What it is that I do, exactly

I made this today. Or rather finished making it yesterday. I wrote most of the articles, named the topics, put the articles in the topics, and am generally the boss of this website. At least for now.

So, if you must know, that is what I do.

Tea and cookies at the Museum of Jurassic Technology

I think that when you are spending an afternoon with John, things are bound to be magical, and the Museum of Jurassic Technology is always a good idea. With John, it's only that much better.

They still have the dioramas of trailer homes put together carefully by the Creative Land Use people next door. And they still have the micro-miniature sculptures and the folk remedies and the light is still so dim that you might suspect you're in a haunted house, only now there is an upstairs as well.

If you make your way back past the bats that fly through walls and the human horns and the geometric diagrams of maybe something to do with the theatre, there is a staircase. And if you follow it up and up and up, past the logic alphabet and the portraits of dogs in the Russian space program, there is a small elf who will serve you tea from a large bronze urn - tea in dignified glass goblets. There are candles all about and cushions built into nooks in the wall and vases of lilies and the loveliest curtains.

The in and outside of the door to the MJT are quite like two different worlds. I am reminded of Invisible Cities and travel and the other world.

these boots were made for walkin

Jolly

It turns out that the song that Ingemar's uncle in My Life as a Dog listens to over and over and over is actually a Swedish version of I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts, which, as you may or may not know, is a positively first rate song. Having discovered that, it became imperative that I own a copy myself to play ad infinitum, and I'm happy to report that iTunes is in the process of supplying me with Merv Griffin's version as I type.

Really quick before I start actually working

I just want to say that the light outside looks incredible. It's been raining all morning, but we're on a break at the moment and the sky is this intense blue with white-white puffy cumulus clouds over the golf course, and the rain has turned the grass a healthy green. I love the fresh clean radiance that rain brings. It's energizing. It almost seems worth working to sit next to this big window and witness it all.

Last night was lovely as well. Molly and I played through the old folk songs we haven't touched in ages, made soup, watched the Good Life, and then Hajera and I popped in on the 5th String holiday party. I didn't bring my banjo because it's heavy and it was raining outside, but I slipped my picks in my pocket, drank a few glasses of wine, borrowed a tuner and sat on a stool with a banjo on my lap. Everyone was there. I mean, not Everyone, but still.

All my favorite 5th String kids (some of whom are probably in their 50s and 60s...) and Jimbo Trout (who was a total sweetheart to me even after I bungled my attempt at a Cripple Creek solo) and a bunch of other people I've seen play around town. They played mostly songs I didn't know, so I tuned a ukulele and tried to find someone playing chords that I could copy. Once we started playing everything in G (as in, once there were only banjos and guitar left) I could almost figure out what the guitar chords were and got better at recognizing the banjo chords even when people were picking them (and kept moving their fingers and not using the whole chord).

These people are all amazing musicians. It was so cool to be playing with them, even if by "playing" I mean bobbing my head and smiling. The other banjo boy kept smiling at me sympathetically when the piss drunk old Japanese man almost fell on top of me trying to play the bass or when he stuck his ear about six inches from my ukulele (then a snazzy Martin on sale for a mere $1600 - really why should you bring your own banjo, when you can play their $6000 one?) and exclaimed that I was doing a great job and should insist on playing a ukulele solo. There was a funny German woman whose tattooed, leather covered and metal studded daughter spent the party passed out on the floor of the guitar room. She also had this incredible fur lined pointy leather hat that looked like it could have come from the set of Genghis Khan. If she'd've been conscious longer, I would have complimented her on it. The guitar/ukulele boy with the curly brown hair accompanied me home on BART. That whole scene is a big barrel o' sweetness.

Anyway, a good time was had by all.

You're not going to believe this

but I just saw a rat sleeping on a cat sleeping on a dog on the sidewalk in front of the Macy's in San Francisco.

There was a red haired man standing over them saying something about hope or possibility.

