Since Dolores = Sorrows

I was particularly pleased to see the following stencil sprayed out on the walk along Dolores Park, although I am still one-eye-opened to finding #45. You go ahead and school that Dolores and her poetry making ways.

Inverta-Year, More Evidence

Check out the San Francisco weather. First, it was raining fire and brimstone hail globs in March. Very un-March-like. Then, it became desert hot for over a week. Equally un-March-like. Now, June wind; quite un-April-like. Yesterday, it was so windy that I thought my balcony was going to break off. The palm trees went sideways. Squawking parrots torpedoed by like green frisbees. The sand dunes crossed the Great Highway. So windy that the only thing not moving in all of Ocean Beach's vicinity...


... Gold Gate Park's Phallic Windmill Boys-in-Bushes Beacon.

Inverta-Year, Continued, Yoga-Style

As my dear readers may recall, one of the clues to this year's theme was my unprecedentedly earnest and complete LOVE for a yoga class I attended. However, when I explained my sudden openness to yoga to people in my life, they showed skepticism. Why? The yoga happened to be free. It happened to take place in a noisy, public area with 80s music on and people yelling at their children in the background. My mat was precariously wedged between a giant iron pillar and a rope "wall" to keep me from falling off this balcony on to the next floor. There were no mirrors anywhere. The teacher talked in complete sentences using grammatical structures Strunk and White would applaud. She downward dogged the shit out of us analytic learners. The class is taught by a different instructor in a different style every week so I'll never have any idea what I am getting myself into. So what if all those things might make it the ideal yoga class for someone like me regardless of the year's thematics?!

It might still be true that this is my inverta-year.

Even though I did return last week to the "same" class to be delighted by the new instructor. She was somewhat gruff and angry. She wore jeggings. She started us with our eyes closed. I woke up 65 minutes later, in time for the cool down. Clearly she was perfect for me.

Again, I know this is not convincing you, but might still be true that this is my inverta-year. Let's just try it out people.

You Too Could Live on Solid Rock in SF Bay...

... for a cool $22 million.

Hey, earthquakes are no joke, and solid rock is the best. Anyone?

2011: Year of Inversion (er... Inversion Year?)

Yes, the theme of the year has at last become clear. How do I know?

1. II, even inverted, still equals two in Roman numerals. So 20II makes a full circle in a backwards, twisty kinda way.

2. I, on my own volition and quite alone, willingly went to a yoga class on Sunday and
I
LOVED
it.

3. After that same yoga class, I felt a deep and unshakable
PEACE.

For the
REST
of the day.

3. Generally the theme for my year becomes apparent the previous November, by which time I have usually had it with that year and, like the precocious little sister I am, have moved on to the next one! But this year? It's MARCH, and barely still, and I just today finally came up with this year's theme. Inversely S-L-O-W.

4. I saw a sneak peek of Rubber this evening. In a nutshell, RUBBER made me TIRED. As people left the film, a fellow grabbed and interviewed us. Neighboring female to interviewer:

I loved it. I welcome how they brought surrealism back to American film making.

Well, I must have put extra liquid surrealism in my eyes recently because you could hear them shifting sideways to spy on the entire audience as they laughed without me many many times. Puzzling. It was so puzzling I had to three times squash a tipping-point urge stand up and yell,

People, there is a FUCKING WAR going on in Afghanistan. What the hell are you doing here laughing?

Oh wait, that is not an inverse of anything - that's just an example of normal for me (good luck finding my internal control group for that study, people).
Me to interviewer:

Can a person be sure they have seen their worst movie of the year and have it only be March?

Today I Laughed Out Loud

At Facebook, no less.

At this event: April 4 - We Are One (and your money's funny - I would like to add) Rally outside the Federal Reserve Building. 4:20pm in San Francisco. April 4th. The anniversary of Dr. King Jr.'s assassination. And a NATIONAL Day of Action pushing back for educational equity, pushing against budget values and the scapegoating of unions and public schools and anyone doing anything of worth, it appears. It is hopefully a big day.

And more specifically at a poster's response, "Can't make it, have yoga."

Funny. You cannot see me, but I am pointing at the tear streaming down my face.

Leaving Behind the Captain and Tenille

Well, it is once again time to retire the Slow Cooker's apron on to a No Cooker peg deep in the back of the closet and go back to eating cereal. Or perhaps just love.


