Desperate Times &c

Having finally given in last night and e-filed the tax return for which I owe the United States Treasury my weight in gold, I did the only thing I could think to do to keep my mind from wandering toward thoughts of, "Right, then, how am I actually going to pay that sum?" I did the only thing that, at that moment, could bring succor, could provide temporary protection from the (figurative) wolves of the IRS at my (figurative) door.

I went to iTunes and downloaded some Air Supply.

And now, though I'm still somewhat mystified as to where I might procure all of the funds the taxing authorities are asking of me, at least the soundtrack to this mystification includes "Making Love Out of Nothing at All." Better yet, I discovered that I still have a credit on iTunes from the gift card I got from Greg and Sara for Christmas, so I didn't even have to pay anything. That's 99 cents I can hand directly over to the Feds.

Who writes this stuff?

From the Netflix envelope for Hotel Rwanda:

Amid the holocaust of internecine tribal fighting in Rwanda that sees the wanton and savage butchering of hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, one ordinary man (Don Cheadle) musters the courage to save more than 1,000 helpless refugees by sheltering them in the hotel he manages. Djimon Honsou, Nick Nolte, and Joaquin Phoenix co-star in this powerful film (sort of an African version of Schindler's List) directed by Terry George.

I know "the holocaust of internecine tribal fighting" is a fairly accurate description of the Rwanda disaster, but really, who thought such a highfalutin' and contorted turn of phrase would bring people swarming to see this film? Also, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't internecine mean "within a group"? And wasn't the fighting between the Tutsis and the Hutus actually between groups?

And then, on the other end of the descriptive spectrum, there's "sort of an African version of Schindler's List." Perhaps they should've added, "Just substitute Don Cheadle for Liam Neeson and a hotel for a metalworking factory." All very oddly reductive.

Still, my hopes are high that the movie itself will rise significantly above the quality of the envelope copy.

Random nattering

Sometimes I forget the simple, ridiculous joys of IM:

missquickly [Dana]: want anything from le big apple?
me: hmmm...
nothing springs to mind
missquickly: some real estate perhaps?
sorry, projecting
me: nah, I'll take my real estate in a snow-less clime
too wimpy
missquickly: ahh
been living here too long [nose wink]
me: the blood has thinned
missquickly: the skin too
me: indeed
missquickly: it's going to be so cold over there, even now!
it's supposed to snow in boston tomorrow
me: yikes
I don't miss it
missquickly: i romanticize it
but i'm glad not to slog through slush for 5 months
me: perhaps you're hearing the call of the Alaskan wilderness
missquickly: nice
me: no, wait, that's Eddie Vedder
they sound so similar
missquickly: the tender moose meat and fine accomodations
are you in mill valley this weekend, or was that last weekend?
me: that was last weekend
missquickly: how was that?
me: not bad
the hotel was nice but unexciting
missquickly: like mill valley
me: and I'd never before realized just how crazy small town MV really is
it's like 1955
missquickly: which could be kind of awesome
me: except for the bands of disaffected Mill Valley youth
missquickly: MV skin heads?
me: such as it were--sort of poor little rich kids
mini Chris McCandlesses in the making
missquickly: oh no
they break the fourth wall
me: they'll, like, hike up into Mt. Tam with only a few Twix bars and some Vitamin Water for all of the summer
missquickly: ha!
and live in an abandoned refrigerator they find at the top
me: [grin]
missquickly: actually i think they sell hot dogs on top of mt tam
me: well, surely at least a few of these kids are vegan
missquickly: are twix vegan?
me: though there may be Tofu Pups
probably not
missquickly: mmmm
me: I love peanut butter twix
just for the record
missquickly: good to know
more than kinder eggs?
me: I enjoy Kinder Eggs for the toys, but the chocolate doesn't thrill me
I find myself unable to comprehend white chocolate
I mean, what's the point?
missquickly: true
i think it's not technically chocolate
it's... white
me: quote chocolate unquote
missquickly: indeed

On Vassar, San Francisco, and film

From Following Sean

Several months back, my dear friend Ryan called from New York to tell me that he'd seen our names on the big screen, in the credits for Ralph Arlyck's film Following Sean. Ralph is a documentary filmmaker based in Poughkeepsie, New York--based, in fact, directly across the street from Vassar College, where Ry and I went to school. We were both active in the Film department there and made a few short pieces together (including Hershey: A Chocumentary and Postcards, both of which I'll digitize one of these days and post to YouTube, though the former piece is irreverent and silly enough to potentially piss off the Hershey powers that be; luckily, Ryan's a lawyer--but I digress). We both also held internships with Ralph at some point.

So I finally got around to renting Following Sean, which I found fascinating, not only because of the people who are the heart of the film, but also because it glides back and forth between San Francisco and Poughkeepsie. Now Ralph is on Haight Street; now he's shooting from his front door at home, with a view across Raymond Avenue to Chicago Hall, where his wife Elisabeth teaches (and, in fact, was my professor for a few French film classes). Now the sun is shining in the eternal springtime of Northern California; now snow is starting to fall in the Hudson Valley. It was exhilarating and poignant and curious to watch the film bounce between those two worlds, both of which I know so well.

And it was, of course, a delight to see my name on screen, though the film came out years after I'd graduated, moved out west, and given up the dream of attempting to subsist on the income of an independent filmmaker in the expensive world that was dot-com-era San Francisco, and though I now have only sketchy memories of working with Ralph. But my name there, the names of fellow film students, Steve Leiber's credit as Executive Producer (I also interned with Steve and his wife DeDe at the kick-ass Upstate Films in Rhinebeck)--all of it was a pleasant little trip back to those days when my life was so much celluloid. They seem such a long time gone.

(On a side note, the other movie I watched this week was The Squid and the Whale, which I'd forgotten was directed by Noah Baumbach, another Vassar alum. So it's been a sort of mini, unintentional VC Film Fest here in my house.)

***!!!DIRECTED BY SEAN PENN!!!***

With all due respect to those who enjoyed it, and to those (perhaps it's just the singular he) who "really really really liked it," allow me to opine: Into the Wild sort of sucked.

I'm speaking here, of course, of the movie. I really liked the book, and in fact have just re-read it in an attempt to reassure myself that I was right in remembering that it was engrossing, balanced, and well written. (It was, and is, despite Jon Krakauer's slight overuse of the word "morass," which I can forgive.)

So good was the book, in fact, that I had high hopes for the film. And I tried--really tried!--to like it, despite the fact that Dana channeled my thoughts when she said, less than two minutes in, "Oh, no. Terrible, terrible title sequence." I tried to overlook that weird, puffy-lettered abomination. I tried to comprehend--and then, failing that, to not actively hate--the illogical split screens used throughout the movie. I tried to make my peace with the dueling voice-overs. I tried to resist fidgeting during every scene that went on just a bit too long (which is to say pretty much every scene). I even tried not to cringe when Emile Hirsch looked directly into the camera time and again, despite the fact that he was meant to be utterly alone.

I tried and tried, but to no avail. Dana and I were a chorus as we watched: "Oh, no." "No, no, no." "Yes, Sean Penn, we see your directorial hand here." "What? Why???" "Not again. No."

Here's the thing: Krakauer's book is unabashedly personal. He makes direct connections between his own foolish wilderness exploits as a young man and Chris McCandless'. He equally points out McCandless' shortcomings and errors and defends the guy from those who excoriated him after his death. And he writes in a seamless combination of first and third person. You always know Krakauer is there, but he's almost never the book's center of attention.

All of this means that, by the end of the book, you're left slightly annoyed by the foolish things Chris McCandless did but nonetheless holding at least a few shards of empathy for him. And you ache for his family.

