. . . and we're back.

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

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

Can I get a hey-yea?

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

41 Yeas Later in Chicago, Tense Days Remembered

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

No glove, no love

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slow burn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dude, this pyramid is hella big

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

From the New York Times, about his recent travels:

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

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

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

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

Buddhas & birthdays

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






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

Fantastically snarky things not written by me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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: