Every Time a Bell Rings...

My sister is downstairs poking out "Joy the the World" on the piano keys and I can hear my dad growling in his best Jimmy Stewart voice, "Does she have to keep playing that over and over?" Right on cue my sister wails, "Oh Daddy!"


Love 'em.

Currently To Read:

Two Years Before the Mast, R. H. Dana
Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
Proust and the Squid, Maryanne Wolf
The Stranger, Albert Camus
The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck

Travels in Europe

Lately I've come to think Rick Steves may just be the perfect man.

Yes, Rick Steves of the khaki shorts and huge glasses - who nasally imparts travel wisdom like "packing light is essential for happy travel" and "to get away from all the tourists, simply walk the back streets."

Think about it: he'd probably pay your airfare, teach you all kinds of money-saving tips, know all the best attractions, and introduce you to someone in every country.

Plus, those big ol' glasses are unfortunately back in style.

Nice Thanksgiving playing with the last few Polaroid exposures and mauling the bambino.

Isn't my sister glamourous?

Playing hide-and-seek with his dad.

Ghost Town

It's raining in San Luis Obispo.

I got caught in it trying to walk downtown from Emily's house in De Talosa. At first it was just a few drops speckling my coat as I walked along Madonna, but by the time I'd reached South Higuera, water was dripping off my bangs onto my glasses - turning the traffic lights into festive smears of red and green. I finally reached my destination soaking wet, ringing out my scarf as the good folks as Linnaea's warmed my heart with espresso. Coffee shops were made for days like this; groups of friends chatting over tea lattes while the rain pours down on the grey city and Frank Sinatra croons over the speakers.

I can't help wondering when I'll be back here. But the town is different now, emptier - although I know the void is a lack of friendship and not a lack of humans. Everywhere I see shiny young faces, boring in their unfamiliarity. Driving at midnight the streets are empty.

This empty shell of a town isn't mine anymore, and like Mary Poppins would say, that's as it should be.

I Hate You, Urban Outfitters

It was just a matter of time before word of my (one time) unique necklace reached the head honchos over at Urban Outfitters...


boo.

No matter where I am or what I'm doing, every once in a while I remember, we have a new President. And I can't help smiling.

One of the French guys who own the wine-tasting business next to my work had a baby on the 4th. "I don't know which I cried harder for," he says, "my son, or the election." A new country, a new child, a new life for Luc.

Our regulars have been especially lovely lately. A man offered to nurse our poor bald orchid back to health today. After he had a triple by-pass surgery recently, everyone sent him orchids and he found that the notoriously finicky plants flourished under his care. The secret, he tells me, is to avoid watering it too much. "They don't like standing water."

Honestly, I may miss these people more than a little. The familiar faces break up the workday and provide a short respite from the fake customer service shtick. There's Stan, the lonely middle-aged man with a bull-ring piercing, whose lifelong partner died ten years ago, leaving him a priceless art collection and rare Marlene Dietrich memorabilia; Jonnie, who calls me sweetie and brings me flowers from her community garden plot; and who could forget Charlie, the early 40-something chainsmoking poet with the soul of an ADD five-year-old who works as a clerk in an office to pay for his $400/month shared room but who lives to somehow involve himself in everything else in the city, from radio to making anthologies, to acting in independent movies.

What an interesting time we live in.

A Hell of a Town

I'm in Chelsea, in New York, in a hostel, eating a Whole Foods salad (in which I kind of wish I hadn't included dried cranberries), with five minutes and fifteen...fourteen seconds left of internet time left.

Today I:

Saw the Statue of Liberty from the subway (how is that possible? It goes over a bridge to Brooklyln).

Fell in love with Brooklyn brownstone neighborhoods, with pumpkins on the front steps and leaves piled up on the sidewalks.

Went to a Brooklyn flea market and found the cowboy boots I've been searching for for years (for $25! No one here wears them).

With just a minute left (I'm slow), I'll just say that I'm off to the Upright Citizen Brigade show tonight (impov w/ Amy Poehler!). Love you.

Pearls of Wisdom

"Take my advice: don't do heroine.
Just smoke pot,
and beat off about three times a week."
--Toothless middle-aged man chugging champagne on the Muni.

It's no argument that San Francisco is one of the weirdest places I have ever been. My roommate and I attribute the strange behavior we see to the lack of peer judgement. Everyone is so out there that after a while, you stop listening to the old man screaming "Fuck you all! I'm going to kill you all!" on the Muni and don't bat an eye when a middle-aged drag queen with sequins stuck to her face asks you where she can buy pot. And so life goes on; and people continue limping through the daily races. It should be liberating to know you can do anything (and I mean anything) and not be judged, but it's not; it's heart-achingly lonely.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Twenty-four.

Here's something that made me smile this morning:

Ok, "smile" is a bit euphemistic. "Squeal, laugh, and say 'awwww!!!!'" is more like it. My cousin's baby already has a Halloween costume; I need to get thinking of one for when I'm in New York! All my good ideas involve me in drag (Marty McFly, anyone?). Why are boys' costumes so much cooler? I refuse to be a slutty nurse/red riding hood/maid/bumble bee...

I had some deep birthday thoughts this morning, but they have unfortunately been replaced by thoughts of PANCAKES (my roommate is taking me out for brunch).

Much love.

Hard Candy Christmas

Like the geese, I'm heading South for the winter.

Hey, maybe I'll dye my hair

Maybe I'll move somewhere

Maybe I'll get a car

Maybe I'll drive so far

They'll all lose track.

Me, I'll bounce right back

Maybe I'll sleep real late

Maybe I'll lose some weight

Maybe I'll clear my junk

Maybe I'll just get drunk on apple wine.

Me, I'll be just

Fine and dandy

Lord, it's like a hard candy Christmas

I'm barely getting through tomorrow

But still I wont let

Sorrow bring me way down

Hey, maybe I'll learn to sew

Maybe I'll just lie low

Maybe I'll hit the bars

Maybe I'll count the stars until dawn

Me, I will go on

Maybe I'll settle down

Maybe I'll just leave town

Maybe I'll have some fun

Maybe I'll meet someone

And make him mine.

Can you tell I've been listening to the 8-album Dolly Parton CD my co-worker made for me? Good times.

Poetry Friday

You Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life -

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

- William Stafford

A Query

Is it possible to think about exes without getting physically sick to your stomach?
Tell me, what's the secret? I'd really like to know...

And in unrelated news, I've finally found a church I can believe in:
http://www.theway.org/Current/Mar07/Mar07Flash4.htm
They know the way to my heart is jazz squares and catchy showtunes.

Bright Lights, Big Hair

It's like in a Hitchcock movie, you know,

where they tie you up in a rubber bag

and throw you in the trunk of a car.

You find people.

--Corky St. Clair, "Waiting for Guffman"

A couple weeks ago, a random customer came into my work and asked me if I wanted to be a hair model for her senior show. When I agreed, I didn't know it was going to be a runway show with costumes, professional makeup, etc.

...and look what they did to my hair! It was HUGE!

This Little Piggy Went Shopping

Ugh. I just threw up a little. Hello, PETA? I'm guessing this is some type of commentary on designer brands and greed / Western consumerism / blah blah. Conveying a message through "art" is fine, but dang, let these little piggies stay home!

Get Me Away from Here, I'm Dying

With a winning smile, / The boy with naivety succeeds / At the final moment, I cry / I always cry at endings.

Generation Gap

I think old people are full of shit.

Shit = cliches. Don't get me wrong, I like old people more than most. I'm obsessed with the lifestyle and intricacies of their past. I love their stories, their homespun grit, the way they go to restaurants as a couple and always order the same thing. But I've never heard anything ground-breaking from their wrinkled lips. I love and respect them, but sometimes respect means smiling and nodding your head at a piece of advice so cliched it's become meaningless.

Marriage advice: "Don't go to bed mad!" / "Keep a sense of humor!"
Occupational advice: "Find something you love!" / "Never give up!"
Life advice: "Learning is a lifelong pursuit!" / "Never give up!"

Today was my favorite day of the month: free museum day. Former first Tuesdays have found me scrutinising Frida Kahlo's unibrow at SFMOMA and gaping over Dale Chihuly's candy-like glass sculptures at the de Young, but until today I had never been to The Legion of Honor way out in the very far Northwest corner of San Francisco.

"It's a miniature Louvre!" I thought to myself as I walked into the courtyard. The architecture, the miniature glass pyramid in the courtyard, all echoed the Parisian museum. Gorgeous. My sentiments were echoed by an elderly self-described "Latin American" gentleman who approached me as I was gazing at a 17th century armoir.