Not so for Sean Penn's McCandless. The movie is so overblown and showboaty and drawn out that, by the end, you (if you are me) just want the poor boy out of his misery, as much because he's hanging on to such a wretchedly awful existence as because you just want the damn movie to end. The rest of the McCandless family? You might feel a pang for Chris' beloved and abandoned sister, but his parents seem like such one-dimensional, materialistic beasts that Chris' willful disappearance from their lives seems almost understandable.

And did I mention the title sequence?

A good director writes his or her signature all over a film but never, ever points out that signature. It--and all of the techniques and stylistic twists and directorial decisions that go with it--is what gives the movie its flavor and feel, but all of that is lost as soon as the director calls attention to what he's doing. This is why I hate Jean-Luc Godard: to me, his films are a succession of "hey, look what I did!" "Hey, did you see that clever trick I just pulled?!" "Missed those last 16 jump cuts? Here's another!" Putting all of these stylistic flourishes in the forefront flattens the characters and steamrolls the story.

So it was with Into the Wild. There are characters there, and an interesting story. When Penn chills out enough to let those two elements come together quietly--as when Hal Holbrook's character bids Chris/Alex goodbye--you can catch a glimmer of what the movie might have been (and what the book is). But then along comes a slo-mo sequence followed by a split screen montage accompanied by some overly florid narration followed by hell knows what, and you forget what you're actually supposed to be focusing on.

I wish Penn had stepped back a bit and trusted that he could've relied on the cinematography and acting (which, despite a few wooden or mushy moments, was pretty good) and the essentials of McCandless' (and Krakauer's) story to carry the film. It would've been, I think, much richer and more touching than the Hollywood-heavy thing we got instead.

Be My Guide, Be My Pilot

I'm such a word nerd that one of the first things I do when life issues a kick to the gut (or the heart, or the head, or even the shins) is set myself on a mission to find succor in writing. There are my own scribbles, of course, which anyone valiant enough to still be reading this blog has had the grace and patience to put up with, but what really interests me is what others have to say.

It's perhaps a slightly odd instinct, this--seeking comfort for your own aches in someone else's words--but often it feels like one of the most important things I can do to keep myself afloat. My own attempts to find the words to explain things to myself are mightily abetted by reading the words others have used to try to work their own stuff out.

So I've been doing a relatively huge amount of reading. Some of it doesn't really count as far as succor goes, such as The Smartest Guys in the Room, which I'd started back in early February and finally finished a few weeks back, or anything whatsoever in the Times or the New Yorker. But much of what I've been reading I've chosen precisely in the hope that it has something wise and comforting to impart.

There are the reliable standards: that Amy Bloom essay, Richard Hugo's "Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg," a few select passages from Sylvia Plath's journals (pre-Hughes, natch). These I love as much because they're smart and striking as because I've held them close before and know they have the power to soothe.

There are also a few standards that I don't have much patience for this time around. I recently took my Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay off the shelf and turned to poems I'd long ago starred and underlined and notated, but they didn't do it for me. Millay is a brilliant poet, and one of my favorites, but she's short on the uplift, and as I read I found myself thinking, Christ, Edna, cheer up a bit. For Hugo's final lines--"and the girl who serves your food/ is slender and her red hair lights the wall"--Millay counters, "Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark/Till I become accustomed to the dark."

Thanks, Edna, but no more darkness.

What's been my most steadfast companion for the past week or so, though, has been Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. I'm sort of amazed that this hasn't yet been an Oprah's Book Club Selection, because it's truly primed for such. But that's not a bad thing in this reviewer's opinion. The book is smart, funny, profound, insightful, and as much of a life raft as anything else in my world at this particular moment.

I've been reading a bit of Eat, Pray, Love each night before bed, and sometimes a few pages in the morning, so it sits on my bedside table with a pen and a small heap of half-crumpled tissues. The pen I use to make notes in the margin, to underline passages I want to go back to, to highlight sentences that make me cry in recognition or understanding or hope. And thus the tissues: absorbers of these few nightly tears. It's become a mini ritual.

