Gingerbread Outhouse

Laura, a former intern at Chronicle Books where I'm interning, invited me to a gingerbread decorating party today at the apartment of a friend of a friend. At first it sounded fun. Then, we were instructed to buy a gingerbread-house making kit and assemble it at home the night before. The kit I found was produced by the Wonka candy company (a corporation whose products, no matter how good, can't help being a set up for disappointment. The everlasting gobstoppers are not everlasting! Where's the soda that makes you float? Where's the tasty wallpaper?) and failed to include one of the walls. In an act that would impress any Cal Poly architecture major I moved the pieces around and improvised until I had constructed something that looked a little like a house and could stand on its own while the icing dried. George called it a gingerbread outhouse.

I'm a bit surprised how popular these parties are. This is the third gingerbread house decorating party I've gone to since I started college, but nothing prepared me for the lengths Becky, the girl hosting the party had gone. She had her apartment completely decorated, with a Christmas tree and a holiday collar on her cat. A video of a crackling fire was playing on her tv, and she had made dozens of different snacks (like bacon wraps, spinach filo puffs, sausage and cheese biscuits, crackers, and cookies). She offered us a choice of eggnog, mimosas, champagne, or hot apple cider. Even the tables were decorated with different gingerbread house photos she'd printed out glued to the tablecloths.

And everyone loved the gingerbread outhouse.

The World, in its Cold Way, Started Coming Alive

I know I'm supposed to post a new Christmas song today to keep things neat and orderly. I like neat and orderly - everything as it should be and out of mind. But I just can't. I don't feel neat and orderly. I feel dead and worn down. And I'm not even taking finals like most people I know. My roommate/landlord just sent me an email for a $112 utility bill this month, NOT split, and now that the anger has passed (I'm really only here half the week, while he sits here with all the lights on all day) I just want to lie on my bed and be emo and listen to The Mountain Goats. This music heals me in an inexplicable way. I know John Darnielle's voice is whiney and more talking than singing anyway. It's the way he lets small things touch his heart. I need people and influences in my life like that.

I miss having friends.
I miss George.
I miss Sarah.
I miss Emily.
I miss Brittany.
I miss Eric.
I miss riding my bike.
I miss $585 rent.
I miss Amy.
I miss Faith.
I miss Lana.
I miss Stephen.
I miss Arlo.
I miss my family and anyone I didn't mention yet, except for ex-boyfriends.
I miss feeling comfortable.

The Mountain Goats, "Woke Up New"

The Countdown Continues

As badly as I wanted the Liza Minneli / Alan Cumming version of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" for today's song, all the links to said song are disabled. You can still go listen to a sample on itunes, but I'm afraid that's as good as it's going to get (and oh, that would have been good, my friends).

In lieu of that treat, I have Jack Johnson's version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I actually really like this - Jack's bouncy, easy guitar works great with the tune, and he even adds another verse where the other reindeer apologize to Rudolph for not letting him play their reindeer games. Perfect.

It Don't Snow Here, It Stays Pretty Green

Today I realized it's the second day in December, and remembered that years and years ago I would have been opening the second little door in my cardboard advent calendar. They were the ones filled with tiny chocolates in vague Christmas shapes, like an elf or a boot. Those three weeks saw me waking up and rushing downstairs each day to check what the shape for the day would be. As more and more cardboard flaps opened, Christmas inched closer at an aggravating speed.

In honor of those days, I have a sort of musical advent calendar for you. Each day I'll try to post a new Christmas song (two today to catch up). Parents: to listen to the song, click the link. To save it to your computer, right click on the link and hit "save target as."

December 1: I'm starting off with my favorite so far. I discovered this beautiful Feist cover of "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" and I can't stop listening to it. It's not one of those classic "get you in the holiday mood" songs, but it's so pure, and Leslie Feist's voice is perfect.

December 2: Another more sombre track, but this one I simply must include because of my undying affection for Meg Ryan's character in "You've Got Mail." In one scene she writes, "It’s coming on Christmas. They’re cutting down trees. Do you know that Joni Mitchell song? 'I wish I had a river I could skate away on'? Such a sad song! And not really about Christmas at all, but I was thinking about it tonight as I was decorating my Christmas tree, unwrapping funky ornaments made of Popsicle sticks..."