I was reminded of lions and lambs.

v. stressed about work and future-related things, esp. as pertaining to goals, the economy, direction, brain death, &c., but have started to have conversations with people about things, which makes it slightly better, but not so much better that my eye twitch has gone away.

am trying to find a compromise in all of it.

am trying to engage.

also

I saw two girls playing jumprope on the sidewalk in West Oakland as I was biking to work on Wednesday morning, which made me happy because I read that jumprope is the first thing to go when you start cutting back sidewalks to make more space for street, which is supposedly problematic since sidewalks are meant to be a city's lifeblood and an indicator of a neighborhood's health/degree of safety. So, after seeing all those other enclosed courtyards that no one uses because they're not private enough to be private and not public enough to be public, it was nice to see something reassuring.

And also. Noah saw my calendar as he was leaving. The Treehouses of the World calendar, a most amazing and inspiring calendar. And it turns out that he has considered learning how to build treehouses being that he did study architecture, etc. So, this is promising because my architect sister declined to build my pirateship-like treehouse for me.

a couple of things

a. i tried to buy cowboy boots and they should have arrived early next week. only now i have checked my email and it tells me that actually they prob won't ship till the 19th, which feels devastating even though i understand that in the big scheme of things waiting another two weeks isn't a big deal. but before and after christmas seem like two completely different universes of time. i am considering canceling my order. i am unhappy with these people. shame on them for withholding my boots from me. shame shame shame.

b. it turns out noah really wants to join the peace corps too. so he came over last night to discuss it. he is for it. and for doing it now. i'd still want to learn spanish first and i still need to get some volunteer experience, but it's not such a bad idea - taking a few classes in interesting things after work and then applying. god only knows how that boy has money to live, but it might be possible to figure out a way to work And learn things at the same time. if it's true that the peace corps backlog is really as long as it sounds like it might be, it can't hurt to apply sooner rather than later. and i could always do my interesting thing on the side assuming i know anything about it. so, i am thinking about it.

i still miss iceland though.

c. i am learning a new banjo song. something with a really long title that involves like railroads and blues and a southern state. i have learned half of it although my fingers don't quite want to do what they're supposed to yet. but the crazy and potentially flattering thing is that Tim the Banjo Teacher claimed that i could learn the second half of the song next week and maybe even start learning another song, which is a big deal. since usually i spend at least a month per song and now i'd be learning practically two songs in one day granted i don't think he'll actually start a new one. i need to practice.

Cuteness overload

They call her Amélie Jr.

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

It's cute because she's French, and it's cute because she's a fucking genius. I can't wait until she starts putting together elaborate, personal, and heartbreakingly delightful pranks on the citizens of Paris! ~Videogum

She even has almost the same toys as Amélie.

And has already earned a marriage proposal.

Going under the drill

I am feeling muddled about this morning's "follow up" dentist visit.

There has been something curious going on with two of my teeth - nothing too painful - but it appears that two of my teeth were too tall and so I have in fact been chipping bits of them off along the gumline over the past 15 years or so because the "neck" of the tooth is apparently the most flexible.

So, I had them paint a little something on the chipped bits, which they insist on calling a "filling," and they did some occlusal something or other to make my teeth all more or less the same height, which should prevent me chipping them off more.

And that's good, right? Only I liked not having "fillings" in my teeth. I liked having my real teeth, which I still have, except now they feel different. Well, two of them do. I can feel the resin paint, and I miss feeling my shiny smooth teeth. Sigh.

They do look normal though, and my bite does feel more even. So, I suppose if this keeps things from getting worse later, it is a net positive. I just don't like the idea of them sanding off my perfectly good tooth parts to make the resin paint stick, and I want my one tooth to feel less like a brick on the outside - which is partially my fault because I didn't notice it felt like a brick while I was still there.

Anyway, trying to have happy thoughts.

Plan B

What if I started applying for the Peace Corps now? Would that be a bad idea?

Pro's
- I could start doing "interesting" stuff sooner.
- I would potentially have another job lined up for late next year/early 2010.

Con's
- PC is having trouble getting funding :(
- I'm not qualified for farming/plant stuff yet.
- I can't speak Spanish yet (and therefore would be ineligible for Latin America, which means chances are I'd get sent to Africa, but is that a bad thing? I could get sent there anyway...).
- Band stuff is not happening in PC countries.

So I guess now isn't the best time. But then when is a good time for doing something scary like quitting your job to move to a developing country when we'll be in a world-wide recession for the foreseeable future?

I would love to just sit down with some accommodating and objective but neutral person to really puzzle this out. Where do you find these people? My parents are out since they will always oppose quitting one's job to do something not fully fleshed out during a recession, but there should be some reasonable person. Or does that really and truly sum things up?

I almost want to drive to Virginia to ask Barbara Kingsolver what to do. I want to pull everyone I know aside and interview them individually, but I honestly wonder if things wouldn't make more sense once I was growing rhubarb in Iceland.

More babies

So, major highlight of my week: I got to play with Hajera's nephew Zaid for a few hours last night. I helped him wipe the ricotta off his lasagne noodles, flew him around the dining room, slid him across the hardwood floors, got him to sit quietly on my lap when he was running around and screaming with this noise-making toy, played trains, tickled him senseless, you know, fun stuff. The girls were also impressed with my nonchallant diaper changing skills. I've still got it.

Is it uncool for someone my age to admit that they adore little kids? I think the rule is that you're not supposed to mention it until like the third year of marriage. Which, unfortunately for me, appears to be a long way off.

The Death and Life of Great American Cities

Reading that piece by Jane Jacobs. I heard her on the radio a while back and she seemed like an all around cool lady, so I instructed my mom to collect this book from the Strand when she was in NY last winter. Finally getting around to it now.

And it's interesting when you read one of those earth shattering, paradigm shifting books written a couple decades ago, you're pretty much sure that the world must have ended at some point between publication and now - only you're still around to read the book. Cadillac Desert was like that. How can there still be water coming out of the faucets?? How are we still alive? Only now the questions are more like - how is it that Mosswood Park isn't an abandoned den of sin? Are we still building Garden Cities? Is there not a way for city people to meet each other that also includes trees?

I heart that the shuttle gets me reading in the mornings, but I still wonder if there's not some middle ground between impoverished unemployment and a 45 mile commute. How does one go about translating that wonder into an alternative source of income?

hitting the books

Have you noticed that everyone is doing their fashion shoots in Iceland now?

I really do want to learn up Icelandic good and proper as best as you can with no other human instructing you, but I have some tapes and a book and I just discovered that the University of Iceland offers two free online courses (!) bless them.

I even put a reminder on my calendar to work on my language skills every Saturday morning for two-ish hours and Wednesday on the way in to work.

I will get there, I will.

baby quilt - check

So this is the reason I have been getting rusty on the banjo and taking a long time to return emails:


From the back:



And here's the man himself:


After a November of renting vids from Reel and hunkering down in my few hours at home, it is finally done! I have now outed myself as a "quilter" to my extended family as I worked on it between dinner and dessert on Thanksgiving. It's hard to tell whether people are being polite or whether they actually might want one of these things. If there's actually a demand for them, I might even be able to use a machine to make them.

Usually by the time I'm about half way through, I think of how I could do it better next time, or I think about how I'm making it simpler than I'd originally planned, so it's nice to have somewhere for these things to go since I already have a bunch on my bed and in the closet.

Now I'm in that lull that comes after the completion of some big project, fantasizing about other big blanket-shaped projects I could start, but I want to try to work on this banjo thing. And learning Icelandic. And clearing my apt of anything I don't like enough to keep in storage when I make it to Iceland.

You're no fun anymore

I have developed the bad habit of regularly checking the Google stock price. And even when I peek occasionally at my Vanguard 401k and whatever else it is I have in there, all I see is red, red, red. It wouldn't be so bad if I was at least breaking even, but no.

Boo, you're no fun anymore, stocks. You are making people tell me I should keep my job.

But I want to grow vegetables and play banjo and sew things. I want to compost and bake and meet people.

Were you aware of it? vol. 12: The Mayor of Rabbit Hash, KY

Rabbit Hash, KY (pop. 40) is a small community in Boone County. In 1998 and again in 2004, Junior the Dog was elected mayor, in an unofficial election. The 2004 mayor died earlier this year, and the town brought the vote for a new mayor online. For a $1 donation to the Rabbit Hash Historical Society, you too could have voted.