What's so striking for me about Gilbert's book is not so much the parallels I see in our lives (very few) or any resonant desire I feel to follow the path she does (very little). Instead, I think it's that she presents nothing as "I just..." There's no "I just needed to tell myself..." or "All I had to do was..." or "It was as simple as...." She has revelations and breakthroughs and breakdowns and all of that, but none of it is one-part or easy--and, really, how much of this stuff ever is? I rail against anything I read or hear that suggests that there are straightforward or unencumbered or quick or easy ways to disentangle ourselves from whatever's most vexing in life. I don't buy it. That stuff is messy and hard and complicated and fraught, and it makes little sense to me to try to pretend otherwise.

Gilbert doesn't pretend. And for me, that makes her experiences all the more valuable, all the more trustworthy. That's so much why I read others: to try to mine something from what they've been through, from where they end up, from what they deal with along the way. That requires feeling some sort of connection, though, even if I can't draw direct parallels between the writers' lives and my own. I have to believe that as similar or dis- as our experiences may be, taking that verbal journey through someone else's will, ultimately, contribute something meaningful to mine. Eat, Pray, Love makes me believe that.

I'm coming to the end of it, and am more than a bit tempted to turn right around and start it again. Because, although in words different from my own and about a life that's not mine, it says, in large part, what I want to say to myself but can't yet. And that's a rare thing, I think, like that line in Neko Case's "Guided by Wire": "Someone singing my life back to me." Elizabeth Gilbert is writing her own life back to herself, unspooling a great long length of rope to pull herself from her worst moments in an ocean of misery back to stable land. My straits weren't nearly as dire or as treacherous as hers, but still. There's immense comfort in being able to put a hand on that rope for a while.

I {Heart} Justification Spam

Over the past few months, I've noticed a fascinating new breed of spam. From what I can see of the message contents in Gmail's preview line (which is, blessedly, not a lot), all of these messages are for Viagra knock-offs of some sort. It's the subject lines that fascinate me, though.

Consider today's collection:

• I wanted to see what all the fuss is about
• I wanted to get a promotion
• It was an initiation rite to a club or organization
• I wanted to breakup another's relationship
• I wanted to get rid of aggression
• I wanted to gain access to that person's friend
  
• I was under the influence of drugs
  
• I was drunk
• [And my favorite:] I wanted to see what it was like to have sex while stoned (e.g., on marijuana or some other drug) [Important clarification. Thanks for that.]
  

It's Justification Spam! Surely you've received an e-mail offer for sexual performance-enhancing products and considered using them if only you had a passable reason (or excuse) to. Well, look no more! There are so very many. So very, very many.

Thrill-a-Minute

I hadn't anticipated the boredom.

Sadness I expected. Loneliness? Yup. Longing? Check. Those I knew would be coming. But what's been most striking in the past week is how bland my days have become.

For years, many spent in long-distance relationships, I was used to being on my own much of the time. Aside from work, social outings, and time with friends, I was alone. I ate dinner alone, watched movies alone at home, went to sleep alone, woke up alone. It was such habit for such a long stretch that I stopped minding, even if I didn't entirely stop noticing.

Starting last summer, though, I got used to having someone else in my life every day, reliably and without fail. Even the boring stuff (like cooking dinner) was more interesting when I didn't have to do it solo. And the fun stuff, of course, was off the damn charts.

So now that's the yawning hole. I can't possibly fill my days and evenings enough to avoid the fact that I'm back to being a one, where for such a pleasant stretch there I was a two. And though this is straight out of some terrible Lifetime movie, I've been laughing so much less lately, not because my outlook has turned maudlin, but because the person who made me laugh every day is gone.

That things would go from Technicolor to slightly faded and tattered pastels. That I'd so acutely feel the shift away from having someone to turn to at the end of the day. That listlessness would move in and make itself at home. Somehow, all of these things I didn't know to expect.