Just to be extra safe, I should probably find some Courtney Love version of Do That to Me One More Time (or en espanol!) as a ring tone and add it to the No Cooker's caller ID entry. I am hopeful that renaming him Heart Break (This is So Not Worth It was a bit wordy, even for me) and updating his caller ID photo to the completely unattractive one will suffice. But perhaps I would be best served if I could successfully associate this whole made-for-TV mini-series with DC2's Portland sidewalk?

Today's Laugh or Cry Moment

I was just emailed the minutes of a meeting. The newly appointed secretary took meticulous notes, which means I got to read:

Item 2: Diversity
We discussed about the diversity that does not exist in the club and how we should go about recruiting. Overall, this topic was left undecided as it is a large social issue in the world that we cannot solve in one sitting.

Item 3...

So... Laugh or cry?

With the next breath will be peace

Saturday, 9:29 a.m.

Outside: Quickly sprouting silent crowd of cart-wielding shoppers.
Inside: Two women, one holding a small ticker-counter, the other holding a walkie-talkie.
Between: Huge panels of separating, sound-proof glass.

The shoppers tilt slightly forward as one Inside woman approaches the glass panels to raise them. Behind her, the other woman crosses herself.

Costco opens.

Rules... and Their Exceptions

Well, it has been a less-than-ideal summer in terms of relying on the consistency of certain truths that hegemonically rule my universe:

* The Slow Cooker became a No Cooker
* I not even for a minute boarded any airplane
* The August skies were so relentlessly drip-cloudy I had to seek out lawns to crash on in Millbrae,
* I almost watched The Bachelorette, and
* I nearly didn't sprain my eyes from excessive rolling while actually watching "Eat, Pray, Love"

So this morning, the last before the school year truly tidal waves me, I made one last effort to re-balance my little Mercury-in-Retrograde-or-something Summer universe. Following my rule that Sunday morning pre-8 a.m. is the most peaceful and therefore best time to walk (excepting all of Thanksgiving week), I (puffy vested and flip flopped despite the fog) walked out my gate to enjoy an early light amble, deciding: shall I go Right (Right Head swivel) or Left (Left Head swivel)? Only to find immediately to my left, about eight inches left, a rapidly approaching gun followed by a power-chasséing? police officer (what is the human equivalent of the equestrian 'trotting'?!) up the street, hollering "Drop the bag! Drop the bag!" at some person presumably already mostly up the block (I presume because it didn't seem like a good idea to turn my back just then). Did I mention the gun shaking and extended (with me suddenly in the way)?

The po-po and I both probably looked the same amount of startled and I retreated, remembering the rule about there being exceptions to every rule.

Exception: When faced with a gun, a badge and a nervous, adrenalined aura, it's probably the safest and most peaceful to head back inside if you have the choice.

Run Naked?

Until today, I have never been asked my permission for someone else to run naked. Odd, isn't it?

Two peas, one pod.

One of the peas is the rapidly shrinking Original Shorty (OS), formerly known as Flappy Pappy. The other pea is his absolute favorite person, Baby "Gluteus to the Maximus" (BG), formerly known as the Butt Pugg, currently pseudonymed as OS's one and only grandson.

Here are a sampling of today's conversations:

1. OS separates his daily pills into boxes. BG sends out a searching hand. OS:

Ah, this one is called [let's say Enulose]. It's a laxative. You don't want one of these. Not yet, anyways.

BG withdraws hand and appears pensive.

2. OS: Grandpa loves Max sooooooooooooooo much.
BG: Too much.

Winnemucca, Location of the 44 Hour Softball Tournament

Which far from explains why I am here.

It started with my brother moving to Utah.
It continued through his realization that Utah is not so big on easy alcohol access and that he therefore must be chipmunk-like and store up for winter.
It moved on to him exacting a promise from me to drive a station-wagon FULL of alcohol to Salt Lake City.
It wound its way to Shorty #1 (now medicated, but formerly known as Flappy Pappy) deciding he simply could not stand to be left behind while I drove to Utah on my own.
It involved him telling me every other day for the past month,

Winnemucca is known for its Basque Community and the Basque food. Can you believe it?

Which, through the power of sheer repetitive advertising, I believe I now can.