Here are a few words, from mayoral candidate, Travis the Cat:

Travis chose Rabbit Hash and you should choose this cat to be the new Mayor of Rabbit Hash. He is the ONLY candidate that actually resides in Rabbit Hash. This gives Travis an advantage because he sees the needs of the town and is always there to greet and meet the needs of the people. He is a hard working cat and he is non-discriminating, but most important he is not intimidated by the other candidates. He is not afraid to stand alone or to be the Top Cat in the Top Hat Vote now, vote often, vote for change, vote Travis!!

Lucy Lou the dog pulled ahead in the polls on election day, though, and now serves as mayor.

Visit the official Rabbit Hash website.

The beginning of the bluegrass band

So these home schooled 18 year old boys are really good. And they are adorable.

Tim (the banjo/mandolin teacher/band coordinator) told me and Anna (his gf/our guitar player) to be nice to them because they're shy. Aww how cute is that?? They are absolute sweethearts.

I really need to practice though. These kids learned in about 15 minutes the song I still can't play right even though I've been trying it for months. And they can play it faster and with out messing up as much - granted they've been playing their instruments for way longer. I'm just pleased to be playing bluegrass with other people, esp. people who are better than me.

I also need to learn how to play with a capo since all the fiddle versions of these songs are written in A instead of G, so I get lost when I have to make that giant leap in the B part of Salt Creek. And I need to practice chords and try to relearn some more interesting way of vamping behind other people's solos.

I did nail Cripple Creek, though, thankfully, since it's probably the easiest song I know.

Now that this quilt/monster is done and given away (more on that later), I'll have plenty of time to practice.

holiday magic!

Sitting here at home drinking tea from my new red mug and listening to classical music on the radio with a rain patter outside. I can feel that holiday magic-feeling. I am v. pleased and also excited to be going home tomorrow morning. Seeing family, whatnot.

And then bluegrass band practice starts Sunday. (!)

The only thing I need now to take this up a notch is a functional oven to bake Swedish coffee cake in. I can't have a proper holiday without it.

Meant to be

My manager mentioned yesterday that I may as well work from home today, but I needed to collect Emilio, my first-rate work companion and pet goldfish, so that he wouldn't starve over Thanksgiving of all holidays.

So I take the shuttle in to work, print out my boarding pass for tomorrow, do a bitty bit of work and then catch the 11:30 shuttle back to San Francisco.

I'm not very good at shopping unless I know what I'm looking for, but there were these plates at Anthropologie that I've been eyeing and and lusting after. So, having noticed that Urban Outfitters was doing a free shipping promo for the holidays, naturally I went to check the Anthropologie website, but they're only doing free shipping on orders over $200. Not helpful, but the more alarming thing was that the plates I've been dreaming about were nowhere to be found.

And then there I was in San Francisco in the middle of the day, during prime shopping hours. Emilio and I walked along the Embarcadero and down Market until we found ourselves in front of Anthropologie. And then we were standing in front of huge stacks of the most beautiful beautiful plates, but not only that! They were on sale! 66% off!! Only $3.95! It was a sign! When fate makes its intentions known, you simply can't disobey, so six green flowery plates and a lovely red mug came home with me. Emilio and I are highly pleased. I should take him shopping with me more often.

And, now that I am fully stocked with plates, you'll need to come over for dinner.

Making lemonade

Thanks to major accidents on just about every freeway in the Bay Area, it took over two hours to get home Friday night. By the time I got home, it was too late to get the flour and milk I needed for the Swedish coffee cake, so I watched King Arthur (the dvd my coworker lent me, which was Not Too Bad) and worked on this quilt. Saturday I got up early to hit up the bike shop since my rear bike light is m.i.a., the farmer's market and Berkeley Bowl to collect ingredients for the Swedish coffee cake and apple bread (since the coffee cake, which is kind of like a Swedish version of cardomom flavored challah, wouldn't be done in time for Erin's birthday picnic that afternoon).

So I bike home, whip up the apple bread batter, stick it in the oven, hop in the shower and get my stuff ready to head to the picnic only to discover that after 60 minutes, my oven was only luke warm and the apple bread was still just batter. Sigh.