That Kind of Thing

You've seen the image before--in a movie, in a photo, in an ad. Someone's sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands on his knees, his gaze cast forward in a way that's possibly blank, possibly vaguely worried, quite possibly full of mourning. The upshot is always "There's this difficult and unpleasant thing facing me (a funeral, a courtroom in which I lose everything I now have and know and love, a truth I couldn't imagine) that I wish I didn't have to deal with, but I'm a functioning adult with the desire to remain such. So I must confront it. I must wade through it. I must believe that sooner or later I'll emerge from the other side."

On Sunday morning, I actually found myself sitting on the edge of my bed with my hands on my knees, only half conscious that I was adopting that posture. A few hours later, I sat in my car in the Inner Sunset, in much the same position, trying to steel myself for what was ahead. And when I came back to the car a bit over an hour later, with what felt like every bit of my face swollen with crying, I sat still for a few moments and thought, All I have to do now is get through this and go on.

In an essay that appeared in O Magazine a few years back (a piece I've quoted here before because it's trenchant and heartbreaking and flat-out, whatever you might think of O), Amy Bloom writes, "What I hadn't understood, until recently, is that sometimes love is not enough. And that is the worst news-from-the-universe I have heard for some time. ... Love takes us further than we thought we could go, but it does not take us past the limits of our nature. And that is a hard thing to know."

On Sunday afternoon, I heard a truth that crumpled my heart but, at the same time, set something inside me to calmness. It was a hard thing to hear, but nevertheless I felt a tinge of gratitude to hear it. And for sure it's a hard (and painful) thing to know, but even I would rather a hard truth than a soft lie. Sometimes love is not enough.

So I return again and again now to that edge-of-the-bed image: each of us, for a while, sits there feeling too heavy to stand, knowing that what awaits us is a horrendous goodbye, a run-in with heartbreak, an encounter with the understanding that we're no longer what we once were, or we no longer have what we once did, and once loved so much.

But sooner or later we do stand. We stand and (to quote Marge Piercy) hold hard, and let go, and go on. Because there's no other worthwhile choice

I can't even think of a fitting title

Yes, pops, just plain loony

So I had this serious and heartfelt and vaguely profound post bubbling around in my head all day, and I came home all set to actually put it in words and get it up here. But I reached my front door to find a package from my Dad, inside which was the little fellow on the right in the photo above, along with a card: "Because sometimes life is just plain loony!! Love, Dad." This sent me into a spate of half-laughing, half-sobbing, in a way I don't think I could replicate if I tried, because it's all just so unbelievably...something.

Here's the thing: after the breakup with G. in 2004, Erfert brought me a bottle of booze and a stuffed ptarmigan from Wild Republic's line of Audubon birds ("with real bird calls!") which, when squeezed, sounds a ridiculous but delightful ptarmigan call. The ptarmigan was soon joined by others (a loon, a chickadee, a bluejay, a thrush), all of whom perched on the back of my sofa.

Though I can't remember exactly when or how, last summer Erik took a liking to the loon (that's him on the left above), and eventually he became our steadfast companion, coming with us to Vancouver and perching with us when we watched movies and calling out his loony call through all of it.

One afternoon, one of us squeezed the loon and, rather than his standard "whooOOOOoooOOOooo," he let out what sounded like an angry squawk from some other bird altogether. A while later, he added to his repertoire a sweet songbird-like chirping. And he'd switch between these calls and his normal one seemingly at random. (I swear I'm not making this up; there's video-recorded proof.)

Over the last few months, the loon started to lose his voice, his calls (all three) growing increasingly metallic and warbled. By a couple of weeks ago, he was all but silent. Squeeze him now and you get the aural equivalent of seeing someone who's always been robust and healthy withered away to skin and bones.

During our weepy pow-wow yesterday, Erik told me that he'd watched the short video of the loon he'd taken back in late summer and said he heard a radical difference between what the loon sounded like then and what he'd become. I choked back a heave/sob thing and said, "Loved to muteness."

So when I came home today and unwrapped another loon, this one with a call that's loud and strong and clear, it felt like there were a billion messages coming down from the universe, but I couldn't understand any of them.

