Alberta

While I do indeed plan to marvel at Alberta's staggering abundance this summer, the decision to do so has nothing to do with this site. Judging by the links on the top of the page, I'm guessing the intended audience here is businesspeople, specifically those looking for a place to set up shop. And while it's true that all of the marketing/sales-type people I know have a much higher tolerance for abused metaphors and inconsistent voice than I do, even they have standards.

Consider:

Hello there and welcome! I'm the western province, the wild one - the one that makes you want to whistle in the morning - whether it's from a jolt of java at a trendy cafe or the view of a sun-kissed wheatfield - Alberta does that to you.

Here we move from the first person to the third person (where we stay for the remainder of the essay) with an ease bordering on alacrity. We also learn that Alberta is evidently the western province, presumably having muscled BC into the Pacific, which is disappointing, as I'd planned to go to Vancouver over Memorial Day.

But, like Alberta's ghostwriter, I digress.

One more excerpt, though:

Whether your interests lean toward high peaks or high tea - we hope you have a great time and ultimately, find leaving this remarkable outdoor playground - well, tough.

Why--the excessive--use of em-dashes--to the exclusion of other punctuation? Also, isn't 'outdoor playground' somewhat redundant? (Perhaps Alberta's long-ass winters mean lots of indoor playgrounds; what do I know?) And finally, is it me or is Alberta threatening me, suggesting that if I'm fond of my kneecaps and eyeteeth I'll do what's wise and decide not to leave? Because really, Alberta, just because you're the western province--the wild one--doesn't mean you need to swagger so. Maybe a bit of humility would do you good.

Back when

It is wise to remember that there are worse things than housemates who mysteriously hoard flatware, fail to clean the bathroom, or have no concept of putting away dishes once they're dry.

The departure this week of what can only be described as a gaggle of (now-former) co-workers has left me a bit wistful for the days when we all worked in a converted garage and still got all the free Odwalla we could drink (or leave, caps on, on desktops over the weekend in uninentional scientific experiments) and had people like Josh around as a steady source of entertainment. It was brain-melting work, and the pay was laughable, but the whole experience wound up being the sort of thing that, in retrospect, seems deceptively pleasant and simple and desirable.

That's probably just corporate burnout talking. But it is hard to watch good people walk out of your life.

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

I'm not sure what to think about the fact that the anthem of my week, as best I can figure it, is the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris. This puts me in league with (in no particular order) self-identified outcasts, self-injurers, and the otherwise depressed (warning: there's a somewhat painful MIDI on this page).

Which is why, I must say, I'm intensely glad to be pulling myself out of the mopeyness of the past few days. There's just not much good that can be said of letting a pseudo-alternative radio hit speak for your mental state.

Someone posted this to Sinister yesterday: "music can’t save you if you haven’t decided you’ll be saved." Nothing really can, right? Salvation (like belief, and love) is at least a two-part process.

On the Sinister wisdom tip, this was and remains one of the most insightful things I've ever read there:

I hadn't slept properly in a month. You know that they say if you hate someone too much everything gets all twisted? Well, the same thing can happen with love, only that won't go away just because you decide it should. There's no way you can just leave it alone either, especially when the other person loves you back just as much, or thinks they do. I guess you wouldn't really understand unless you knew someone who made you so nervous that you couldn't speak to them for fear of having them despise you. You'd always be afraid of giving away something of your character and having them realise, instantly, that you are in no way their equal, or even their second best.

Jean-Marie and Eric

Jean-Marie LePen? The mind boggles. I remember reading about him in my high school French class (once a right-wing crackpot, always a right-wing crackpot, evidently), but even back then it seemed like his chance at being taken seriously was gone and not likely to return.

He's frightening and assholic enough to make Bush seem relatively like a left-leaning dream come true. Relatively.

I run into Eric in the office kitchen this morning, and we spend a few minutes catching up. My synopsis of the past few weeks includes a good deal of work-related whinging; his includes the announcement that he's gotten engaged. This makes my chin drop, my eyes widen, something in my stomach swell so completely with happiness and pride that I swear I'm feeling those two emotions in their very purest forms. And it occurs to me that that's a sensation I don't often experience--I'm used to my happiness and pride (and anger, and sadness, and fear) being tempered by other (often contradictory) emotions, which lessens their impact. I wish there were a way of stopping that distillation, of learning to let one feeling take over (however briefly) without finding myself somehow reining it in. But can that be taught? And isn't there something to be said for the tempered emotion (like the mixed drink, or the blended ice cream)?

