over at the Business Casual Shutterbug.

That night, I was part of a three-judge panel at the latest installment of Opium Magazine's Literary Death Match. Jane Ganahl (literary merit), Alan Black (intangibles), and I (performance) sat on a big squishy couch and rained down opinions on the poetry of four excellent readers.

Yes, all four were good. That must be some kind of record—most poetry readings are at least 50% excruciating. But these guys made the magic happen. I felt like I needed a gimmick, so I talked about the writers like they were bands: a passionate punkster, an angsty/intellectual indie rocker, a folkie, and a seasoned crooner whose spectacular eyebrows sang backup.

After a couple of elimination rounds, the two finalists played a spirited championship round of "Poet or Madman?" If that sounds easy, try putting snapshots of Shel Silverstein and Charles Manson side by side sometime. Then pick out who looks more literary and who looks more like Mr. T.

Six-word memoir

It could have gone either way.

(There are more here by other people.)

Foiled, with a chance for redemption

I got up at 6:15 this morning to run. It's my usual time, but I didn't sleep that well and felt sluggish. But there's a half-marathon this weekend, so I rallied myself into some clothes. NPR said, "It's colder than you think out there," so I added a scarf and hat. The air did wake me up, at least.

Got to the gym in the wind and near-dark to discover it was locked. Weird. No sign or anything. Annoying, but it was too cold to run outside, so I went home again. Called the gym around 7 to see if they're closed this week for cleaning or another legit reason, and the front-desk guy answered. "Yeah, I was just late. We're open now."

An hour late to open your business during workout rush hour? Time to invest in some kind of newfangled alarm clock. I like my grubby little neighborhood gym, but still.

Too awake to go back to bed, I decided to fix my bathroom doorknob. The screw was loose and it seemed like tightening it would work, except it didn't. I tried a few different screwdrivers for a while, then gave up. Tossed it in my bag to take to the hardware store.

Getting off the train, I remembered I had a coupon for a free yogurt/granola cup at Jamba Juice. Maybe that's my reward for getting up early for nothing. But they must have handed out those coupons pretty liberally, because the line stretched out the door and along a full city block. Free stuff is great, but that's not worth it. I have yogurts at work.

In fact, I just had one, because I'm waiting for the second round of May bluelines to arrive. Our production office in Chicago usually posts the PDF before we get here, but two of the files we transferred late last night got lost somewhere in the server ether.

Oh yeah, and there are fruit flies invading my kitchen. Just a handful, but it's still not cool to relive 7th-grade bio class in my nice clean apartment. This guy in Kentucky says to capture them using a paper funnel and cider vinegar, so we'll see if that works.

On the upside, I have hot tea to drink and the hardware story was open early. If Safeway has cider vinegar in stock during my lunch hour, it might turn out to be a decent day.

JetBlue vs. Virgin America

Round 1: Virgin America
SFO to JFK
Duration: 4h35
Pro: Actual tasty meals served on-board. Never underestimate this perk when you're stuck in a carnivorous airport at dinnertime. After security, there was—for real—no vegetarian food I could take to go from anywhere. Except yogurt and Fig Newtons. Trust me, more than three Fig Newtons aren't an experience you want to have. 5 points
Pro/Con: Domestic VA flights use the international terminal. It's shinier (+1), the accents are cooler (+1), and it's easier to reach from BART (+1), but the security line is epic and moves much more slowly (-1). 2 points
Con: Same little back-of-the-seat-in-front-of-you TVs as JetBlue, but with fewer channels, and they kept pixelating and cutting out. In the lame media player, the jazz playlist wouldn't just keep rolling—I had to hit the play button for each song. This is why Steve made iPods. -2 points
Pro: But you could order food and drinks through the screen and pay at your seat with credit. No carts blocking the aisles to wake you up and offer you peanuts you don't want. 1 point
Pro/Con: More leg room than Delta, American, etc., but not as much as JetBlue. 0 points
Customer Service: Nondescript. I heard a horror story from a coworker about their rude phone service, though, so I'm docking them in solidarity. -1 point
Total: 5 points

Round 2: JetBlue
JFK to SFO
Duration: 6h45
Con: We took off late, but only 20 minutes, and strong headwinds traveling westward aren't the airline's fault. 0 points
Pro: So. much. legroom. And there was nobody in the middle seat. 2 points
Con: The snacks are free and better than peanuts, but they're no caprese sandwich with an orzo salad that I can order through my TV screen. -1 point
Pro: Hundreds of working channels, including one that shows nothing but reruns of America's Next Top Model. (Yeah, what of it? I read for a living.) Last time, I found a Pop-Up Video marathon. 5 points
Customer Service: Tied with Southwest for friendliest ever, but JetBlue gets the top spot because the attendants aren't cloying and don't wear ugly shorts. 1 point
Total: 8 points

JetBlue wins!