My Dad sent me a stuffed loon to help soothe my broken heart. This loon is sort of small and runty compared to the original loon, but he calls out clearly. The original loon--our loon, the loon so beloved by the boy I love(d)--is bigger and fuller but now can only warble weakly.

It all means so much. It all means so little.

The "Jeopardy!" Effect

In the summer of 2003, my sister-in-law Sara was selected to be on "Jeopardy!" Sara's mom and Aunt Sandra and my brother and I all went to LA for the taping of the show and a mini-vacation.

She came in second, beaten by a guy with lightning-fast reflexes and an all-too-thorough knowledge of the arcane and the trivial, and although we all told her repeatedly how proud we were that she'd even made it onto the show, she was understandably disappointed.

The next day, Greg and I dropped Sara, Diane, and Sandra off at the Getty and headed to the Bel Air to soak in the ambience (and the booze) of the hotel bar. After a drink, I asked how Sara was doing, and Greg replied that she was truly sad, though he couldn't quite understand why. Just placing on the show was a major accomplishment, he said, and she knew we were all oozing with pride. Plus, though she didn't get the first-place prize money, she did still walk away with much more than she'd come with.

I don't remember the exact arc of the conversation (as the waiter came around with another pair of drinks), but I do remember I told him that I could understand Sara's sadness. It's like this, I said, taking out a pen to draw on a napkin. Our everyday lives are here [line toward the bottom of the napkin], and every once in a while something happens that catapults us up to another level [line in the middle of the napkin]. From that level, we can see greater things [top of the napkin] than we ever had a view of down below--and, even better, not only can we see them, we also start to believe that they're actually reachable.

And that's where Sara had been for so many months prior: on that second level, with the potential for so many amazing things so clearly in view. Not only that, but even everyday life looked a bit better from where she was.

But then she didn't win, and all of the sudden that higher level shrunk away. Sure, she was still in a better, more interesting spot than she'd been when she started, but now she had to sit with the disappointment of having lost what she so truly believed she had a chance at reaching.

I've been thinking a lot about that conversation over the past few days, and I think I understand a bit why this breakup feels so innards-destroying, so heart-shredding: because after a long time hanging out at that workaday level, last summer found me perched happily on the level above. And while it was great to be able to fathom even better things ahead and above, the truth is that I was just so unbelievably happy to be where I was. I got so used to that happiness, so used to the delight of being able to face each day with a sense of calmness, a sense that things, after being wrong for so long, were now right and sweet and good.

Now, though, not only has the upper tier utterly disappeared from view and stretched way beyond my grasp, I've been punted out of level 2 as well. I had so hoped--and so come to expect--not to be back down here again anytime soon.

Hold On, Hold On

A story on "All Things Considered" this afternoon sets me to tears. It's about a family in Michigan whose son/brother was a service member serving in Iraq who'd adopted two dogs there, a Labrador mother and her pup. When this fellow died (in his sleep, on Christmas Day), his family decided to bring the dogs back to Michigan.

Toward the end of the interview, his sister tells Melissa Block that the process of bringing the dogs to the US involved the help of many (politicians, other service members, and so on), and reminded her how many good people there are in the world. Hearing that makes my heart catch and my eyes flood all over again.

Today could be so much worse, I remind myself. I'm baffled and profoundly, wrenchingly hurt and shocked. I've lost something huge, something I never even began to think was remotely at risk, something I'll miss in ways I can't yet begin to comprehend. But as ever, I'm reminded of the good people who stay in my life even after someone I adore so much leaves, and who gather around me so I can only fall so far.

Walking San Francisco

Because I evidently feel there's not quite enough happening in my life (you know, what with running a business, teaching classes, writing a book, planning the year's travel, and generally attempting to function as a responsible adult), I've decided to undertake a new project: by the end of 2008, I intend to walk every street in San Francisco.

This project is partly an attempt to get to know my city in more detail, partly an attempt to exercise on a very regular basis without necessarily feeling like I am, and partly an attempt to indulge my completist tendencies. I'm excited about it on all of those fronts.