"Are you French?" he asked me out of the blue. I was very flattered, but soon my mind wandered when with no encouragement he started bragging about his son (architect, Harvard, Columbia, blah blah blah). I tilted my head and widened my eyes and said "wow" and other appropriate remarks. "I tell my son, 'Learning is a lifelong pursuit,'" he nodded, "Like this - this is learning, this is history." No shit, old man. When his soliloquy turned to politics ("Obama is a good speaker, but I don't think he has what it takes to run this country. But McCain is even worse! And if he dies that lady he chose will be president...") I bowed out as politely as possible. This is why I don't talk to strangers!

My point is that the only advice I've ever heard from the elderly are the things most people figure out by the time they're twelve. Maybe their words are more full of meaning than we hear, and they just have a limited vocabulary to express their wisdom. Or maybe we're just learning more at a younger age. I do believe "The Greatest Generation" (those who grew up during the depression and WWII) were the last decent generation, but their problems were simpler in those days. Makes me long for a time when a cliche could help me.

Full of Things I Want to Set on Fire

I'm gonna hopefully forget you
And quit those nightmares I've been having
Every night, every day, it's the same, so hard to explain
A million pounds won't be enough to make me stare back at your face
That's what I left behind.

CCS, "Left Behind"

(Photo credit: Kotama Bouabane)

At the desk where the boy sat, he sees the Chicago River.

It raises its hand.

It asks if a metaphor should burn.

--Bob Hicok, from "In Michael Robins's class minus one"

Hello Lucky

I can barely move.

Even sitting still my legs ache like the growing pains I thought I had long outgrown.

But I feel good.

The last few days I've been happy to be here, for the first time in almost nine months. Showing an out of town visitor around often shines a different light on familiar surroundings, and recently San Francisco has been glowing with the incandescence of a mother-to-be.

AJ and I trekked the trails of Muir Woods, the streets of Sausalito, downtown, the gardens of Yerba Buena, Marin Headlands, North Beach, Alcatraz, Fisherman's Wharf, and braved bitter midnight winds for AJ's coveted night photography.

In Muir Woods we played "Gay or European?" as we circumvented the throngs of tourists, eventually leaving them behind for secluded trails between ferns, across fallen trunks, and over musical streams. Have you ever seen the clusters (there is no better word) of monarch butterflies that migrate to the Eucalyptus groves at Grover Beach in November? Until this week I never knew ladybugs did the same thing. Then we noticed a clump of red on a leaf. I had never seen so many ladybugs in one spot until I looked down and noticed the forest floor was swarming with them. They were under our shoes, in our shoes, in our sweatshirts, in our hair. Thousands, maybe even millions in this one spot. Why? They say ladybugs are supposed to bring good luck. If that's the case, we were overwhelmed with luck - enough luck to last a lifetime.

Alcatraz was, of course, the expected tourist trap. What was unexpected was the sadness I felt as I listened to the audio tour. Part of it was the melancholy I always feel around urban ruins, but another part was the fact that these cells were home to the men society, their families, and even the men themselves had given up on. As the tour spit me out into the gift shop, amongst the Alcatraz sweatshirts, keychains, and replica tin cups, I noticed an elderly man sitting at a desk. At first I assumed he was a cashier, but a closer look revealed that he was a former inmate who was signing his book. No one was buying it, or even acknowledging his presence, and again I felt that same pity and loneliness I had looking into the bars.
There is nothing like a wide-angle perspective to gain insight into the everyday, and this week I drank in vistas like so many glasses of ice water - first overlooking the bay from Marin Headlands, then cruising back from Alcatraz,

and finally peaceful under a full moon.

I am lucky.

I Was Not Looking for Arty Farty Love

This song makes me feel everything's right in the world.

Digesting 1972

Do people still make time capsules? I remember it was all the rage at the turn of the century. In high school I even wrote a letter to my 30-year-old self, but since I remember most of it I doubt it will be a surprise if I locate it again in six and a half years (one brilliantly inspired line: "did you ever find a career you like and get to do everything you wanted to do? I hope so!!")

A few weeks ago, I found a time capsule of sorts in the most unexpected place - a torn cardboard box I passed on the sidewalk as I was running to catch the Muni. As I looked down I noticed it was filled with old magazines. Three and a half decades old to be precise. With ten seconds to spare, I shifted Women's Day to unearth a pile of ancient (in a magazine's lifespan) Reader's Digests from 1972. I grabbed three copies and shoved them into my bag before hopping on the Muni. It wasn't until I settled in and opened an issue that I realised just how valuable a find I had made.

It seems the world of 1972 was far more distant that I assumed. The younger generation (hippies) was continually mystifying, drugs were terrifying and dangerous, and so were "women libbers." Between advertisements from the Sugar Council ("Sugar. It isn't just good flavor; it's good food") and speculatory articles about where the country was headed ("[By 2000] to relieve urban congestion and air pollution, most cars for city travel will be small, low-speed vehicles powered by batteries, fuel cells or synthetic fuels") I found an article entitled "But Women Are the Favored Sex" by a certain Mrs. Elsieliese Thrope. It may be one of the most offensive and hilarious things I have ever encountered. From the get-go, you've got to admire that cartoon of a cavewoman Jane smiling contentedly whilst being dragged off by a scowling Tarzanical caveman. Mrs. Thrope certainly makes a watertight argument against Women's Lib. Some of my favorite quotes (sorry about the scan quality):

When Women's Lib first appeared on the horizon, I was amused. A bunch of disgruntled eccentrics with a phobia about dishpan hands, I figured.

It is she who decides whether it will be hot dogs or steak tonight... What man, on a job, can set his standards that way?

If I need to talk to another adult, I can always holler across the fence at my neighbor, call my aunt in Boston, or arrange for tea with a friend.

...And my personal favorite:
Back in the Stone Age when some lonely Cave Man found himself a suitable mate, he didn't ask her. He just pulled her home by her long tresses, caveman fashion. And I'll bet the poor helpless sex object was actually enjoying what was in store for her.



It seems Reader's Digest has always been filled with disaster stories, even in 1972. My co-worker and I reminisced once about reading the same story in an issue from the '90's where a couple of campers were mauled by a bear (in graphic slow-motion detail). I read it when I was ten and walked around shell-shocked for days. But besides the scare-tactics, these Reader's Digests represented a much more conservative, religious, sexist, and condescending tone than the issues I grew up on.

Now, if you'll excuse me I have to buy some cold cream for these dishpan hands.

Hormonal Manipulation

This BBC story details how a recent study found that a snort of the hormone oxytocin increases trust in test subjects, "even after they were betrayed." You can read all the gory details yourself, but basically a nasal spray is being developed to help phobics -with the terrifying aspect of this development being what it could do in the wrong hands. Am I being a little too James Bond about this, or do you too picture a bald man stroking a cat and purring, "Yes, yes. Soon, my pet. Soon they will bow to our bidding. Even as we speak, the hormone is seeping into their brains, rendering the amygdala defenseless"?

This is your brain on drugs

Another aspect of this article that leaves me uneasy is that I recall learning in PSYCH 201 that oxytocin is the "cuddle chemical," that creates mother-child bonds or makes a girl crazy after she sleeps with a guy (or girl?). That's what I hear, anyway. It's a dangerous substance. The phrase in the article about it increasing trust after being betrayed really terrifies me as well, especially in regards to relationships. I don't like the idea that a substance can impair your judgement or change your behavior (I mean, besides crystal meth, but that's different, that's cool).

Now, if someone could just create an oxytocin inhibitor, then that'd be good news.

I Got More Records Than the KGB

Please draw your attention to the virtual jukebox to the right. I'm going to try to add some more songs later, but for now enjoy a brief selection of oldies and other songs I've had going through my head lately. Suggestions welcome.

Maybe the Sun Will Shine Today

I'm weak.

I wrote my last entry before I decided to quit facebook, and due to a combination of my mom's dismay and the fact that I won't be on the 'book all day, I've decided to come back. Besides, I really like writing these.

Life goes on. I continue writing medicore flap copy for Chronicle. At my other job, Brainwash customers are a never-ending source of amusement (yesterday a beret-wearing Woody Harlson look-alike offerred me a job chaufferring his limosine "because I like to smoke joints in the backseat"). I went to Queer Night last night and waltzed with a creepy guy to Backstreet Boys. I've been doing a lot of watercolor and collage, and trying to care about the fact that I'm getting fat by doing ballet in my room to Bollywood music.

I'm still not sure where I'll be two months from now. My temporary job finishes at the end of this month, and while I'll still be working at Brainwash, it's not enough to keep me here. Presently the options are hearing back from one of the multiple jobs I've applied to at Chronicle (doubtful), staying here and trying to find something else, moving home and saving some money, moving to New York, moving to Portland...money is the brick wall I keep running into. My attitude toward money has always been disinterested at best, but the last year has taught me how lack of it can really detract from your quality of life and limit you from what you really want.

(My title is from the Wilco song, "Either Way" --> listen to it)

It's Over!

Folks, let's just call this what it is.

I'm done.