At any rate, Eric's getting married. Which just goes to show that sometimes the people you fret about most turn out just fine.

Amadeus

Ry and I went to see the near-epic director's cut of Amadeus last night, which was an exceedingly pleasant way to spend three hours. While I haven't actually had time to give this the fuller thought it deserves, I'm sort of chewing on the idea that the film is really an exploration of and warning against the seven deadly sins. Salieri obviously covers envy and anger; Mozart has dibs on pride, lust, and gluttony; and, although to a lesser degree, Constanza embodies greed and sloth.

More (possibly overwrought) analysis of this soon, maybe.



It's that kind of day.

Taxing

I made a quick trip to the Rincon post office this afternoon to drop off some bills, and I could not help feeling smugly superior to all the people queued up to mail their taxes. Every local news program around the country will have a segment on tonight about how many people waited until the last minute this year to send in their returns, how long the lines were, how chaotic the state of postal affairs. And while I must admit to be a Procrastinator Patty in many aspects, I just don't understand why so many people put off the tax thing so long, then subject themselves to the lines, the tension, the utterly wasted time.

But then, I also don't understand why, despite the prominent signage and ad nauseum announcements about having your ticket and id ready when going through airport security, people still scramble to dig said documents out of the deepest depths of their baggage only when they reach the front of the line with 35 people behind them.

I digress.

While looking for reviews of David Gates's Jernigan, which I just read, I came across the following sites:

Jernigan's Taxidermy specializes in longhorn mounts and stuffed armadillos
Dennis Jernigan seems to be a man on a mission
I know nothing about conformations of folded proteins in restricted spaces, but Dr. RL Jernigan sure does
Gates's protagonist would have a field day with the works of Brenda Jernigan

Loser

Given that it's devoted to finding and rating the dorkiness of personal (some might say navel-gazing) web sites such as this one, I acknowledge the smug irony (or something) of calling out www.losers.org. In my (somewhat feeble) defense, though, I'd like to note that I neither use animated gifs nor elucidate the differences between bestiality and zoophilia nor make observations like this:

Ben & I are both from English speaking countries and America & Great Britain share a "special relationship". However there are so many language and cultural differences that we've come across. Being in an international relationship is challenging for many reasons.

I mean, I feel your pain, babe: my boyfriend is from Canada, another English speaking country with which America shares a 'special relationship,' but I don't feel the need to note every difference between the two nations (save for Canada's significantly greater access to proper Kit Kats) and how same make for some hearty relationship challenges. But then, I guess I don't have to whinge about all of that online because I dump it on my friends instead.

On an unrelated note, Jonathan Safran Foer's novel is finally out, and I'm rejoicing. The excerpt in last year's New Yorker young authors issue was one of the best things I've read in recent memory, and it left me itchy for more.

Watch your &$%*ing mouth

The continuing pain in my hamstring is making me really, really want to *$&#ing swear. In order to avoid the fate of that guy in Michigan, however, I figure I should take a few cues from James O'Connor, who'd really like me to Tame [My] Tongue.

Dogme-tic

Julie's right: 'Breaking the Waves' isn't a Dogme95 film. It was just, you know, Lars von Trier on the brain, the film's rough-around-the-edges look, etc. But of course I should've realized that the terrible Technicolor-and-classic-rock intertitles (and, let's be honest, they are terrible) immediately disqualify it from being accorded Dogme status (if such a thing exists).

'The Celebration,' though--that's a great film. Juj was right about that, too.

Subtle

The dominant m.o. here in the Castro is clearly subtlety, as this sign outside Judy's Garland (a local florist) reminds me:

Imagine our tu-lips
on your organ!

Damn

One bad dream can really ruin your day, especially when said dream involves your boyfriend inexplicably leaving you, which makes you so sad and weary you can't quite function properly until you actually hear his voice (for real) saying, 'It was just a dream, Em,' at which point you start to breathe again.

Oddly enough, my notoriously irrelevant Yahoo! horoscope (Cancer) sort of almost maybe applies to me today:

Dreams continue to be a big part of your life today, dear Cancer. It is likely that you have been having some unusual ones lately, and you can't help but wonder about their significance. Why not go to the library and check out a book or two? You may be fascinated by what you discover. And remember: dream interpretation is an art, not a science. Do your research to get a general idea about the meanings of things rather than trying to do a direct interpretation. If you're really curious, seek out an expert.