It went on to concern the typical family 'Bait and Add' sudden appearance of Shorty #2 (a.k.a. crazy mama con beehive) in the pocket of backseat remaining in the car as we sought to leave San Francisco.

All of which resulted in - after eight hours, fifteen stops punctuating the 'Don't go over 55mph' screeching soliloquies, and one very threatened GPS system - several new creases on my brow and more new trauma hotspots in my neural pathways. But, since I am an albeit reluctant lifelong learner, all was not lost.

1. The description "downtown" has a vast array of meanings. On the corner of Winnemucca Boulevard and the aptly named Malarkey Street, an actual tumbleweed whizzed by me. The alacrity of the tumbleweed should indicate several things, only one of which is the rate Shorty #1 walks. And

2. Basque restauranteurs have a well-developed sense of humor. Not only do Winnamucca Basque restaurants provide airbrushed glamor shots of your meal in its previous baby state (which I believe allows patrons to more easily cave-person grunt-point their ordering wishes),

they also provide the perfect meal for a country-crossing vegetarian - all you can drink red table wine. It certainly is a relief not to have to masticate one's nutrients. And, besides, with so many choices - from bacon-infused french fries to veal-soaked lamb chops to beef-simmered ham to the very vegetarian iceberg lettuce salad - how could one otherwise decide?!

Brain, Meet Summer. Now Turn Off.

My brain becomes very productive the second I go on summer break. I mean real break. No unpaid meetings about next year. No summer school teaching. Meaning I have been on for exactly four hours... and it is July. Not a good sign. I have to get all my seemingly-lucid-awake-REM-sleeping-brain-stateness in within the window of one month this year. We should all be experiencing a sense of dread.

All this summer brain cramming hurts. Today, I woke up wondering why it is that in supermarkets eggs are never housed anywhere near the chickens. How is it that eggs became a dairy?

Unable to solve the logic of this (though, of course, the Michael Pollanian corporate A->B of this seems clear), I moved on to the Phenomenon of the Fixie Identity. Specifically focusing on what SF walkers would need to create a group identity. Which led me to offer (in the classy spirit of Juicy Coutoure) the emblazing of all velour clad strolling bottoms: "Get off your gas and walk." Feel free to weigh in on possible fonts.

The Slow Cooker has unfortunately been dragged into my condition, and together we have arrived at the following for our future ukulele band:

Name: Paranoid Jews
First Album: The Guilty Catholics
Sophomoric Album, SC's Pick: Pious Muslim
Sophomoric Album, My Pick: Buddhists That Kill

Feel free to send me back to work asap, someone.

L.A. Really Has Nothing On Us

In 2003, San Francisco had the foresight to enact a law changing the term "pet owner" to "pet guardian." And today there were hella guardians watching their companions pee all over San Francisco's urban equivalent of Venice Beach: Dolores Park. With the temperature getting to nearly 60 degrees, everyone (complete with fixie, skinny jeans, and wee pooping companion) was basking in the Vitamin D and watching our equivalent of water (Dolores Street traffic). Packed in whether sitting or moving, I could not help but ear-hustle what I took to be a quintessential San Francisco conversation:

A: Well, her mother, you know, was Army... while her father was from the Air Force.

B: Aaaaah.

A: So I am sure you can imagine what an impact that had on her personality.

B: Yes.

A: I mean, she is really an unusual chihuahua.

Me: Blink.

Is It Me?

Last night I saw the excellent and disturbing documentary: Prodigal Sons. Consequently, AA, A and I spilled out of the film in strange head spaces only to find ourselves at the equally strange intersection of California and Polk streets. Desperate to process the film, we turned up Polk. We got approximately one foot before I stopped moving and instead started staring and pointing, all jaw droppy. AA and A just kept chatting and I was encouraged (kindly, because they are kind) to get my slow-ass butt in gear and start moving.

Me: Did you see that?

AA and A: Huh?

Me: That... that was John Waters!

AA: Oh, really? Huh! I figured you were just being slow and distracted.

And on that note, which says more about my turtle-like reputation than really anything else, we turned into the corner diner, where we munched on french fries, held our breath against the cook smoking in the kitchen, got stared down by a marble-eyed chihuahua by itself at the next booth, and visited the shortest toilet in San Francisco. So things ended as mundanely as possible. For me, anyways.