I love you. Please keep in touch.

"I Started a Blog" by the Sprites

Stuff San Francisco People Like

In the tradition of the inexplicably successful blog Stuff White People Like (soon to be a book, if you can believe it. Chronicle was outbid on this project), I have crafted my own entry to make sense of my fellow denizens of The City By the Bay.

1. Pet Causes. If there's one thing that gets a San Franciscan in a tizzy it's an injustice that doesn't affect their life, the further away the better. In fact, the further the problem, the angrier it makes them. Harvesting soy crops in Micronesia is destroying the endangered gruva moth: make a sign! Kids in Kazjekhistan aren't being immunized against mumps: post agro messages on an online forum! Oh, and they also want their pot vending machines in more convenient locations.

2. Scarves. I've never seen so many scarves as I have in the last six months. Part neck-warmer, part statement that says "I'm cooler than you." It's important to wear rayon-blend scarves, not knitted. The ubiquitous keffiyeh, considered a symbol of Palestinian nationalism, is another must for any self-respecting hipster.

It's important to make this face at anyone not wearing a scarf.

3. The Giants. Apparently some sort of sports team.

4. Hating Gavin Newsom. Who wouldn't hate him? He's young, hot, successful, engaged, rich... What a dickweed.

My mayor is hotter than your mayor. P.S., that's not his fiancee.

5. Hedonism. I've never felt like such a prude as in this city. How could I have never been to a sex club (yes, that is exactly what it sounds like - go to a building and have group orgies. There are separate rooms depending on your fetish: S&M? Guys only? Girls only? Furries?) done drugs, or had a one-night stand? Geez, what are you living for?

You party animal

"But if You Go Putting Up Pictures of Chairman Mao..."

Some photos of the thwarted Olympic torch relay through San Francisco. Originally, the torch was supposed to cross the Golden Gate Bridge, but after protesters climbed the bridge and installed giant FREE TIBET banners across it in anticipation, the route was changed for security reasons. I took a lunch break on Wednesday and headed down to meet some people near 3rd and Market, where the torch was supposed to start its journey through the city.

Effing San Francisco and its pet causes. After dodging dozens of people thrusting clipboards with petitions in my face, asking me if I'm a registered California voter, I still had to make my way through the Darfur people, the alternative energy petitioners, and the anti-war contingent. And of course, thousands and thousands of Tibet picketers.

Policewoman stops to snap a photo with her camera phone

The Olympics and Darfur are inextricably (or is that "inexplicably"?) linked

This multitasker was simultaneously chatting on his iPhone, wearing a bike helmet (because people want to slap him upside the head?) and pants eight inches too short, waving a Tibetan flag, and talking smack to anyone who would listen.

After all that, they ended up changing the route at the last minute - apparently switching it up as they went. So hardly anyone got to see the torch, including press. A great prank on the city's part, especially considering the thousands and thousands of dollars this whole farce cost to execute.

...In Which I Geek Out Over Funny Men

I couldn't be more excited about the upcoming movie "This Side of the Truth" - starring not only Ricky Gervais (who is directing), but also Christopher Guest. Two of, if not my favorite, comedians in the same movie. It's like my dream come true.

Tina Fey, Jonah Hill, Jeffrey Tambor, Jennifer Garner, and Jason Bateman have also signed on. It's like an orgy of funny. Although apparently Gervais' character tries to "woo" Garner's character and I find that a bit...ew.

The blog: This Side of the Truth
The man is a bloody genius.

Presidential Support

This is from one of my favorite websites: Slow Wave. The artist, Jesse Reklaw, illustrates peoples' dreams that they send in. In the nature of dreams, they are usually bizarre and hilarious. This one reminds me of my dream I was McCain's escort...

Tranny?

Random man at my work last night - as I'm wiping down tables and trying to close up:

"So I guess this is a one-girl operation, huh?"

*pause*

"You are a girl, right?"

Me: "What kind of question is that?!"

Rambles and Brambles

As stated in an earlier post, I work at a laundromat.

It's actually a pretty cool job, very much like Steynberg in that they have open mics and music most nights and a cafe where I work most of my shifts. Tomorrow I work in the laundry room, though. There are no tips for the laundry shift, but the dirty laundry holds endless material for the imagination. People can either do their own coin laundry or drop it off and for a fee have us throw it in the machines for them - usually there's just a line of laundry bags and we don't see the owners, so I like to try to piece them together from the prAna shirt (does yoga) and the "mom jeans" (over 40).

