From the Times Travel section, Sunday, June 10, 2007:
"Turning Snapshots into Photographs
Photo safaris combine picturesque guided tours and in-the-field camera lessons. Fees usually include intuition, lodging and some meals."
6.18.2007
6.17.2007
Arguments with Isaac, Installment #27
On the N, before the Jew's/juice harp debateIsaac and I frequently go head to head, mainly because both of us are extraordinarily stubborn when we believe we're right.
There was the infamous Stockholm Syndrome debate last summer, which began as a relatively amusing joke about the 49-year-old Swede I was dating at the time and ended as a shouting match that even online research didn't soothe. (In short: one of us claimed that the tactic of treating some prisoners at Gitmo nicely so they would believe the U.S. was on their side was an example of the Stockholm Syndrome--in that those prisoners would hypothetically be swayed to the side of the country imprisoning them--while the other thought that was absolute bunk, claiming that the Stockholm Syndrome came into play only in cases involving things like kidnapping or hostage situations in which the unquestionably innocent victims ultimately sided with their captors. Think Patty Hearst.)
Anyway, that one remains unsolved.
So a bunch of us are out on Friday night, and somehow the subject of the Jew's harp comes up. Why or in what context, I have no idea. Whatever the case, I claim that it's "Jew's harp," as in "the harp of the Jew," while Isaac rebuts that, claiming it's "juice harp," as in "slang-for-saliva harp," and telling me that no Jewish music he's ever heard features this instrument.
The debate rages. I retort that, right or wrong, one will see this instrument referred to as a Jew's harp everywhere. He slaps the table, tells Ali I drive him crazy because I always think I'm right, and on and on. Eventually we just give up.
But then Val sends this yesterday:
Subject: Em 1, Isaac 0
From Wikipedia:
There are many theories for the origin of the name Jew's harp, one being that it may derive from its popularity amongst Eurasian steppe -peoples like the Khazars, perhaps being introduced to Europe from that direction. Another explanation proposed is that it is a corruption of "jaw harp," while a less likely explanation espoused by some is that its name comes from "juice harp" from the amount of saliva produced when played by amateurs. Both of these explanations lack historical backing, as both the "jaw" and the "juice" variants appeared only in the late 19th and 20th centuries . It has also been suggested that the name derives from the French "Jeu-trompe" meaning "toy-trumpet". The Oxford English Dictionary calls theories that the name is a corruption of "jaws" or "jeu" "baseless and inept" and goes on to speculate that "the instrument was actually made, sold, or sent to England by Jews, or supposed to be so; or that it was attributed to them, as a good commercial name...."
There was the infamous Stockholm Syndrome debate last summer, which began as a relatively amusing joke about the 49-year-old Swede I was dating at the time and ended as a shouting match that even online research didn't soothe. (In short: one of us claimed that the tactic of treating some prisoners at Gitmo nicely so they would believe the U.S. was on their side was an example of the Stockholm Syndrome--in that those prisoners would hypothetically be swayed to the side of the country imprisoning them--while the other thought that was absolute bunk, claiming that the Stockholm Syndrome came into play only in cases involving things like kidnapping or hostage situations in which the unquestionably innocent victims ultimately sided with their captors. Think Patty Hearst.)
Anyway, that one remains unsolved.
So a bunch of us are out on Friday night, and somehow the subject of the Jew's harp comes up. Why or in what context, I have no idea. Whatever the case, I claim that it's "Jew's harp," as in "the harp of the Jew," while Isaac rebuts that, claiming it's "juice harp," as in "slang-for-saliva harp," and telling me that no Jewish music he's ever heard features this instrument.
The debate rages. I retort that, right or wrong, one will see this instrument referred to as a Jew's harp everywhere. He slaps the table, tells Ali I drive him crazy because I always think I'm right, and on and on. Eventually we just give up.
But then Val sends this yesterday:
Subject: Em 1, Isaac 0
From Wikipedia:
There are many theories for the origin of the name Jew's harp, one being that it may derive from its popularity amongst Eurasian steppe -peoples like the Khazars, perhaps being introduced to Europe from that direction. Another explanation proposed is that it is a corruption of "jaw harp," while a less likely explanation espoused by some is that its name comes from "juice harp" from the amount of saliva produced when played by amateurs. Both of these explanations lack historical backing, as both the "jaw" and the "juice" variants appeared only in the late 19th and 20th centuries . It has also been suggested that the name derives from the French "Jeu-trompe" meaning "toy-trumpet". The Oxford English Dictionary calls theories that the name is a corruption of "jaws" or "jeu" "baseless and inept" and goes on to speculate that "the instrument was actually made, sold, or sent to England by Jews, or supposed to be so; or that it was attributed to them, as a good commercial name...."
6.11.2007
This Week in Radness
It's hard not to be glad of heart and mind in the face of these three things:
1.) The set of Hausbrandt-logoed cappuccino mugs J sprung on me simply because he's a delightful and wonderful friend who knows how much I adore that cute little cannibalistic coffee pot. J, allow me to publicly state the degree of your excellence.
2.) HBO's "Flight of the Conchords," which you can sample at the afore-linked website. It's smart, snarky, creative, and funny as hell--a sort of mash-up of "The Office," "Arrested Development,"and "Extras" with New Zealand jokes and pseudo-music videos thrown in for good measure. (And if you can't get enough of Jemaine Clement, half of the Conchords, keep your eye on Eagle vs. Shark, which Dana aptly describes as "a little bit like the kiwi version of napoleon dynamite, but with grown ups (sort of).")
3.) Finally, as one still in mourning over the untimely cancellation of "Arrested Development," I find solace in the fact that at least George Michael is back. Well, OK, it's not really George Michael--but it is Michael Cera, who played GMB and has since turned his efforts to "Clark and Michael," a show about two best friends attempting to create the best sitcom ever. Watch Cera in the supermarket scene in Episode 1; he has the same sense of quiet bafflement and half-shame that made George Michael such a lovable character.
1.) The set of Hausbrandt-logoed cappuccino mugs J sprung on me simply because he's a delightful and wonderful friend who knows how much I adore that cute little cannibalistic coffee pot. J, allow me to publicly state the degree of your excellence.
2.) HBO's "Flight of the Conchords," which you can sample at the afore-linked website. It's smart, snarky, creative, and funny as hell--a sort of mash-up of "The Office," "Arrested Development,"and "Extras" with New Zealand jokes and pseudo-music videos thrown in for good measure. (And if you can't get enough of Jemaine Clement, half of the Conchords, keep your eye on Eagle vs. Shark, which Dana aptly describes as "a little bit like the kiwi version of napoleon dynamite, but with grown ups (sort of).")
3.) Finally, as one still in mourning over the untimely cancellation of "Arrested Development," I find solace in the fact that at least George Michael is back. Well, OK, it's not really George Michael--but it is Michael Cera, who played GMB and has since turned his efforts to "Clark and Michael," a show about two best friends attempting to create the best sitcom ever. Watch Cera in the supermarket scene in Episode 1; he has the same sense of quiet bafflement and half-shame that made George Michael such a lovable character.
6.02.2007
And then there were two
[After]
Apparently, this is how it works: once the police and the medical examiners have done what they need to do at a crime scene, the fire department sends a rescue truck to clean up.
So a truck pulls up in front of my house, and the men get to work. One takes a spray bottle of something from a door on the side of the truck, others uncoil the hose, another pulls down a broom.
I can't see what they're doing, can only hear the chugging of the water and the low growl of the engine, with indistinguishable voices occasionally calling out above the din. After a while one of the men pulls the hose about 30 feet down the street, and another follows, carrying the broom, which he holds out for his colleague to spray off.
When the truck pulls away, the grey steps are grey again, all traces of red gone; the sidewalk in front of the house is wet and clean.
And on the porch are two doormats, where until this morning there were three.
Apparently, this is how it works: once the police and the medical examiners have done what they need to do at a crime scene, the fire department sends a rescue truck to clean up.
So a truck pulls up in front of my house, and the men get to work. One takes a spray bottle of something from a door on the side of the truck, others uncoil the hose, another pulls down a broom.
I can't see what they're doing, can only hear the chugging of the water and the low growl of the engine, with indistinguishable voices occasionally calling out above the din. After a while one of the men pulls the hose about 30 feet down the street, and another follows, carrying the broom, which he holds out for his colleague to spray off.
When the truck pulls away, the grey steps are grey again, all traces of red gone; the sidewalk in front of the house is wet and clean.
And on the porch are two doormats, where until this morning there were three.
He was French
I got up from the table this morning to refill my coffee cup and noticed that a police car had pulled up across the street. A pair of policemen knocked on the first door of the three-unit building across from mine and said something to the young woman who answered, though I couldn't hear what.
Within a few minutes, there were more officers milling around, and a truck full of firefighters; by the time I stepped outside around ten to 9, there was crime scene tape tied to our front gate.
I called out to one of the policemen to ask what had happened. He walked over to me, pointed to the third door in the house across the street, and said there was a deceased person inside, and blood on the steps outside, and thus it appeared that the death was "not due to natural causes." (Some might call that an understatement.) He asked if I'd heard anything last night; I said I hadn't, and had turned in early. The officer handed me off to one of his colleagues, who took my name and contact info, saying that a detective might need to contact me.
By the time I did what I had set out to do--gone to have Josh notarize something for me, gone to the post office, walked home--the street was clogged with vehicles from the Medical Examiner's office, and neighbors were crowded in front of my house, outside the boundaries of the crime scene tape but close enough to watch the proceedings. I chatted with them for a few minutes, then came inside and sat on the sofa so I could watch and listen.
He was French, they said--or spoke with a French accent, at least. And a law student. He seemed both cute and kind of geeky. Dan said he seemed fairly young, perhaps in his mid-30s, and certainly didn't appear to be the type of guy who'd be connected with any sort of criminal element. He just seemed sort of quiet.
I watched the medical examiners bring a gurney to the foot of the front stairs, then drape a white sheet on the front porch. I watched them hand things over the railing to the officers below, who put them in brown paper bags and labeled them with markers. And I watched two men carry out the body of this man--young, French, law student--wrapped in a white sheet through which red stains were spreading at both his feet and his head, watched them wrap the body in the sheet laid on the porch, and tie its ends, and carry this sad and sorry bundle to the waiting gurney.
And then I noticed the blood on the steps and the railing--the incongruous smears of red on otherwise grey surfaces, a literal stone's throw from my own front steps.
The neighbors with the Afghan hound report that they heard loud music last night, though it seemed to be coming from Hayes Street. Dan reports that he was up until 3 working in his living room, in front of the windows, and that he neither saw nor heard anything. Bridget was up at 6, and nothing caught her attention, either.
We take for granted the fact that we live on a street where a young, quiet law student doesn't meet his end on his front steps, barely fifteen feet from a street lamp.
No. Correction: we took it for granted. Now what?
Within a few minutes, there were more officers milling around, and a truck full of firefighters; by the time I stepped outside around ten to 9, there was crime scene tape tied to our front gate.
I called out to one of the policemen to ask what had happened. He walked over to me, pointed to the third door in the house across the street, and said there was a deceased person inside, and blood on the steps outside, and thus it appeared that the death was "not due to natural causes." (Some might call that an understatement.) He asked if I'd heard anything last night; I said I hadn't, and had turned in early. The officer handed me off to one of his colleagues, who took my name and contact info, saying that a detective might need to contact me.
By the time I did what I had set out to do--gone to have Josh notarize something for me, gone to the post office, walked home--the street was clogged with vehicles from the Medical Examiner's office, and neighbors were crowded in front of my house, outside the boundaries of the crime scene tape but close enough to watch the proceedings. I chatted with them for a few minutes, then came inside and sat on the sofa so I could watch and listen.
He was French, they said--or spoke with a French accent, at least. And a law student. He seemed both cute and kind of geeky. Dan said he seemed fairly young, perhaps in his mid-30s, and certainly didn't appear to be the type of guy who'd be connected with any sort of criminal element. He just seemed sort of quiet.
I watched the medical examiners bring a gurney to the foot of the front stairs, then drape a white sheet on the front porch. I watched them hand things over the railing to the officers below, who put them in brown paper bags and labeled them with markers. And I watched two men carry out the body of this man--young, French, law student--wrapped in a white sheet through which red stains were spreading at both his feet and his head, watched them wrap the body in the sheet laid on the porch, and tie its ends, and carry this sad and sorry bundle to the waiting gurney.
And then I noticed the blood on the steps and the railing--the incongruous smears of red on otherwise grey surfaces, a literal stone's throw from my own front steps.
The neighbors with the Afghan hound report that they heard loud music last night, though it seemed to be coming from Hayes Street. Dan reports that he was up until 3 working in his living room, in front of the windows, and that he neither saw nor heard anything. Bridget was up at 6, and nothing caught her attention, either.
We take for granted the fact that we live on a street where a young, quiet law student doesn't meet his end on his front steps, barely fifteen feet from a street lamp.
No. Correction: we took it for granted. Now what?
5.31.2007
Not quite a tautology...
...but what is it?
From the insert accompanying the Rhinocort Aqua budesonide nasal spray my doctor gave me yesterday:
"USE THIS PRODUCT AS DIRECTED, UNLESS INSTRUCTED TO DO OTHERWISE BY YOUR DOCTOR."
[Caps original.]
From the insert accompanying the Rhinocort Aqua budesonide nasal spray my doctor gave me yesterday:
"USE THIS PRODUCT AS DIRECTED, UNLESS INSTRUCTED TO DO OTHERWISE BY YOUR DOCTOR."
[Caps original.]
5.30.2007
Don't you mean Roma?
At Rainbow on Monday, I filled my cart with largely virtuous products, determined as I was to make myself well by tea, plenty of fresh produce, and other ostensibly health-giving foodstuffs. (That determination went right out the window when I woke up yesterday morning still ill, at which point I made an appointment with Dr. Moser that has scored me antibiotics that will kill off whatever weird sinus infection has made a home in my head. Said antibiotics cost me about $10 a pill, so they damn well better do something.)
Anyway. Rainbow.
I browsed through the Traditional Medicinal teas (which remind me so much of the Jed, though that's a story for another time) and settled on the one that looked most relevant to my woes and also least likely to contain anything that would give off the flavor of licorice. (Yes, I probably wouldn't actually be able to taste it, but it's the principle of the thing.) Into my cart went the Gypsy Cold Care.
When I got home, I made myself a cup. This stuff has a 10-minute brewing period, so I had plenty of time to read the box. Then I started thinking about the name: Gypsy Cold Care. And it occurred to me that if Traditional Medicinals were really the forward-thinking, globally aware, culturally savvy company they seem to be, wouldn't they call it Roma Cold Care? Isn't that what gypsies now prefer to be called, their traditional name having been sullied by negative stereotypes?
Hop to it, TM. Your culturally sensitive bona fides are in the balance.
Anyway. Rainbow.
I browsed through the Traditional Medicinal teas (which remind me so much of the Jed, though that's a story for another time) and settled on the one that looked most relevant to my woes and also least likely to contain anything that would give off the flavor of licorice. (Yes, I probably wouldn't actually be able to taste it, but it's the principle of the thing.) Into my cart went the Gypsy Cold Care.
When I got home, I made myself a cup. This stuff has a 10-minute brewing period, so I had plenty of time to read the box. Then I started thinking about the name: Gypsy Cold Care. And it occurred to me that if Traditional Medicinals were really the forward-thinking, globally aware, culturally savvy company they seem to be, wouldn't they call it Roma Cold Care? Isn't that what gypsies now prefer to be called, their traditional name having been sullied by negative stereotypes?
Hop to it, TM. Your culturally sensitive bona fides are in the balance.
5.28.2007
Allergy Information
Let me start by noting that I know food allergies are (quite literally, sometimes) a deadly serious issue, and that therefore there's a lot to be said for the practice of labeling packaged foods with information about their contents and how and where they're processed.
That said, I was bemused to read the label on a container of cashews the other day--and, mind you, this was a container of nothing but cashews, as in "Ingredients: Cashews," full stop--and discover that there was an allergy information panel alerting potential consumers of these cashews that the package, in fact, CONTAINED CASHEWS.
I'm sure there's either benevolence or litigation behind that warning, but it sort of highlights the idiocy of how we do things here in the good ol' US of A sometimes. Have we sunk so low (again) that our product labels not only have to warn us not to dry our hair whilst in a full bathtub or a running shower and to be aware that the beverage we're about to enjoy is extremely hot but also that our packages of 100% cashews contain cashews? One might've hoped we'd have gotten beyond that point by now.
That said, I was bemused to read the label on a container of cashews the other day--and, mind you, this was a container of nothing but cashews, as in "Ingredients: Cashews," full stop--and discover that there was an allergy information panel alerting potential consumers of these cashews that the package, in fact, CONTAINED CASHEWS.
I'm sure there's either benevolence or litigation behind that warning, but it sort of highlights the idiocy of how we do things here in the good ol' US of A sometimes. Have we sunk so low (again) that our product labels not only have to warn us not to dry our hair whilst in a full bathtub or a running shower and to be aware that the beverage we're about to enjoy is extremely hot but also that our packages of 100% cashews contain cashews? One might've hoped we'd have gotten beyond that point by now.
5.26.2007
Not Happening
Projects featured in the June issue of Martha Stewart Living I'm unlikely to attempt, now or ever:
- Making my own bias tape.
- Wallpapering my kitchen ceiling.
- Wallpapering a window shade to match the aforementioned kitchen ceiling.
- Lining a glass-topped bedside table with wallpaper.
- Creating a jaunty drinks tray with an old map.
- Making a totebag from an old pillowcase.
- Cooking pancakes with chunks of bacon in them.
- Collecting old watering cans.
5.25.2007
Mouth Breather
What started as a vaguely dry throat last Saturday and edged into a very minor cough on Sunday exploded into a hellacious cold on Monday. Luck had it that this was an insane week work-wise, which meant slogging through with a tissue more or less permanently attached to my nose and a constant stream of apologies to those around me (especially my fellow move crew members on Wednesday and Thursday) for my coughing.
There was an uptick Thursday evening, followed by a descent into the pit of hell today. I've been sniffling and hacking all day. I look like hell. The right side of my head is so congested I feel like I've been subjected to a radical change in altitude, but only partway. And, of course, I've become a mouth breather.
As I dragged myself from Client #1 this afternoon toward Muni, en route to Client #2 (whom I called and rescheduled, so unable was I to fathom doing a decent job with him while my head was seething liquid), I passed a young-ish guy in a suit on Montgomery Street. He was talking into his cell and bracing himself against the freezing blast of wind that was blowing through the downtown canyons, telling whoever was on the other end of the line, "It's so damn cold here." And sure enough, it is.
Thus begins Memorial Day weekend: the weather's crappy, my head might explode, and I look a sight from the maw of hell. Bring on summer!
**********************
In less whinging news, I could not be more proud of my beloved J, whose blog appears to have been deemed the Best Expatriate Weblog in A Fistful of Euro's Satin Pajama Awards competition, at least as of this writing.
J, we always knew that you were (and are) the smartest, snarkiest, most interesting American living in EUROPE. This just goes to show it.
There was an uptick Thursday evening, followed by a descent into the pit of hell today. I've been sniffling and hacking all day. I look like hell. The right side of my head is so congested I feel like I've been subjected to a radical change in altitude, but only partway. And, of course, I've become a mouth breather.
As I dragged myself from Client #1 this afternoon toward Muni, en route to Client #2 (whom I called and rescheduled, so unable was I to fathom doing a decent job with him while my head was seething liquid), I passed a young-ish guy in a suit on Montgomery Street. He was talking into his cell and bracing himself against the freezing blast of wind that was blowing through the downtown canyons, telling whoever was on the other end of the line, "It's so damn cold here." And sure enough, it is.
Thus begins Memorial Day weekend: the weather's crappy, my head might explode, and I look a sight from the maw of hell. Bring on summer!
**********************
In less whinging news, I could not be more proud of my beloved J, whose blog appears to have been deemed the Best Expatriate Weblog in A Fistful of Euro's Satin Pajama Awards competition, at least as of this writing.
J, we always knew that you were (and are) the smartest, snarkiest, most interesting American living in EUROPE. This just goes to show it.
5.14.2007
Belly up to the Clouds
OK, fine: the iPod was on shuffle while I was making dinner, a Dashboard Confessional song came on, and I had a serious moment of thinking, My god, Chris Carrabba just nails it, like, every time.
Does this put me in league with legions of teenagers? Yes. (Does the fact that I unabashedly drool over CC also put me in league with legions of teenagers? Yes.) But regardless, though I'm about five years late in twigging to this, allow me to state here that if I were forced to choose one musical genre to listen to for the rest of my life, it would be Canadian pop or whatever genre we might use these days to classify Neko Case's solo stuff--but my second choice would be emo, no question.
Original credit for this must go to G (yes), who fed me a fairly steady diet of Dashboard Confessional, Saves the Day, Promise Ring, and so on for a few years running. But it was one thing to fall in love with "Hands Down" and "This Is Not an Exit" and another thing altogether to go stupidly nuts for "Stop Playing Guitar" and "As Your Ghost Takes Flight" and "Rapid Hope Loss." Those were mine.
I get the sense that emo is supposed to be a guilty pleasure for some reason, but why? Because kids relate to it? Because of its shoegazer associations? Because of that live recording of "Hands Down" where Carrabba doesn't even bother to sing the chorus because hundreds of young (largely female) voices sing it for him? I don't know.
But I also don't really care, because, hey, those hundreds of voices are onto something: that song encapsulates the sense of a giddy young crush better than anything I've heard before or since. And "As Your Ghost Takes Flight" is precisely the sort of thing you'd write after someone ripped your heart out and your sadness and anger gelled into a sharp and specific bitterness. And "This Is Not an Exit" is the perfect antidote. And "Stop Playing Guitar" is all about...something. Kind of hard to say. But it's soaring and amazing and utterly delightful nonetheless.
So here's to never being enough of a music snob and to never being so jaded that, say, "...Exit" can't knock your socks off (or at least make them slouch a bit).
Tonight will be
the night that we
begin to ease
the plugs out of the dam.
And we will stand
knee deep in the flow,
the undertow
will grab our heels and won't let go.
And while we hold,
our legs quivering,
the water rises now
to our teeth
when we just let go
and sail belly up to the clouds,
the rocks scraping our backs.
To breath in the air will be
the only thing that we have
and all the wasted nights
and empty moments
in our lives flushed away
as we sway with the rhythm
of the waves bobbing us up.
Crests fall to troughs we feel our gills open up.
And sail belly up to the clouds,
the rocks scraping our backs.
To breath in the air will be
the only thing that we have
and if the hook sets in
the bottom of our lungs,
we'll rip it out and lick the blood off with our tongues.
The despair can ravage you
if you turn your head around to look down the path
that's led you here,
cause what can you change?
You're a vessel now
floating down the waterways.
You can take your rudder
and aim your ship,
just don't bother with the things left in your wake.
Just sail belly up to the clouds,
the rocks scraping your back.
To breathe in the air will be
the only thing that you have
and your love will be warm nights
with pockets of moonlight
spotlighting you as you drift,
the actor in this play.
And you walk across the stage,
take a bow, hear the applause,
and as the curtain falls,
just know you did it all
the best that you knew how
and you can hear them cheering now.
So let a smile out and show your teeth
cause you know you lived it well.
Does this put me in league with legions of teenagers? Yes. (Does the fact that I unabashedly drool over CC also put me in league with legions of teenagers? Yes.) But regardless, though I'm about five years late in twigging to this, allow me to state here that if I were forced to choose one musical genre to listen to for the rest of my life, it would be Canadian pop or whatever genre we might use these days to classify Neko Case's solo stuff--but my second choice would be emo, no question.
Original credit for this must go to G (yes), who fed me a fairly steady diet of Dashboard Confessional, Saves the Day, Promise Ring, and so on for a few years running. But it was one thing to fall in love with "Hands Down" and "This Is Not an Exit" and another thing altogether to go stupidly nuts for "Stop Playing Guitar" and "As Your Ghost Takes Flight" and "Rapid Hope Loss." Those were mine.
I get the sense that emo is supposed to be a guilty pleasure for some reason, but why? Because kids relate to it? Because of its shoegazer associations? Because of that live recording of "Hands Down" where Carrabba doesn't even bother to sing the chorus because hundreds of young (largely female) voices sing it for him? I don't know.
But I also don't really care, because, hey, those hundreds of voices are onto something: that song encapsulates the sense of a giddy young crush better than anything I've heard before or since. And "As Your Ghost Takes Flight" is precisely the sort of thing you'd write after someone ripped your heart out and your sadness and anger gelled into a sharp and specific bitterness. And "This Is Not an Exit" is the perfect antidote. And "Stop Playing Guitar" is all about...something. Kind of hard to say. But it's soaring and amazing and utterly delightful nonetheless.
So here's to never being enough of a music snob and to never being so jaded that, say, "...Exit" can't knock your socks off (or at least make them slouch a bit).
Tonight will be
the night that we
begin to ease
the plugs out of the dam.
And we will stand
knee deep in the flow,
the undertow
will grab our heels and won't let go.
And while we hold,
our legs quivering,
the water rises now
to our teeth
when we just let go
and sail belly up to the clouds,
the rocks scraping our backs.
To breath in the air will be
the only thing that we have
and all the wasted nights
and empty moments
in our lives flushed away
as we sway with the rhythm
of the waves bobbing us up.
Crests fall to troughs we feel our gills open up.
And sail belly up to the clouds,
the rocks scraping our backs.
To breath in the air will be
the only thing that we have
and if the hook sets in
the bottom of our lungs,
we'll rip it out and lick the blood off with our tongues.
The despair can ravage you
if you turn your head around to look down the path
that's led you here,
cause what can you change?
You're a vessel now
floating down the waterways.
You can take your rudder
and aim your ship,
just don't bother with the things left in your wake.
Just sail belly up to the clouds,
the rocks scraping your back.
To breathe in the air will be
the only thing that you have
and your love will be warm nights
with pockets of moonlight
spotlighting you as you drift,
the actor in this play.
And you walk across the stage,
take a bow, hear the applause,
and as the curtain falls,
just know you did it all
the best that you knew how
and you can hear them cheering now.
So let a smile out and show your teeth
cause you know you lived it well.
5.08.2007
Challenging Question of the Day
This appears on an envelope that just arrived in the mail:
************
From: Bill Richardson
111 Lomas Blvd., NW, Suite 200
Albuquerque, NM 87102
Which Democratic presidential candidate had the courage to say this?
"On my first day in office, I'd end the war in Iraq.
On my second day, I'd announce a plan
for achieving national energy independence."
-March 28, 2007
[] Hillary Clinton
[] Barack Obama
[] John Edwards
[] Bill Richardson
***********
Hmm. I wonder. Maybe...I dunno...was it Barack? What, no? Hillary? Sheesh, well, maybe John Edwards? What? Really? REALLY?
Note to the Richardson campaign: I would've enjoyed living with the mystery, at least until I'd opened the envelope.
************
From: Bill Richardson
111 Lomas Blvd., NW, Suite 200
Albuquerque, NM 87102
Which Democratic presidential candidate had the courage to say this?
"On my first day in office, I'd end the war in Iraq.
On my second day, I'd announce a plan
for achieving national energy independence."
-March 28, 2007
[] Hillary Clinton
[] Barack Obama
[] John Edwards
[] Bill Richardson
***********
Hmm. I wonder. Maybe...I dunno...was it Barack? What, no? Hillary? Sheesh, well, maybe John Edwards? What? Really? REALLY?
Note to the Richardson campaign: I would've enjoyed living with the mystery, at least until I'd opened the envelope.
5.07.2007
Robert Frost, killjoy
When I woke this morning to the second day IN A ROW of delightful summery weather, my mind snapped immediately to Robert Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay." You know: the poem from the Outsiders? The one that inspired "Stay gold, Ponyboy?" This one:
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
And, well, it's a downer, for sure, but it's also true enough. I've been wearing garb appropriate to "actual" summer (short sleeves! cropped pants! no wool jacket!), rather than to the sad shadow of same we have here in San Francisco, and spending as much time as possible in my back yard, and mainlining the cherries and strawberries I bought over the weekend, and generally floating around in a damn silvery cloud of weather- (etc.-) induced bliss.
But at the same time I'm swooning with love for this weather, I'm also resignedly waiting for it to end. Because it will end. Quite likely soon. At which point you'll cease getting my shmoopy posts about how gleeful I am and will return to getting my morose posts about how I tire of wearing fleece and multiple layers in mid-summer.
So enjoy it while it lasts. That goes for all of us (you, too, Frost).
5.06.2007
MPL
On our way to the Minneapolis airport last weekend, Josh and I drag our heels.It's partly that we don't relish returning to real life in San Francisco, with phone calls and clients and appointments already stacked heavily throughout the week. But it's just as much (if not more) that we've both fallen moonily in love with Minneapolis, and we just don't want to leave.
We take the light rail out to the airport, passing through the city's outskirts at golden hour, when everything is an impossible and heartbreaking blend of green and blue and amber, and watch downtown recede. Goodbye, Graves 601, our beautiful temporary home. Adios, Foshay tower, Walker Museum, Mississippi River, Warehouse District, Chambers Kitchen, tax-deductible everything. It's been nice. Really nice.
In a few hours we're back on the ground in San Francisco, back into wind and fog and reality and missing what, for a while, at least, was a blissful idyll.
4.08.2007
Straight Men of CL, Get It Together
After geeking out on Parallels earlier this evening, I figured I'd squander spend some time delighting in the latest M4W posts on Craigslist, which are always useful as amusement if not actually as a tool for finding potential mates.
I'm actually a pretty big fan of CL personals, and have had decent luck with posting my own ad and meeting even remotely suitable suitors as a result. But reading the Men Seeking Women ads often makes me shake my head and wonder what the guys posting might be thinking. In version 1 of an ad I placed earlier this year, I gave a run-down of ads I was unlikely to respond to, accompanied by reasons why. That was swiftly flagged, either because it was somehow truly offensive (though I can't quite fathom that), or because I had directly quoted the titles of actual ads.
But anyway, the point of that whole exercise was to attempt (if in vain) to explain to the straight men posting on CL why so many of them--by their very own admissions--received few or no replies to their ads. Of course, there's no way I can speak for an entire chunk of the population, and it's entirely possible that there are women in the Bay Area who would adore these fellows if only the two sides could manage to connect.
So let the record show that I am not claiming to be the voice of the straight, single portion of my gender. I simply want to help clue some of you guys in about why your Inboxes may not be bursting with replies.
To wit:
I'm actually a pretty big fan of CL personals, and have had decent luck with posting my own ad and meeting even remotely suitable suitors as a result. But reading the Men Seeking Women ads often makes me shake my head and wonder what the guys posting might be thinking. In version 1 of an ad I placed earlier this year, I gave a run-down of ads I was unlikely to respond to, accompanied by reasons why. That was swiftly flagged, either because it was somehow truly offensive (though I can't quite fathom that), or because I had directly quoted the titles of actual ads.
But anyway, the point of that whole exercise was to attempt (if in vain) to explain to the straight men posting on CL why so many of them--by their very own admissions--received few or no replies to their ads. Of course, there's no way I can speak for an entire chunk of the population, and it's entirely possible that there are women in the Bay Area who would adore these fellows if only the two sides could manage to connect.
So let the record show that I am not claiming to be the voice of the straight, single portion of my gender. I simply want to help clue some of you guys in about why your Inboxes may not be bursting with replies.
To wit:
- If you're going to post an image, why make it an image of flowers, or the moon, or Maccu Piccu, or a jukebox, or a platter of shrimp, or Lake Tahoe? I know women do it too, but to a far lesser degree (and still, that doesn't make it right). And perhaps I'm far more shallow than most, but I care what the people I date look like. Peruvian ruins and seafood, notsomuch. At least not in this context.
- Also on the picture front, cutting your body off at your head, even if the rest of said body is bare (and especially if the rest of said body is wearing a full suit, as was one fellow in an ad I saw tonight), suggests either that you're exceedingly shy or that there's something less appealing about what was excised from the shot. Jaded people like myself assume the latter.
- Perhaps consider it wise not to broadly insult the women who respond to your ad, or the ones who might be reading your ad, by claiming that they're hopeless/too picky/too unattractive/too picky/did I mention too picky? One post currently up begins by asking, "Why are all women in Search of Brad Pitt [sic on the lack of question mark and the interesting capitalization]," then goes on to wonder, " What about all the non tall white kind, is there any hope, maybe not..." before noting a few lines down that "Theres a price for everything. yet what I'm seeking is missing, and the ones that respond are even more hopeless, than 1 would imagine." I can only say, dude, that the last time I checked, Brad Pitt was also white, and that most women in their right minds wouldn't reply to this post and risk being added to the list of "more hopeless, than 1 would imagine."
- Please, please, please stop using "I'm bored" (or, more commonly, "Im bored" or "IM BOOOOOORRREEED!") as an opening gambit. Please.
- This tactic may not do you any favors: "It may sound suspect,but not sure of my status with my previous girlfriend." Yup, "suspect" might cover it, as might "like a horrific idea for me to be posting this ad."
- Finally (the list could go on, but I'm tired), posting the same ad multiple times in the span of a day or two (albeit possibly with different titles) suggests a desperation you might not intend. Or perhaps you do intend it, in which case I'm here to gently suggest that desperation is unlikely to send the ladies flocking. Sometimes on CL, you get what you pay for, no matter how often you post.
4.07.2007
Tax-Related Sorrows, Drowning of
At long, long last, I've finished my taxes. Not having quite twigged to the wisdom of handing that horrifically odious task off to someone who actually knows what he or she is doing, I spent a truly phenomenal amount of time over the past week dealing with QuickBooks, TurboTax, and hundreds of pieces of paper (albeit very organized pieces of paper). And though I'm happy to be done now, I'm not happy to have discovered just how much the US Treasury will suck out of me within the next ten days. Where that significant sum will come from is something of a puzzle.
It's good, then, that I have people like Erfert around to make me laugh hard enough to snort, and thus to make me forget for at least a while that I owe the government approximately the cost of a secondary human organ. (What does a spleen go for these days, anyway?)
We went out last evening for cocktails, catching up, and a gigantic mound of fried (or baked--but really, same diff) cheese. As always, we copiously toasted Our Good Friend Booze, and at some point decided that it was time to rewrite "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" as a paean to the soothing effects of a good cocktail. (Yes, yes: I realize that tomorrow is Easter, and that this verges on--if is not blatantly--blasphemy, but hey, lighten up.)
As we parted ways, Erfert promised she would put her wordsmithing powers to the task of creating a hymn. And damn if she didn't do precisely that, with aplomb, elan, and other en-vowelled adjectives. I can't keep this to myself, and so, with no further ado, please enjoy the fruits of her labor:
(Note: In case you've forgotten the tune, you can refresh your memory -- and sing along -- at the following site: http://www.hymnsite.com/lyrics/umh526.sht -- and don't ask me what a ".sht" file is -- I only work here. Another note: I am pleased to report that this site lets you play the tune using a piano, organ, or bells. Check it out!)
1. What a friend we have in Boozes:
ale and wine and gin and beer!
What a priv-i-lege to drink them
And know unmitigated cheer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
all because we do not carry
the proverbial dog's hair.
2. Have we tri-als and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged;
For we can always have a beer.
Can we find a friend so faithful
who will all our sorrows share?
Boozes know our every weakness;
And like true friends they're always there.
3. Are we weak and heavy laden,
cumbered with a load of care?
(If we're saying things like “cumbered”
you know we're really on a tear!)
Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
Do they mock your Christmas shoes?
O, take heart poor lonely tippler;
You'll always find a friend in Booze!
*************************************
(About the Christmas shoes: don't ask.)
It's good, then, that I have people like Erfert around to make me laugh hard enough to snort, and thus to make me forget for at least a while that I owe the government approximately the cost of a secondary human organ. (What does a spleen go for these days, anyway?)
We went out last evening for cocktails, catching up, and a gigantic mound of fried (or baked--but really, same diff) cheese. As always, we copiously toasted Our Good Friend Booze, and at some point decided that it was time to rewrite "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" as a paean to the soothing effects of a good cocktail. (Yes, yes: I realize that tomorrow is Easter, and that this verges on--if is not blatantly--blasphemy, but hey, lighten up.)
As we parted ways, Erfert promised she would put her wordsmithing powers to the task of creating a hymn. And damn if she didn't do precisely that, with aplomb, elan, and other en-vowelled adjectives. I can't keep this to myself, and so, with no further ado, please enjoy the fruits of her labor:
(Note: In case you've forgotten the tune, you can refresh your memory -- and sing along -- at the following site: http://www.hymnsite.com/lyrics
1. What a friend we have in Boozes:
ale and wine and gin and beer!
What a priv-i-lege to drink them
And know unmitigated cheer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
all because we do not carry
the proverbial dog's hair.
2. Have we tri-als and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged;
For we can always have a beer.
Can we find a friend so faithful
who will all our sorrows share?
Boozes know our every weakness;
And like true friends they're always there.
3. Are we weak and heavy laden,
cumbered with a load of care?
(If we're saying things like “cumbered”
you know we're really on a tear!)
Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
Do they mock your Christmas shoes?
O, take heart poor lonely tippler;
You'll always find a friend in Booze!
*************************************
(About the Christmas shoes: don't ask.)
4.02.2007
I blame Windows
Or QuickBooks. Or the fact that my mind had gone numb from the lack of intellectual rigor involved in entering expense info into the aforementioned financial program. Or my innate clumsiness.
Whatever the cause, all I know is that as I slogged through the process of reconciling my 2006 expenses last night (yes, I still have not done my taxes, and yes, I'm supposed to be organized and shit), I managed to tip the glass of water next to me on the desk directly onto my laptop. I was, of course, out of my chair in a moment to move the dear little MacBook to dry ground, to pour the liquid from the keyboard, to grab handfuls of towels from the kitchen so I could mop up the water spreading rapidly across the desk and cascading onto the floor.
And in the midst of all of this--again, blame it on any of the factors above--I somehow managed not to think, Hmm, perhaps I should shut this little sucker down. Because even though there was a flare of unusual brightness ebbing and flowing in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, I had been in the QuickBooks zone, dammit, and once I'm out, forget it. So I thought I'd try to stay.
But I called Isaac and left a message seeking advice, and his reply via voicemail was unmistakeable: "Em, turn it off NOW, unplug it, take out the battery, and make sure everything is absolutely dry or you could fry the motherboard." I like my motherboard as is, thanks, so I took his advice and wound up spending the better part of an hour ministering to this little machine with a hairdryer set on low.
That gave me time to think. So I thought, hey, it's sort of like taking tender care of someone you love who's sick, like that passage from Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye I always find so striking. Then I thought, God help me that I can even compare blowdrying my laptop to caring for the sick--my interpersonal skills can't be that much in decline.
But they're not, of course. I think it's just that what bubbled up last night, hard on the heels of the desire not to see an expensive piece of electronic equipment give up the ghost because I can't drink and enter data at the same time, was a sort of innate desire to care. And at that moment, what could I care for but my wet laptop?
Damn if that doesn't sound like perhaps the most dorkwad and socially inept thing I could say, though I don't mean it to be. What I mean is actually something much sappier: that there's something in me (and, yes, allow me to extrapolate wildly: in most of us) that's just hard-wired to nurture someone, something, somehow. Take a Someone out of that equation and you're left to put your energies elsewhere--which is how you start to ooze down the slippery slope of emotional investment in your laptop screen's well-being.
I hope I can slow that fall, at least, lest I start expressing serious concern about the smudges on my once lily white wrist pad.
Whatever the cause, all I know is that as I slogged through the process of reconciling my 2006 expenses last night (yes, I still have not done my taxes, and yes, I'm supposed to be organized and shit), I managed to tip the glass of water next to me on the desk directly onto my laptop. I was, of course, out of my chair in a moment to move the dear little MacBook to dry ground, to pour the liquid from the keyboard, to grab handfuls of towels from the kitchen so I could mop up the water spreading rapidly across the desk and cascading onto the floor.
And in the midst of all of this--again, blame it on any of the factors above--I somehow managed not to think, Hmm, perhaps I should shut this little sucker down. Because even though there was a flare of unusual brightness ebbing and flowing in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, I had been in the QuickBooks zone, dammit, and once I'm out, forget it. So I thought I'd try to stay.
But I called Isaac and left a message seeking advice, and his reply via voicemail was unmistakeable: "Em, turn it off NOW, unplug it, take out the battery, and make sure everything is absolutely dry or you could fry the motherboard." I like my motherboard as is, thanks, so I took his advice and wound up spending the better part of an hour ministering to this little machine with a hairdryer set on low.
That gave me time to think. So I thought, hey, it's sort of like taking tender care of someone you love who's sick, like that passage from Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye I always find so striking. Then I thought, God help me that I can even compare blowdrying my laptop to caring for the sick--my interpersonal skills can't be that much in decline.
But they're not, of course. I think it's just that what bubbled up last night, hard on the heels of the desire not to see an expensive piece of electronic equipment give up the ghost because I can't drink and enter data at the same time, was a sort of innate desire to care. And at that moment, what could I care for but my wet laptop?
Damn if that doesn't sound like perhaps the most dorkwad and socially inept thing I could say, though I don't mean it to be. What I mean is actually something much sappier: that there's something in me (and, yes, allow me to extrapolate wildly: in most of us) that's just hard-wired to nurture someone, something, somehow. Take a Someone out of that equation and you're left to put your energies elsewhere--which is how you start to ooze down the slippery slope of emotional investment in your laptop screen's well-being.
I hope I can slow that fall, at least, lest I start expressing serious concern about the smudges on my once lily white wrist pad.
2.27.2007
Duty
Yes, yes, yes: it's part of being an American citizen, of living in a democratic society, and so on and so forth. I appreciate the civic responsibility aspect of jury duty, but that doesn't mean it's not phenomenally and achingly boring.
I made my way this afternoon through the metal detector at 850 Bryant, through a bag inspection by a bitter, bitter police officer who barked out, "For those of you stupid enough to have missed the 20 signs posted on the wall, open your bag for inspection as you approach me, and don't even think of putting your bag on the table until the person in front of you has left, and I cannot believe I have to deal with this same idiocy every single day." Up in the jury room, my fellow citizens and I were subjected to a video on the merits of jury duty, followed by some waiting, then some more waiting, until many of us were called off to various and sundry courtrooms.
Then it was downstairs again, and into court with a fellow who may hold the title of World's Slowest Speaking Judge. He seems reasonable enough, and I have no doubt of the importance of the info he shared with us, but man alive, it took what felt like hours just for him to explain how the whole process works (which, of course, the aforementioned video had also done, but no matter). We did get a break, which was a relief, but upon our return, 22 of us--yours truly not included--were called for the first round of introductions and questions. The day ended with Potential Juror #14; we resume with #15 tomorrow afternoon.
I wish I could wring from this some great moments of people watching, or some intrigue about how the case might progress, or a strong sense of interest in the judicial process at large, but alas, not so much. It's really just dull.
When I was summoned for jury duty in early 2004, I hoped and ached that I'd be called, and for a long, involved, drawn-out trial at that, so much did I want to get out of the trek to Mountain View and its ensuing woes for as many days as I possibly could. Of course, no such luck: my week of obligation passed without me so much as having to go near the Hall of Justice. This time, when I stand to lose precious client hours and even more precious dough, there's as good a chance that I'll be called to serve as there is that any of my fellow prospects will. (And yes, I know that many of the other people in that courtroom with me stand to lose just as much, and, moreover, that that's the nature of the system. That doesn't take away the sting.)
Viva justice.
I made my way this afternoon through the metal detector at 850 Bryant, through a bag inspection by a bitter, bitter police officer who barked out, "For those of you stupid enough to have missed the 20 signs posted on the wall, open your bag for inspection as you approach me, and don't even think of putting your bag on the table until the person in front of you has left, and I cannot believe I have to deal with this same idiocy every single day." Up in the jury room, my fellow citizens and I were subjected to a video on the merits of jury duty, followed by some waiting, then some more waiting, until many of us were called off to various and sundry courtrooms.