Sometimes I Think I Could

Be a middle school teacher. This affliction generally shows up after I have spent a couple hours with a flock of middle schoolers. They are ridiculously smart, quick, perky, open-faced, funny, quirky, and muffin-esque.

And the affliction has two cures -

(1) Spending an additional seven hours with a group of middle schoolers.

or

(2) Hearing that by the end of our several-hundred-large middle school conference this year:

One chaperon had left half way with a 102 fever, another chaperon's illness prevented them from arriving in the first place, and third chaperon got stuck in the parking garage with an over-sized van and had to deflate her tires to get out, leaving only one chaperon standing.

For whatever reason, that reminded me - no middle school for me, thanks.

"Unfortunately, the people of Louisiana are not racists. "

-- Dan Quayle, VP and Founder of the 'foot in mouth in a majorly public way' club

I remember when leg warmers were in, Dan Quayle was VP to a certain George Bush, and we wore our sunglasses at night out of sheer embarrassment. This was also the time of a Vermont organization whose sole life purpose centered on following Quayle around, capturing the myriad of crap that would emerge from his vocal cords, and broadcasting it through a monthly newsletter. Meaning that he spoke in a cringe-worthy manner enough to fill a monthly newsletter. Which he did... and then some. Amazingly, the whole time he was in office, their monthly newsletter remained thick enough to moonlight as insulation. You perhaps remember:

"Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."

"I am not part of the problem. I am a Republican."

"I love California, I practically grew up in Phoenix."

"A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls."

"Mars is essentially in the same orbit . . . Mars is somewhat the same distance from the Sun, which is very important. We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and water. If there is water, that means there is oxygen. If oxygen, that means we can breathe."

"The Holocaust was an obscene period in our nation's history. I mean in this century's history. But we all lived in this century. I didn't live in this century."

"I was recently on a tour of Latin America, and the only regret I have was that I didn't study Latin harder in school so I could converse with those people. "

"Republicans have been accused of abandoning the poor. It's the other way around. They never vote for us."

"What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is."

Ah yes, Danny Boy, truer words were never more confusing, how wonderful that the pipes, the political pipes, are calling...

Anyways, just a few highlights for you there on Memory Lane. But let us pull ourselves into this century, the century in which we all live, minus perhaps the DQ. The way things are going these days, a person need not a monthly newsletter; one could instead modernize to a daily "WTF" blog of bigoted, ignorant, hateful things that public people say.

I for the sake of not totally wasting my mind, like to limit my public bloggy WTF rantings to the sporatic. Like a suddenly bitter wedge of tangerine. But today is definitely one of those days, because Education Secretary Duncan? I wish he had been lawsuit-provokingly misquoted by last week's The Washington Post article:

Education Secretary Arne Duncan called Hurricane Katrina "the best thing that happened to the education system in New Orleans" because it forced the community to take steps to improve low-performing public schools, according to excerpts from a television interview made public Friday.

So let us just be clear. And in honor of the start of Standardized Testing Season and my colleague Alita, let's do this in SAT terms (Lord knows that shit is clear):

Hurricane Katrina :(IS TO) New Orleans Schools AS
War : Urban Renewal
The Plague : Medical Research

Or, in the words of the DQ, "We're going to have the best-educated American people in the world."

WTF.

Dadisms

My dad, whose hearing, mediocre in its best times, has absolutely gone to pot.

1. My dad calls me on his cell phone. He has the speaker phone on in an effort to hear what I am saying. I have a fever of 100 degrees. My dad asks me a question. I start sneezing into the phone.

Dad: What?

Me: (continued uncontrolled sneezing)

Dad: I cannot hear you.

Me: (sigh)


2. My dad and I are going to a party. He points out he has put in his hearing aid for the occasion. I ask him a question, which he doesn't hear.

Dad: What?

Me: Is your hearing aid on?

Dad: I cannot hear you.

Me: It doesn't seem like your hearing aid is on.

Dad: My hearing aid is on.

Me: It doesn't seem to be working. Did you change the batteries in it?

Dad: What?

Me: Batteries. Batteries. Ba-tte-ries.

Dad: Yes, I just changed the batteries.

Me: Well, it doesn't seem to be working.

Dad: What?

Me: It is nooooooot wooooooooorking. You caaannnnnnnooooooooot heeeeeeear meeeeeee!