Laundromats always remind me of a book I loved when I was little. It was about a bear (stuffed, of course) named Corduroy, who got left in one. I grew up thinking laundromats were urban and exciting - maybe that's why I don't mind working at one.


The cafe shift is more exhausting, with few breaks and constant running back and forth to ring up purchases, make espresso drinks, call food orders, take money, re-stock, clean, and enter phone orders. I like it, though, and the regulars are amazing. Yesterday I chatted with a guy who toured with Third Eye Blind and got a beautiful long-stemmed rose from a hobo.

Kate, one of my editors at Chronicle, asked me a few weeks ago if I would like to stay on for two months as a temporary editorial assistant while they look for someone to fill a position. Obviously, I jumped at the chance, but now I'll be working six or seven days a week between Mondays - Wednesdays at Chronicle and the second half of the week at Brainwash.

San Francisco is grey and cold. People are chronically disappointing. But today when I woke up I noticed the daffodils I bought last night at Trader Joe's had already unfurled from tight buds to bright yellow blossoms. Sometimes I wish the world was more about stuff like that.

I Guess You Guys Aren't Ready for That...but Your Kids are Gonna Love It

Just try to tell me you're not in love with Marty McFly after watching this...

Wha' Happen?

Dear San Francisco,

I had high hopes when I moved to you. Things started off well: I was dating an amazing guy, I had an exciting internship I thought might turn into a job, I had a couple thousand in my savings account, and I was living the good life. Now, half a year later, the guy is gone, my savings account is empty, I am working at a laundromat, drowning my sorrows in cheap PBR, and myspace-stalking people until 1am.

I still have faith in you, San Francisco. It's time to bring your A-game.

Much love, Haley

Eat, Drink, and Be Awkward

As a certified "picky eater" I laughed out loud several times while reading this post on This Recording blog because I could relate to it so well.

Over the years I've overcome my fear of dogs and germs, but trying new foods always leaves me squeamish. It's completely embarrassing. For some reason people like to take issue with it as well, which always makes me feel much worse. I remember an Easter dinner when I was five or six when my teenage cousins were visiting. Everyone's plates were loaded with green beans, juicy slices of ham, and mashed potatoes. Mine held a tortilla with peanut butter. After saying grace, someone mentioned "all this good food" and I echoed "yes, it is good." "Oh, you're not even having any of it!" my older cousin snapped. I slouched down in my chair in humiliation, tears running down my burning face.

While it's one of the traits I've striven hardest to change, over the years I've accumulated a long list of immature ways to avoid awkward situations. These days I add several new foods a year - usually through pressure from boys (my ex-boyfriend made me try curry, which I ended up loving). Bananas and tuna fish sandwiches, here I come!

Cette Film est Magnifique!

I recommend it paired with a couple glasses of Merlot and a cute boy...

Humpday Links

Robot gives drug dealers a run for their money (Boing Boing).

Passive Aggressive? Rottenneighbor.com lets you tell them what you really think...online where they'll probably never see it...

I have about $20 coming to me because I bought Airborne two years ago. And you could too!

Where's Jack Black?

I guess that's it for me for now. I've got to go try to find a couch and cancel a gym membership. Wow, that sounds bad. Until next time, little dudes.

Weapons in the War of Ideas

My roommate says soon publishing jobs won't exist because people are reading less and less. In this hypothetical world, where does that leave me?

I'm terrified of the future, for many reasons.

"Set Fire to the Face on Fire," The Blood Brothers

I Should Have Paid Attention to More Disney Movies' Morals

Tonight I was looking at an eco-entertainment website that wanted writers (unpaid, of course) and I mentally sighed, thinking about how if I were to apply, first to make sure I was qualified I would have to start reading some similar blogs to get caught up on the latest "green" styles, celebrity news, etc.

There's something wrong there.

Ideally, instead of trying to figure out what I can do to fit into a required bracket, shouldn't I be pursuing what makes me happy and makes sense to me? And then if something comes along that fits my qualifications, all the better. There are so many jobs I've applied to where the interviewers made me feel inadequate for not matching certain specifications. There was the website that wanted someone with a stronger "craft" background; the stationary company that wanted someone with a stronger sales background, the website and the box office that wanted someone with more applicable experience. And I often feel that if I learned more about the "craft" movement, for instance - started reading all the blogs, knitting, bought a sewing maching, doing whatever else crafters do, I would have the job.