The Red Phone

My favorite thing about living in San Luis Obispo was how (unless you stayed indoors) it was nearly impossible to go a whole day without seeing someone you knew. In my late summer stupor, bored and injured (alcohol, skinned knee), I at least managed to sit out on my front porch most days reading a six-inch copy of "Les Miserables," eating Trader Joe's Vanilla Almond Crunch cereal, and saying hello to people I knew walking by our house. Even John Fino, the bearded, uni-dread-ed spirit-channeller from Linnaea's, walked by at least once a day, once telling me "I want to talk to you sometime" (It never happened).

Here comes the surprising part: San Francisco is like that too. A city with a population (according to the 2000 census) of roughly 800,000 shouldn't behave like a small college town in the sticks with a population of 45,000...or should it? People are more or less the same wherever you are. What's surprising to me is how often I run into the small number I recognize over and over again. My roommate Dave showed up at The Fly Bar by George's house. I ran into Tom (the LucasArts guy), who I met through George's British ex-pat group, at the BART station. I bumped into a girl I work with at the Rickshaw Stop during a promotional party for a book called Broke-ass Stuart's Guide to Living Cheaply in San Francisco (apparently we're both lured by free food).

These encounters are the most bizarre, however, when you start to recognize random people you've seen before in public places: the middle-aged homeless man on the BART with hair that looks like a net, the girl who reads Harry Potter on the 21 bus... Friday night I sat at the San Diego airport for over an hour waiting for my flight back to San Francisco. Eventually I grew tired of listening to music, and started observing the people around me. I thought nothing of a teenage guy pulling out his cell phone, until he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a bright red telephone receiver. He proceeded to somehow plug the receiver into the bottom of his phone, then chatted away happily, unaware of the surprised glances from strangers. As soon as we got off the plane, there he was again at the BART station, again talking on that phone.

I recalled this instance while riding home on the Muni tonight. I wondered if he was afraid of the cell-phone radiation, or just felt nostalgic for the grip of a plastic handle. I had concluded he was just trying to be unique and hipster cool, when I noticed the same guy was up ahead on the same MUNI train as I. I knew it was him because he was wearing the same tri-colored jacket.

Small world!

No Car = No Fun

This morning I thought I smelled bacon cooking when I woke up.

I went downstairs.

It was my mom cooking a catfish for our dog.

Meet Me in the Stacks...

Appropriately delirious from staying up all night to catch my 6:20am flight home, I would have napped all afternoon if my sister hadn't sent me a text message saying "Ugh! Why do guys hit on you at the library? I came here to get away from people." Apparently she had settled in on the 5th floor (an area she assumed to be harmlessly remote) when some dude came and sat right next to her and tried to strike up a conversation. Apparently he had seen "The Prince and Me," a horrible Julia Styles movie with a grammatically awkward title (why couldn't they have gone the way of "The King and I"?) that I have mostly blocked out of my head besides the scene where Julia and the Prince try to get it on in a library. What I took to be hot as an 18-year-old no longer seems like such a sexy idea. Seriously? In a library? Remember that "Friends" episode where Ross got angry about people having sex in his dissertation's aisle? You know this guy talking to my sister was thinking, "hot AND smart! Score!" Believe it or not, Casanova, the library is not an ideal place to meet women.

She just wants to get back to analysing the significance of iambic pentameter in Macbeth

Don't tell me you haven't imagined it: You sit down five feet from a beautiful girl in sweats with stacks of books and various snacks arranged on her desk - oh yes, this one will be here all day. You calmly but noisily begin unpacking your materials, hoping to catch her eye with your white Macbook. She looks up and frowns. That's the signal to start workin' it. Ask her something like, "come here often?" or "Do you think Emily Dickinson was gay or just agoraphobic?" Lean back in your uncomfortable and threadbare chair to show her that you put the stud in studying. After a bit, find the biggest book in the library and appear deep in thought at how its non-linear plot structure supports its use of dramatic irony. At this point, she will look up and say something like, "I just hate Chaucer. I can't understand the Prioress's Tale at all." Come over and sit next to her. As you go to turn a page, your hands inadvertently touch...

Just stay away from my sister!