Dad: No, it is working. But I cannot understand you.

Me: Isn't that the definition of "not working"?

Dad: What?

Me: (rinse and repeat)

Dad: I can hear you are speaking. I just cannot make sense of the words. The hearing aid is working. The problem is that my brain is no longer working.

Me: (sad, so very sad)

Freecycle: Sometimes It Feels a Lot Like Christmas

So I have been a little shy to RECEIVE on Freecycle since the creepiness of last Spring, plus I am in super purging mode.

But then I went and banged my blender jar in the edge of my sink. And my beautiful blender jar, which has faithfully served me in so many capacities since EB gave it to me one Chanukah in the '90s... cracked and broke. Bummer.

And so I looked on-line. Total replacement blender? $60 plus the irritation of being unnecessary. Replacement jar? $30, half as irritating, but still filing under Bummer. Turned to Freecycle figuring, eh, what the heck. I posted my WANT. No bites.

Sighed. Waited a week.

I especially hate buying things in December, lest someone believe I am a willing participant in the consumeristic holiday shopping bullshit. So I figured on no blender until the new year. Bummer bummer bummer Fine fine fine. But in the meantime why not repost my hopes back on Freecycle just one more time.

And a woman replies,
Hey, I have a jar just sitting here because the blender shorted out a couple weeks back. Maybe it will somehow work?

And over the course of a few emails we come to find... we have the exact same blender. I go there. She comes to the door with the jar. Actually, her partner, their kid, their cousin, their grandma ALL come to the door to witness how totally random this exchange working out really is. And everyone is so very happy and the end result for me and mine? Hellllllla soup.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Seriously. But even as global climate change is making us cock our dim San Francisco heads like confused dogs, there are always a couple born-n-raised True San Francisans things you can count on.

Whatever the weather,
1. True San Franciscans will still call it 'going to the beach' when we take our asses to Ocean Beach and sit in our cars, cracking a window (maybe), but definitely reading the newspaper and sipping on hot beverages from the thermos, never once getting out of the car and
2. If Mitchell's (Ice Cream shop, not to be confused with the Mitchell Bros' O'Farrell Theater folks) is open, there is gonna be a line waitin' on ordering a scoop or several.

Yea, I'm sure the cropping up of the fashionista organic creamery set has stolen some thunder from Mitchell's, but you cannot keep a serious San Francisco institution down. More venerable than Bi-Rite's Creamery (I'm not hatin, I'm just sayin), Mitchell's has been doling out ice cream from behind what appears to be two feet of double paned bullet proof glass to every ice cream fanatic regardless of age, ethnicity, size, dress label, income, taste bud practically daily since 1953. I have witnessed the most roly-poly, church-clothes-donning, maniacal-grin-wearing 4 year old muffin-heads practically invite an early heart attack in their 10 a.m. sprint to get from minivan seat to the Mitchell's line. I'm just saying, one thing you can count on is that there is always a line at Mitchell's, and it is usually thick.

So I was headed home the other day, and, as I mentioned, this whole past week has been cooooooooold. I don't mean my own wimpy 'It's less than 68 degrees!' cold. I mean, I get that I got cold in Mali during the summer, I got cold in Vietnam when the temperature dipped to under 92% F. I regularly get cold in NYC summers - and not from the air conditioning. I get that I am a visionary in terms of what a person can get cold in... But here I mean 'Baby, I really can and in fact I'm gonna stay cuz it's cold outside' cold. I'm talkin' 'Whadarewe,eastcoasters?' cold. 46 degrees cold. 'Wearing a wool hat and fleece everything and puffy jacket and I'm still cold' cold. So cold that, heading home, I was smugly prepared to shake my fleece-engulfed head at the brave/fool-hardy Mitchell's devotees. And it was so cold that my jaw was too tightly scarf-swaddled to drop at the sight of no one at the open-doored Mitchell's.

Whaaaaaaaat? Don't get me wrong. It is cold enough to stand in front of Mitchell's and throw some milk, sugar, cream, salt, and perhaps a vanilla bean into the air and have it land your mouth as ice cream. That is not what I am saying.

I am saying that apparently people are off doing just that on some other sidewalks in San Francisco this particularly frigid week, because there was no line at Mitchell's. I feel vaguely uncomfortable. And it almost makes me want ice cream.