Even more painful is the regret that if I were somehow different - if I'd been interested in sports or hadn't used that choice of words - I would not have lost someone I loved. I know it sounds cliche, but is there every any value in adjusting yourself to a certain type of role - whether it's in a relationship or trying to find a job? And how long can you keep it up?

Text Adventure

I don't normally like this lyric-less, dreamy "mid-fi bedroom pop" music, but Text Adventure - a Glasgow-based two man outfit - has caught my attention lately. I've had their song "Boobook (for R)" on my itunes for a while after some music blog hyped them, and it's a really beautiful warm bittersweet nostalgic instrumental song. I'm out of adjectives, you'll have to listen to it yourself.

Text Adventure, "Boobook (for R)"

Check out their Myspace for a couple free downloads (or add them - the poor lads only have 22 friends!). You can also search for them on Hype Machine - it scours mp3s recently posted on music blogs.

...Just Look for Cars First

I have lost friends - some by death...others through sheer inability to cross the street.
- Virginia Woolf

I ducked inside a toy store in Yerba Buena to escape the pouring rain this afternoon, and saw a Virginia Woolf finger puppet with this quote. As soon as I had finished wondering why someone would buy a Virginia Woolf finger puppet, the quote sank in as especially true.

Please keep in touch. You know I will.

Busy Backson

My mom might be the only one who gets that title, but it's from a Winnie the Pooh story if my memory serves me correctly. Just one of those stupid phrases that becomes ingrained in a family's vocabulary until it's almost meaningless.

After three interviews, errands, hours on public transportation, securing a "date" for my friend's wedding (thanks, Emily), and the typical mental anguish of a day in this city, I'm exhausted.

On my adventures I discovered something strange and amazing: a map vending machine at the AAA office. For months I've been wandering aimlessly or driving aimlessly, never remembering to pick up free city maps from AAA until I make a wrong turn and end up at Union Square when I'm looking for a store in the Marina. I finally remembered today and expected to walk into a AAA and be handed maps by an employee. Instead (I'm still gobsmacked by the idea) right inside the door was a machine you would typically expect to purchase a $1.25 bag of M&Ms from - filled with maps! AAA members need simply insert their membership card, select as many maps as needed by pressing A5 or D2 and the little wires uncoil to deposit a brand spanking new map.

I've noticed bizarre vending machines popping up all over the city lately. There's one that sells expensive perfumes in the mall in the hallway to BART, one that sells iPods and their various accessories in the Metreon center, and supposedly one that sells marijuana - I'll post a picture of if I ever find it.

Single Awareness? You're Not Alone

Last night as I sat at the airport reading about the horrific botched attempt at the first electrical execution, my mind wandered to another form of cruel and unusual punishment: relationships.

People have some pretty strong views about Valentine's Day. If it isn't complaining about how this day has been hijacked by Hallmark and Hershey's, it's berating Valentine's Day as just another day where couples can gloat over how wonderful life is as a unit. I admit I have often been a part of the faction giving voice to how lame Valentine's Day is, but the truth is I don't hate it as much as I've claimed.

Growing up, Valentine's Day was never about a boy. Maybe it's because I wasn't in school, exchanging valentines in class and worrying about who I would give a Carebear or Ninja Turtles card to. I never even had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day until I was twenty. When I was young, the days before Valentine's Day were spent in the laundry room with paper doilies, feathers, stickers, colored markers, glitter, paper, and glue - making valentines for my family and relatives - or helping my mom bake heart-shaped cookies. That morning or the night before, we'd sneak down and place our valentines at each family member's place at the table - to be discovered at breakfast.

Romantic love, with a lower-case r, is fine, but it's just one of the facets (and in my opinion one of the most superficial aspects) of what Valentine's Day means to me. What about the love of family? The love of friends? Both are sadly ignored by the public perception of the holiday. Saint Valentine's name is derived from the Latin valens, worthy. Are friends and family less worthy of a day of celebration than a significant other?

To me, this is the truest love. The brother who can hardly wait for me to get home so he can show me the song he recorded on his new keyboard, holding the newborn cousin with a head as small and delicate as a peach, the dog who curls up next to me on the couch. Valentine's Day is about the fact that I have the ability to give love, to feel love.

I won't get flowers this Valentine's Day, but I have so innumerably much more.

How Can You Read This? It Has No Pictures!

Intoxicated with that fact that with a click of a button I can order materials from any branch of the San Francisco library system to be delivered to the library at the bottom of my street, I requested books like crazy online. So now here I am, like a college student who doesn't understand how credit works. It was so easy to order all these books, but now I have to acknowledge the fact that I'll probably never get to them all. These books are like another stray to a cat lady or a child to Angelina Jolie. Putting my gluttonous behaviors aside, I can't read them all. As it is, there are books I've been working on since last summer.

1. Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. I'm on page 1180 out of 1463 and for the last dozen pages Hugo has been talking about not only the barricades built between the Rue de la Chanvrerie, but every barricade built in the city of Paris since then - their size, composition, etc.

2. One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I haven't read this in so long I forget what it was about...besides the fact that everyone has the same name...

3. Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi. A wonderful book I got for Christmas about a group of girls who meet secretly to discuss banned books and life. I bet Oprah loves it.

4. Empires of Light by Jill Jonnes. The late 19th century has to be one of my favorite time periods ever. Combine that with a fascinating look at the evolution of electricity, and it's a recipe for Haley reading on the Muni. Plus, George Westinghouse was a hottie.

5. Proust and the Squid by Maryanne Wolf. I just got this one from the library and read the prologue, but I've been itching to read it ever since I saw it at Borders. It's a look at how the brain has actually evolved to read language - written by a neuroscientist. "Computer scientists use the term 'open architecture' to describe a system that is versitile enough to change - or rearrange - to accommodate the varying demands on it," writes Wolf. "Our brain presents a beautiful example of open architecture."

6. Little Heathens: Hard Times and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Great Depression, by Mildred Armstrong Kalish. After I read about this book on the New York Times top ten list of 2007 I really wanted to read it. I love love love memoirs and books about the depression, and a book by someone named Mildred has to be good.

7. Wizard: The Life and Times of Nikola Tesla, by Marc J. Seifer. Oh Tesla, you are so weird and fascinating. You only do things in multiples of threes and hate women's earrings, but I can't stop reading about you. Sadly, this book looks pretty thick - I don't know if I'll be able to get through it before I have to return it.

Reactions On Watching Sixteen Candles

"I see you've gotten your boobies!"

In what universe does a father wink and give his daughter the "ok" sign as she gets into a stranger's car to go lose her virginity?

Ew. 80's people are weird.

Sisterly Advice

"At 23 I dont think it's quite time to settle for drug dealers or prophets."
--a girl close to my heart

They Called Him the Man Who Invented the 20th Century

Before last night this was about all I knew about Nikola Tesla.

Then, I heard a radio show about him as I was driving through the rain-drenched streets of San Francisco and couldn't stop listening to his amazing history.

Born at midnight during a lightning storm (or so the story goes), Tesla began his career working with Edison, but their differing views on electrical current (Edison's DC current required a power station every two miles, but Tesla's stronger AC current could light a whole city) began a lifelong feud.

Tesla gained notoriety for hundreds of inventions, including remote control, spark plugs, radio, and wireless communications. With financial support from tycoon JP Morgan, Tesla began building his Wardenclyffe Tower - a huge transmitter which would supply unlimited energy worldwide. When Morgan heard about this, he exclaimed "If anyone can draw on the power, where do we put the meter?" and promptly withdrew his support, forcing construction to end. Sadly, the remains of the 187-foot tower were used for scrap metal during the first world war.

In addition to his fascinating contributions to life today, there's an eerie mysticism surrounding Tesla. He was very eccentric, obsessed with germs, celibate, spoke eight languages, would listen to radio waves for hours thinking he heard signals from Mars, and at the time of his death was working on a machine that could read memories.

Years after his death, during the Cold War, officials became concerned The Enemy had gotten hold of Tesla's writings for a "Death Ray" - a theoretical machine involving charged particle beams and enormous amounts of energy. Though so far the energy could only be manifest in a vacuum, the fear prompted the Star Wars initiative.

Want to know more? Me too. Here's an interesting short video. Click.

Bienvenue, Mon Petit Chou

My cousin had a baby today!

Kairo Alexander Hook getting his hair washed for the first time.

I didn't know hospitals do that.

Tonight's Sunset from My Room

Wow. I'm still speechless.

I was making some chai on the stove when I noticed the intense light streaking sideways across the kitchen floor. It seemed bizarre, since it was grey and rainy all day. I peeked out the front window and the houses across the street were luminated a bright orange against the denim sky. I grabbed my camera and shot this photo from my bedroom right before the sun faded.

Tuesday, Wednesday Break My Heart

Sometimes my heart literally hurts when I think about how much I miss SLO...

The good news is, two days 'til I'm back! I can't wait.

Emily Speaks in Her Favorite Font