But VA is a fine alternative, since they also fly direct cross-country and the tickets are super cheap. It's fair to say that both these airlines kick the collective ass of all the huge conglomerates and their overpriced, squished, three-stop flights to the East Coast.

Builders and shakers

The winner of this year's Pritzker Prize, Jean Nouvel, is the architect behind one of my favorite buildings in Paris, l'Institut du Monde Arabe. It has gorgeous clean angles and delicate details, and I spent hours wandering around it and drinking delicious mint tea in its Café Littéraire in 2004. Had no idea who designed it until the NYT told me today.

The institute isn't the easiest place to photograph, but I tried a few times. Will scan and post those when I get back next week from a brief and slightly insane trip.

Off to the airport!

Commute

Most mornings, I'd rather run. It wakes me up and gives me the sense that I've done something important for my body before I spend 8 or 9 hours working with my brain. But in terms of just getting from one place to another place when driving doesn't make sense, walking is it.

It's about 3.5 miles from home to my office. It's beautiful walking weather today, sunny and cool, so when I got to the subway station I just kept going.

I didn't realize there's a pretty big farmers' market at Civic Center. Don't know if it's every day or just Wednesdays, but they had all the same stands as the Noe Valley and Grand Lake markets. Funny to see the scene I associate with young yuppie families and organic foodies transplanted to a grimy spot downtown.

Between Franklin and Fourth, Market Street smells like waffles and pot. After that, it smells like buses and retail.

When people ask what music I listen to, my standard answers are blues, jazz, hip-hop, some rock and electronica, etc. But I think it's time to officially declare myself a fan of angsty/intellectual guy folk/rock (AIGFR). That's what I felt like hearing this morning, and it turns out my iPod is overflowing with it: Mason Jennings, Bon Iver, John Vanderslice, Jack Johnson, Hudson Bell, M. Ward, Mike Doughty, Iron & Wine, Red House Painters. Maybe the acronym will catch on.

The only downside is that it's really hard to go inside and sit down after being out in the world like that. Maybe the sheer volume of work on my desk will help somehow.

Magic hour

I was in a nearly empty bar with my empty wallet, in August heat somewhere in the South. I knew it wasn't the best idea to leave it sitting out for a while, but there was nobody else within 10 seats and I'd been watching it the whole time. The fraying leather case was still there, but everything inside had disappeared. Was I being filmed? Was Uri Geller a fan of happy hour?

Must have been some sleight of hand, and now there was nothing I could do. I began running through the list in my head: driver's license, credit card, Safeway card, REI card, Social Security card (why was I carrying that?), a card for the movie place near my house. But not my debit card.

Hey! I started a tab, so it's behind the bar. Sweet. One less call to make before I wake up.

That's what happens when you read this and this right before bed.

André the giant has a dictatorship

I added a few more Mission snapshots over on Flickr,
plus some portraits from our St. Patrick's hijinks.

In non-photographic news, I'm almost done decorating my apartment. Hooray!

Maggie, may I?

I'm pleased as punch to announce that San Francisco magazine, where I toil over a hot proofstand for hours a day, has been nominated for a bunch of Maggie awards, including Best City & Metropolitan magazine (for the third year in a row!).

Our feature story from last October, "It's Oakland's Turn," also got a nod for Best Special Issue. As a former Oaklander and a big fan of the city, I was really proud of the coverage we put together—it took a lot of epic workdays to make it happen.

So please cross your fingers on May 2, because there's nothing people like more around here than shiny, shiny awards.

The sun's not yellow, it's chicken

On the way back from Fort Mason tonight, I took a right turn onto McCoppin for no particular reason. Unless curiosity is particular. I just wondered where it went.

Well, it goes to Valencia via the longest traffic light in the universe—tied with the four-way light at 51st and Telegraph in Oakland—and it's the secret taxi gateway to the Mission.

There were three cabs in front of me and two behind me, like aggressive, identical chaperones, all the way along Valencia from Duboce to 22nd. I could have turned off in a few places, but I didn't. I was too pleased picturing little green Gibson running with the kings of urban driving. Does he secretly want a herd? Or, more likely, to to be the black sheep in a herd. Vroooom.

Golf psychology aside, it was cinematic, or at least I imagined it was.

I realize I've been saying that a lot recently. I'm not sure if it's because my life is actually getting more dramatic or just because my adjective supply is running out. Which might be a hazard in my line of work, so please cross your fingers for the drama.