I'll be blogging about the experience over on Walking San Francisco, complete with photos, notes on interesting experiences along the way, and perhaps a random fact or two from time to time. Come visit, won't you? (And if you're in or near SF, come along for the walk--or part of it, at least.)

Weakerthans Set List, 3 Months Late

Erik and I went to see the Weakerthans when they played at Slim's here...on October 3. So, fine, this set list is a bit late, but still.

Psalm for the Elks Lodge Last Call
Civil Twilight
Over Retired Explorer
Benediction
Reconstruction Site
[unable to read my scratchings on this one]
Night Windows
Relative Surplus Value
Sun in an Empty Room
Left and Leaving
Tournament of Hearts
The Reasons
Time's Arrow
History of the Defeated
Plea from a Cat Named Virtute
One Great City!
Pamphleteer
Confessions of a Futon-Revolutionist
Virtute the Cat Explains Her Departure
[a cover of something that included the line, "If being scared was a crime, we'd hang side by side."]
Exiles Among You

There were a few more songs, perhaps; we left partway through "Exiles," which was part of the encore, because I gave up hope that they'd play "Watermark" or "My Favourite Chords," and because we both had to go home and do work, oldsters that we are.

It was a fun show, though, and a completely different experience from seeing them at the University of Calgary back in 2003.

Lights Gone Dark

By early January, I'm generally ready to see the trappings of Christmas gone, especially if they've been kicking around since sometime in mid-November. What's always a disappointment, though, is the concomitant disappearance of Christmas lights and the resultant plunge back into early and unmitigated darkness.

Don't get me wrong: I don't want to see displays of lit-up reindeer or flashing Santas for more than a few days after the New Year. (In fact, I'm not sure I ever want to see such displays, but that's another matter.) What would be nice, though, is if the lights strung through trees outdoors or hanging from eaves could stick around until, say, mid-March, when there starts to be visible hope that daylight will once again last beyond 4.30.

As it is, all of those lights tend to disappear sometime around Twelfth Night, leaving us with what feels like an endless stretch of inky night to contend with.

Two Sites You Should Visit

Get thee to Free Rice to revel in the absurd but entertaining and rather addictive combination of testing your vocabulary skills and donating rice to UN world hunger abatement programs.

Then make your way to the snarky, trenchant, and bitch-slappy Predatory Lending Association site, the brainchild of one of Dana's friends. Take that, Cash 'N' Go.

Home again, home again

I spent Thanksgiving and the weekend following in northern Illinois at my sister-in-law's parents' house. The holiday was great and delightfully lazy: with the exception of some minimal exercise, I passed much of the time eating, lounging, and playing board and card games with the others assembled there.

On Sunday, the Wilska portion of the clan went to O'Hare en masse, and my westward travel meant I was the last one to fly out, which meant spending the vast chunk of the day at the airport. I didn't mind at first, as Greg got me into a waiting lounge, where I was able to sit in front of a fire and sip wine while contentedly working away on my book. But then 7 p.m. rolled around, the lounge closed, and I was spit out with my fellow travelers.

And then things went downhill: a short delay turned into a longer one, which turned into loading us all onto a plane only to unload us 45 minutes later because of mechanical issues with the aircraft, and a terminal change, and a plane change, and all told two hours gone.

Then downhill again: the moment the pilot sounded his ding to indicate that we had reached the altitude at which tray tables and seat backs could be adjusted, the guy in front of me put his seat all the way back. Because this fellow was quite tall--probably somewhere in the 6'5" range (and yes, I did feel for him: it must suck to try to fold that size body into a tiny coach class seat)--he managed to push his seat even farther back than it would otherwise go, giving me about 6 inches of space. For the entire 5 hour flight.