I wrapped up the fancy chocolate I'd gotten to go with the bread in tissue paper and yarn and headed out.

Settling in later for a night of quilting, one of course wants to eat nothing but baked goods because one's oven is out of commission. I tried just skipping dinner since I was still full of chocolate cake, but half way through Wicker Man I got peckish, so I raided the fridge for veggie scramble ingredients and put a little of this and a little of that in a mixing bowl determined to make some kind of savory griddle scones to go with the eggs + vegetables.

Molly called to offer her oven as it turned out she wasn't going to the city after all, so I biked over with two loaf tins of apple bread dough and four dvds. Broken English was a little less cutesy romantic than we were hoping, so we finished Wicker Man instead. Very strange movie, that. It wasn't as girly a night as I might have hoped, but we had fresh apple bread and lemon verbena tea. And let me tell you, Molly's fancy convection oven is an absolute dream.

This morning I found a message on my phone from my manager suggesting I call PG&E about the oven, but as soon as the PG&E man said the technician would be over asap, I came down with the most awful cabin fever. The injustice of being trapped inside indefinitely on what may very well be the last beautiful day of the season! It is the end of November, but I'm in my lightest skirt and a sleeveless shirt and not cold in the slightest.

So I inspected the fire escape, found it to be very safe-looking and brought a chair, my quilting supplies, and some new episodes of RadioLab out on my ipod and sewed in the sun watching for the PG&E truck.

PG&E showed up after 45 minutes / an hour maybe. Bless them. And now I'm free as a bird just in time for Steven to show up to play music. Still oven-less, but I can live with that.

Take that, winter and loneliness.

Postcards from abroad, episode 6: The faintest hint of Santa Fe

The late autumn sun shines harsh over Santa Fe in late autumn. Such that buying a cowboy hat or wide brim fedora seems the most natural thing to do. You would blend right in here. Even men selling Virgin Mary shaped beeswax candles at the farmer's market were in collared shirts and cowboy boots with long hair and a respectable mustache.

I am in awe of a city brimming with shops selling the western wear a Californian has only ever heard about. My fashion dream come true. I would tell you that I saw a grown man in a fluffy sheepskin vest and thick leather belt with a big buckle, cowboy hat, boots, jeans, skinny tie. Except that passing him on the street it seemed I was the one dressed oddly. This was a city of cowboys and indians clipping through town in boots, selling the turquoise jewelry made by their own hands as they tell you about the land, this place.

I'm not sure I've ever seen so much art, so much incredible art, squeezed into one small spot. I had to take tea in the cafe near the train station just to let it sink in. The farmer's market - the German man selling some of the best bread I've ever tasted (which was still the best when I finished the last bit of whole wheat ciabatta with dinner today) or the woman walking home with a white cockatoo in a red, wool lined jacket on her arm. Everyone seemed to know each other or be somehow connected, the twelve year old working the register or the doctor with the baby she adopted from a homeless mother. Anywhere else I might have felt outside of it all, but that morning it was as if I was wrapped up in it, part of it.

People smile. Fit you with cowboy boots. Brush your hair to the side as they set another hat on your head, explaining how they might build a hat just for you, if you wanted. They honestly want to know where you're from - they don't just ask.

Finishing my tea, I thought I could live there. I would buy boots and a hat and learn to bake bread, to make something of myself. I'm still a bit lovesick for the place. If only it weren't for the lack of water, I might never have come back.

In defense of Norman Rockwell

The people demand reading material, so they shall have the treatise on Norman Rockwell I have been meaning to finish:

New Kids in the Neighborhood, 1967.

Firstly, I love Norman Rockwell.

When I was a kid, I used to go into Barnes and Noble and attempt to explain to my parents that it was imperative that whatever mammoth-sized tome of Norman Rockwell paintings was laying about absolutely had to come home with me. And they weren't hard to find. I haven't flipped through those books in a while, but I still consider myself a fan. So when it was mentioned to me recently that Norman Rockwell has gotten something of a bad wrap for for painting what is considered trite Americana, my emotions were aroused.

Oh, the injustice of success! To cast aside these aspersions against the innocent, I shall attempt to revisit some of the things that drew me to N. Rock. in the first place and why he continues to kick butt.