Then it was downstairs again, and into court with a fellow who may hold the title of World's Slowest Speaking Judge. He seems reasonable enough, and I have no doubt of the importance of the info he shared with us, but man alive, it took what felt like hours just for him to explain how the whole process works (which, of course, the aforementioned video had also done, but no matter). We did get a break, which was a relief, but upon our return, 22 of us--yours truly not included--were called for the first round of introductions and questions. The day ended with Potential Juror #14; we resume with #15 tomorrow afternoon.
I wish I could wring from this some great moments of people watching, or some intrigue about how the case might progress, or a strong sense of interest in the judicial process at large, but alas, not so much. It's really just dull.
When I was summoned for jury duty in early 2004, I hoped and ached that I'd be called, and for a long, involved, drawn-out trial at that, so much did I want to get out of the trek to Mountain View and its ensuing woes for as many days as I possibly could. Of course, no such luck: my week of obligation passed without me so much as having to go near the Hall of Justice. This time, when I stand to lose precious client hours and even more precious dough, there's as good a chance that I'll be called to serve as there is that any of my fellow prospects will. (And yes, I know that many of the other people in that courtroom with me stand to lose just as much, and, moreover, that that's the nature of the system. That doesn't take away the sting.)
Viva justice.
2.18.2007
Undivided
Sometime around mid-January, I realized that my life life was becoming entirely too wrapped up in my business life, which is to say that not a day passed in which I didn't do something work-related, whether meeting with clients or dealing with admin stuff or writing or any of the dozens of other things I need to do to keep things chugging. Of my own volition, I long ago gave up on having an actual weekend (of the Saturday-Sunday variety), but I always figured I'd make up for it by having some time off at some point in the week.
Not so thus far in 2007. So I set a goal of one work-free day per week--and almost as soon as that goal came into being, it was utterly obliterated. Not since Christmas vacation have I had an utterly work-free day.
Mind, the fact that business is booming is a delightful thing, and (listen up, universe) I'm in no way complaining about the work that has (and, I hope, will continue to) come my way. What's starting to wear, though, is the sense that the rest of my life has to be crammed in to the little spaces between my work life. Yes, owning a business means there's not really a strict division between me and the company, but more and more, there's almost no division at all. And even thinking about that tires me.
A quick check of my calendar reveals that my next meeting-less day is March 1, more than a week and a half hence. In the meantime, my To Do list continues to grow at a pace that makes me want to hire my own assistant. (That's an entirely reasonable idea, but of course Find and Hire Assistant would be their own To Do list entries.) It sets my head spinning, and makes me want to take to bed (which just reminds me that the one task I really wanted to do this weekend--buy a new mattress--remains sadly undone).
I've written before about practicing what I preach, and though I might be good at that in some realms, when it comes to work/life balance, clearly I'm doing a horrific job. Would that it were easier and less overwhelming to change that.
Not so thus far in 2007. So I set a goal of one work-free day per week--and almost as soon as that goal came into being, it was utterly obliterated. Not since Christmas vacation have I had an utterly work-free day.
Mind, the fact that business is booming is a delightful thing, and (listen up, universe) I'm in no way complaining about the work that has (and, I hope, will continue to) come my way. What's starting to wear, though, is the sense that the rest of my life has to be crammed in to the little spaces between my work life. Yes, owning a business means there's not really a strict division between me and the company, but more and more, there's almost no division at all. And even thinking about that tires me.
A quick check of my calendar reveals that my next meeting-less day is March 1, more than a week and a half hence. In the meantime, my To Do list continues to grow at a pace that makes me want to hire my own assistant. (That's an entirely reasonable idea, but of course Find and Hire Assistant would be their own To Do list entries.) It sets my head spinning, and makes me want to take to bed (which just reminds me that the one task I really wanted to do this weekend--buy a new mattress--remains sadly undone).
I've written before about practicing what I preach, and though I might be good at that in some realms, when it comes to work/life balance, clearly I'm doing a horrific job. Would that it were easier and less overwhelming to change that.
2.05.2007
Smug
This is the time of year when my half of "how's the weather?" conversations with friends and family back east tend to sound something like this:
"So, what's it like there today? ... How many degrees below? Really? And that's not taking wind chill into effect? Wow. ... Here? Ehh, probably somewhere around 65. It's been sunny all day, too. ...Yeah, and we ate outside at lunch. ... Yup, supposed to be like this for the rest of the week..."
...and so on. Because listen, people, payback for the fact that I often find myself bundled in wool come mid-July is the stupendous weather we have in late winter. There's possibly no better time to be in San Francisco than February and March, when it's fog-less, sunny, impossibly mild, and generally beautiful. Spending time outside isn't an exercise in fortitude, it's a pleasure. The days are getting longer (last night, it wasn't well and truly dark until well past 6) and, if you're in the right spot (which is to say, not mid-Market), they're often punched through with the sweet smells of things opening on trees and in the soil. Nights are still chilly, of course--but then, nights are always chilly, and this month's haven't been so bad as to prevent me from, say, sitting at an outside table at Absinthe for foofy drinks and dessert with a cute boy deep into the evening.
So to those of you north and/or east of me: nyah nyah nyah nyah nyaaaah nyah. I know that smugness will come back at me (and then some) when June rolls around and I pull out my fleece, but for now, it's delightful to remind you all that I'm so, so, so glad I'm here and not there.
"So, what's it like there today? ... How many degrees below? Really? And that's not taking wind chill into effect? Wow. ... Here? Ehh, probably somewhere around 65. It's been sunny all day, too. ...Yeah, and we ate outside at lunch. ... Yup, supposed to be like this for the rest of the week..."
...and so on. Because listen, people, payback for the fact that I often find myself bundled in wool come mid-July is the stupendous weather we have in late winter. There's possibly no better time to be in San Francisco than February and March, when it's fog-less, sunny, impossibly mild, and generally beautiful. Spending time outside isn't an exercise in fortitude, it's a pleasure. The days are getting longer (last night, it wasn't well and truly dark until well past 6) and, if you're in the right spot (which is to say, not mid-Market), they're often punched through with the sweet smells of things opening on trees and in the soil. Nights are still chilly, of course--but then, nights are always chilly, and this month's haven't been so bad as to prevent me from, say, sitting at an outside table at Absinthe for foofy drinks and dessert with a cute boy deep into the evening.
So to those of you north and/or east of me: nyah nyah nyah nyah nyaaaah nyah. I know that smugness will come back at me (and then some) when June rolls around and I pull out my fleece, but for now, it's delightful to remind you all that I'm so, so, so glad I'm here and not there.
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