Where I've been lately

1. In the February sunshine at Baker Beach
2. In the February sunshine in Seattle (thanks, global warming!)
3. Walking around my new neighborhood, eyes to the ground

Right now, I'm superglued to my desk working on the April issue, so that's all for today.

A tip for anyone who gets to exit buildings now and then: It's still gorgeous outside. Please give the sun my best.

Eclipse

I didn't know where to find the eclipse, so I walked up the hill. Up seemed like the right choice.

I thought I saw it, but wasn't quite sure. A sliver seemed to be moving and maybe a little too bright.

I stopped by someone's gate for a while. A truck pulled up, lights blazing, and a repair guy got out and asked if I lived there. I said no and left while he was inside. It's no good watching a maybe-eclipse with too much electric company.

I was on the way down, looking out over the poster city, when something dark caught my eye up and to the right.

And there it was, the clouded outline, undoubtedly. I stopped next to a garage this time.

Just then, a man strode purposefully up the hill. He had ginger hair and wore a suit and an overcoat and white earbuds. He pulled one out and asked, midstride, "Is that the lunar eclipse?" Nod. "Thanks." He put the earbud back in and never stopped moving, like he'd been conducting a routine business transaction. Maybe he just wanted to say he'd seen it? Or seen someone who'd seen it.

Here's what I learned:

No matter where I am or what I'm doing or how little I know, people will ask me for directions.

I wish I had a better sense of direction.

Mary Anne

Mary Anne is blond and wears black, and her voice could move mountains.

Mary Anne has a job interview coming up in L.A., and the company where she's interviewing couldn't find her a limousine. All the limos were booked, and they only work with this one limo agency, so they'd like to rent her a car instead. But she'd prefer that they look up other limo agencies on the Internet, so she doesn't have to spend an extra hour (that's 30 minutes when she arrives, and 30 minutes on the way back) at the car-rental place. It's important to save that transit time, because Mark would like Mary Anne to maximize her short stay; she only has a couple of days. She'd appreciate it if the interviewing company could work that out.

Things are going great for Mary Anne. She already got one job offer she doesn't want, but that place in L.A. is flying her in for interviews. But they know she won't move to L.A., so either they're going to try to woo her or they might be thinking of opening an office in San Francisco. If they do, it could be because Mary Anne told them that a lot of big companies are opening offices here these days.

Mary Anne knows all the words to "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" and several other rock classics, and she loves her mom.

If the dozen other people in the café and I were to say something to Mary Anne, it might be: "Mary Anne, get an office." Or, barring that, perhaps a night class in vocal modulation?

But she's on an important conference call right now, so we won't disturb her. Mary Anne will get back to us later.

¡Ya voté!

I don't much care for politics, or most politicians, or endless campaigns, policies that hurt more people than they help, and debates that don't delve deeper than sound bites. And I really hate campaign ads, especially when they try to be funny.

But I love voting. I do, I do.

This morning, I went to the polling station half a block away. Tiny local polling stations are the best. There were four people working—a Hispanic woman in her 30s, a black teenage guy, a white man in his 50s, and a black man in his 40s—all irrepressibly cheerful. They thanked me for arriving, they thanked me for turning in a friend's ballot, they thanked me for telling them my address, they thanked me for spelling my name, they thanked me when they handed me the ballot, and they thanked me when I left.

On the way to work, I passed two other polling stations. One was in a fire station and another in what looked like someone's garage (is that allowed?). A row of happy multiethnic people manned each table. Everyone on their way out sported a red lapel sticker and a Cheshire grin.

At the entrance to 24th Street BART, a smiling guy in a fuzzy hat holding a giant Obama sign said, "Thanks for voting!" I thanked him back.

Except for certain homesick moments during long journeys abroad, voting might be the only time I feel patriotic. This country inarguably has enormous problems, and the next president will have a steaming mess to sort out. Our leaders make mistakes. We as voters make mistakes.

But in that booth with a ballot in my hand, filling in the black arrows that point to what I'd like to see happen in my city, state, and country, I get butterflies in my belly and think, "This matters."

One vote won't tip the scales, but one + one + one + one + one will, and the fact that we're given the age-old opportunity to cast our opinions to the skies and have them heard—actually counted, piece of paper by piece of paper—that's a sign our country has at least figured out the first step.

For Miss E.

Nothing in life is so exciting
As to be shot at
And missed
The cold now is in the single numbers
Is shattered
Frost on my window glass
As if arrows passed
Snow, or a kimono, blows
Sleeves across your arms, crossed
Where you stand
Like an emperor driven into enemy camps
Matching and watching the Eros of the Universe

(Fanny Howe)