Exhibit A. Faces
My ten-year self was v. impressed with the way Norman Rockwell could paint people. I had the darndest time making the people in my youthful drawings look different. It's like - all/most people have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, etc. and in your head, you know what an eye looks like, so you draw two of those, and you know more or less what a mouth looks like so you stick one of those on around where it should be. And no one can draw noses, so you do your best there and then oh look. All these people could be clones.

But Norman Rockwell, artiste extraordinaire, did not have this problem! Ok, so there is a Norman Rockwell face. You can picture it in your head with the expressive hopeful eyes and thin nose and ruddy cheeks, but you can tell the people in his paintings apart - especially in his later paintings. The awe this inspired in my ten year old self has not yet worn off.

For example:
Gossip.

Yes, they are wasp-y, but look how expressive they are too. The man obviously has technical skill.

Exhibit B. Details, details, details
There's never a boring part of a Norman Rockwell painting. Something is always happening in every corner.

Take this, for instance:
Saturday Evening Post cover illustration, 1960
It's not just about a sailor hitting on a cute blonde. He's got all the old men coming over to the window to watch and the emotional lives of all the people crossing the street. Incidentally, this is one of the few paintings with a little self-portrait of the man himself.

So maybe if he'd zoomed in on the little romantic scene, you'd look at this picture and think, "yeah, yeah sailors hit on anything with legs (or so I've heard)," but now you've got the pedestrians thinking that already for you. And the guys up in the office thinking damn I remember when I could hit on hotties - too bad I'm old now. And one of them has a slingshot?! What's'a matter? Jealous? And just looking at it tells you New York - the little bit of taxi, the throng of pedestrians finally getting to cross the street, and, if you still weren't sure, the street signs.

And all of that is where you get Americana. He makes it not just about the individual, but about our relationships and how we're connected, and I think that connection is why his paintings have that feel-good aspect to them. He painted an America that was about community, rather than just that rugged individualism we go on about.

Exhibit C. The Moment
Henri Cartier-Bresson writes about the decisive moment in photography where you manage to capture in one split second a moment that speaks to an entire story, like that guy about to make a splash of a calm puddle. Painting, though, has the luxury of arranging itself just so to collect just the right images to define a feeling or capture a moment. There's a lot of symbolic painting, obviously, that really goes to town with that - take all of surrealism, for example.

Norman Rockwell, though, has this amazing ability to recognize important moments in people's lives and then translate that into an almost (but not quite) photo-realistic painting that captures all of it and makes it seem familiar.

For example:
Girl at Mirror, 1954.

Now, some people want to say that Norman Rockwell is cheesy and trite. I take issue with that. These iconic images only seem old hat now because Norman Rockwell got them so right the first time. He got it. And he put it onto canvas. And when those images were plastered the country over on the front of the Saturday Evening Post, he defined America.

I don't want to point any fingers, but, if you need to be reminded, this is more like trite:











Not Norman Rockwell.

So, finally

Really I have been meaning to write more. I've thought of things as I'm running about that would be nice to put in blog-form, but I've been busy with the usual. Trying not to look incompetent in banjo lessons, doing my darndest to finish this quilt for my friend's baby by Thanksgiving [photos to come soon], being utterly engrossed in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle on the shuttle (which I finished this morning!), aaaand yes working late.

Sigh.

But! I have been promoted! and raised! and bonused! So, life is not all bad. Although you wonder what the point is really. Except that I have trouble not trying when I know how to do better. The phrase "'strongest contributor on the team" came up during my review. I really did like my old manager. She was awesome and I was reminded during my review why/how I was maybe inclined to work so hard. It did give me pause, though. Shocking though this may sound, there are other people on the team who are (or so they claim) actually interested in the "online/ecommerce space." How can it be that I'm wowing people's socks off. Sounds like I haven't got my priorities straight.

Regardless of everything else, I am rid of filling out a time sheet for what I hope is a long long long long time. And that is a good feeling. That's all I wanted really, but don't tell HR. I'll take my raise too, thanks.