I was so exhausted and tired of traveling that I feared I might lose it and burst completely into tears or run screaming through the aisle. I didn't, but just sat there and tried to sleep. In that space of semi-consciousness, I started thinking about putting a stop to Thanksgiving travel away from the west coast, and focusing more on building the holiday up to be something special for me in my own city, rather than always going elsewhere. It's an interesting consideration, because where does the stress and strain of traveling to or from somewhere start to outweigh the pleasure of actually being there? That point almost came for me on Sunday night.

But then, finally, we were on the ground at SFO, and the tall dude put his seat back up, and I walked out of the terminal and directly into the waiting, open arms of my boy, who drove me home and put me to bed. And as much as I enjoyed my time away, I am so glad to be back--so intensely, powerfully glad to be back.

Teen Anthems, How I Love Thee

So, I'm sure Death Cab for Cutie's "Transatlanticism" is already an infamous emo-esque teen anthem. How could it not be, with Ben Gibbard's plaintive, repeated "I need you so much closer" and what sounds like the entire band joining in for the both heart-squishing and hopeful "So come on" refrain at the end of the song? It's all so ridiculously sad and sweet and pretty, and you can almost here the young, teary voices singing along.

I'm sure there were teen anthems around when I was a teen, but my musical taste at the time ran to REM, the Smiths, Drivin' 'n' Cryin', and a passel of other bands that, on the main, did not turn out anthems of any sort. We certainly didn't have anyone like Death Cab or Dashboard Confessional or any other soulful boys crooning at us. So I'm coming to all of this years too late, but unabashed. I would've gotten the anthem-loving out of my system much earlier if only I'd had the chance.

Since I didn't, I must make up for lost time, so it's "Transatlanticism" and "Hands Down" and "No Exit" (which probably doesn't officially qualify for anthem status, but should) on repeat, accompanied by fond thoughts of my own teen-dom, as well as equally fond thoughts of being miles and years and worlds away from it now.

While I Get My Head on Straight

Seen on Geary; photo by Dana

There are currently at least a dozen things I should be doing, but somehow it seemed pressing to post this photo, which has been sitting on my desktop for about six weeks now. I dedicate it to J, both because I think he'll appreciate it with a keenness unknown to others, and because I've been a horrific friend and have sent him not even the merest hint of a note in months.

Other things I haven't done in months:

• Had a day entirely bereft of work-related tasks
• Read an actual book
• Cooked a meal that required more than 2-3 steps

In my dream world, I'll have time for all of those things--as well as regular correspondence with far-flung friends--soon. More truthfully, I might hope for them when I am moored in Connecticut over Christmas, and/or sometime in late February. In the meantime, stay tuned for wildly infrequent posts (which may or may not center around mild whimpering about the chaotic states of my schedule and To Do list) and enjoy Dana's photographic brilliance.

Light in October

Yesterday was stunning--one of those late San Francisco summer days that makes you forget how crapwad July and August were (and even more so this year than normal). The sun virtually blazed, there was the sweetest hint of a breeze, and even come 4 p.m., the fog didn't come scraping in.

Erik and I spent the day out by the beach, then walking through the mid-Richmond on a futile quest for the highly rated pizzeria I was sure was out there somewhere but just couldn't find. (Sorry, babe; it was actually not on Clement but on 21st, and closer to California.) Ultimately it was Pizza Orgasmica for us, then a ride back across town on the 44.

Back at la Casa de Irving, we lie (laid? lay? whatever) down for a nap with the full force of the sun pushing through the west-facing windows. By the time I got up, the light was fading but still gorgeous, and shortly thereafter I walked up Carl Street with the sunset at my back.

We seem to be having quite a few of these really pretty days, in which even the far western reaches of the city stay beautiful and fogless well past dusk. But the flip side, of course, is that the more stunning the light gets, the less of it we have. Once the sun starts to go down these days, it seriously means it: I got on the N last evening in slightly waning light, and when the train emerged from the East Portal tunnel, it was dark out. That was a matter of minutes.

In a few weeks, it'll be full night by 6 p.m., then earlier by the day. As ever, I'm not ready for so much darkness.