I think I can do without both the expert and the library research, although I surely will bear in mind that dream interpretation is an art, not a science.

Don't empty houses ring?

It's the first day of National Poetry Month (who decides these things? and can a month be dedicated to more than one cause?), so it seems more fitting to keep my rambling to a minimum and let an Actual Poet do the talking instead. To Richard Hugo, then.

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg

You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs--
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won't fall finally down.

Isn't this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn't this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?

Don't empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it's mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

Fear and Loathing in the Farmers' Market

It's funny, in that unfunny way: thinking about going to Farmers' Market tomorrow sort of stresses me out. I mean, shouldn't it be a sort of soothing experience to browse through tables of produce, tasting stuff and feeling all earthy? Maybe that's just some sort of deluded pipe dream, but it's my Farmers' Market ideal.

Ferry Plaza is another story, though. I'm seriously considering dragging my sorry self out of bed at 8 tomorrow just so I can get there early and avoid having to do battle with all the Mercedes SUV drivers who are determined to find close parking at any cost and who, once parked, use the market as a see-and-be-seen venue. Sure, yeah, everyone has the right to partake of fresh produce on a Saturday morning, but can't you at least be nice about it?

I digress.

If I do manage to screw my courage to the sticking place and make the trek down there, I'll surely make a stop at Mariquita Farm's stall, because it's awesome, and they have great stuff. I'm mildly impatient for strawberry season to be upon us, because their berries kick ass.

Escape

Is it normal to deal with disappointment and/or frustration by wanting to flee? I mean, do other people, when faced with a weekend that's a holiday (read: long) for others but not for themselves, and in which their plans as of Thursday involve little more than a doctor's appointment and a bridesmaid's dress fitting, want to hightail it to Vegas?

Maybe it's just me. But doesn't it seem, sort of, that if you're lounging poolside in Vegas (I guess it would have to be an indoor pool, since it's still chilly) and are contemplating your nickel slots strategy while hotel employees ply you with free alcohol--doesn't it seem like your other cares would melt away? That you wouldn't rail against your company for coughing up so few holidays (despite your admission that you really are spoiled as far as employment goes)? That you couldn't possibly complain about all the middling annoyances that pile up and threaten to make you a whiny pain in the ass?

Alas, probably because it is a holiday weekend for others, the cheap-ass Vegas (or LA, or Portland, or Palm Springs) weekend getaway packages that seem so abundant at other times are not to be found. I think having to shell out a thousand bucks for an escapist weekend would make me more cranky, not less. If I'm at all wise, I'll use my time this weekend to do all the stuff I've been putting off, like finally giving my garden some attention beyond the occasional watering, or catching up on New Yorkers, or drinking myself into a caffeinated frenzy via Proper Cappucinos in North Beach. (If I'm not wise, I'll sit around and mope, but here's hoping I come to my senses before that happens.)

I have to admit that Eric's joke about calling vegetarian pork products "soysage" is pretty funny. Really, has no one thought of this before? Off to investigate....

Lileks

It's true that James Lileks' site is one of the best procrastination tools ever. I'm especially fond of the new-ish restaurant and motel postcard sections.

One

The office smells like smoked meats today, for reasons I don't care to investigate. Combined with the nails-on-blackboard voice of the woman having the LOUD phone conversation with her office door open (why? why? why? you have a door for this very purpose) and the looming dread of my impending 90-minute conference call (pretend to listen, occasionally release the Mute button in order to make some sort of half-intelligent/intelligible comment to the collective, try to finish today's crossword), said meaty odor is making me want to escape into what really is an amazingly sunny morning.

But dommage for me.

I've come to the (admittedly obvious) conclusion that the man a few doors down from me who busies himself with the task of adhering small slabs of colored marble to the facade of his house will never, ever be done. He just won't. He's been doing this for five years, since the day I moved into my current domicile, and there's just no way something like this could take half a decade, especially since he works on it every single day. Really, he's got to be just killing time now, and whether that killing takes the form of removing and replacing some slabs each day or applying marble to the roof or just moving the piles of crap on the sidewalk in front of the house from one spot to another, I can't quite tell. I mean, sure, to each his own and all that jazz, but there comes a time when one just gets tired of stepping around bags of concrete and piles of stone every time one exits the house and walks half a block north. That time has come.