Anyway, it has been such a contrast getting lost in Barbara Kingsolver gushing about her year of eating local, growing almost all her own food, and even raising her own poultry while doing my best to put the old nose closeish to the grindstone for a few hours in between.

I'll be the first to admit I haven't worked as hard the past couple of months. Working thirteen hours a day is just not something you can do for an extended period of time. Case in point: I have been sick since September. Talk about lame.

I think I've always had a lot of drive, but never much direction. Lately though, in a quiet moment I'm starting to get a vision in my head of what I might want parts of the future to look like. What's really important and what I might be able to give up. The funny thing is, it looks a lot like the naive picture of my adult life I had when I was eightish. Except that I wouldn't be wearing the tiered denim skirt... I love that image so much that I'm afraid to describe it out loud.

In any case, there is hope yet. There is now official written record of my being good at tackling nebulous projects and getting them done.

Santa Fe fashion corner

Look what I found today.


I was wandering around trying on cowboy boots (Lucchese boots really are as comfortable as they say... sigh) and having my hat size measured by a J.D. Noble, milliner (if you can call someone who makes cowboy hats and wide brim fedoras a milliner) and then I wander into the shop next door and they had all this fabulous jewelry and other hats and clothes and the downstairs reminded me of this dream I had a while back.

Hiding in the sale rack, I found this beauty, and the thing fits me like someone made it especially for me, which never happens and is rad. So, the woman and I decided it was just meant to be. A total steal for $25 anyway. And I think it will do well as a band costume. So, yay.

New Mexico sends its love!

Yes we can

There was honking and shouting, singing and dancing in the streets, and all this raw hopeful energy pulsing through. Obama is president elect. Obama is president elect. Yes we can! Obama! It hasn't quite sunk in yet. I'm still kind of love-drunk, but I feel hopeful for the future.

I feel hopeful even though bans on gay marriage were passed in Arizona and Florida, and, by all appearances, California. You'd have thought that if it could fail one place, it'd have been here. At least out of these three. They say not all the ballots have been counted yet in some of the coastal counties, where opposition was stronger, but things are looking bleak.

So, are we willing to accept this as the cost of an Obama presidency? I'd say yes and no. A woman on my shuttle who's very active in the gay community said she was feeling pretty awful last night and only slightly less so on considering that if she had to pick one or the other - Obama or no on 8 - she'd probably have had it this way. I said yesterday on more than one occasion that with the record turnout we saw this election, I'd have to respect whatever happened as the will of the people. Don't get me wrong, I feel strongly that a constitutional amendment denying rights to some citizens should never been on the ballot in the first place. Such things should absolutely not be possible or even legal, but this is the system we have and these are the cards we have been dealt.

On the brighter side, propositions for abortion limits appear to have been defeated in both California and South Dakota, which suggests to me that what we need is a more open debate on the gay marriage issue. I don't know that this issue is really up for debate for people in either camp, but with so many people feeling so strongly, repealing this now is going to take a much more focused and involved effort. We will need to get to know these people, the yes voters. We will need to have a real dialogue to find common ground rather than isolating ourselves further. If there is a distinction to be made between civil rights and religious ceremony, let's make it. Let's at least make that. If gay marriage isn't about civil rights, let's pass legislation that guarantees equal rights to all.

It's not the same thing, I know that, civil unions and marriages, but I feel hopeful. Things are not in the position they were this time yesterday, but I feel hopeful. If we need a 2/3rds majority, let's do it. If we can elect a black man to the presidency of a country where slavery was legal 200 years ago, where blacks were only 3/5ths of a person and couldn't even vote, we can do this. Yes, we can.

Holding my breath

Before polls start closing and numbers start coming in, I just want to capture this feeling of nervousness and anticipation. You can just feel how big and important it all is. We're voting not just for president, but we're standing up in California for gay rights, for animal rights, for an amazing new high speed rail, for the environment, for the future of our courts, for reproductive rights.

Whatever happens, I think what I know today is that I need to get out and make a difference. I need to step up from this desk and put my energies where my heart is.

Life is too short to sit by and watch.

Robert Levon Been of BRMC on what it is about music

I think one of the reasons we still love music but don’t admit to is it’s the last form of magic left on this earth. I mean, in that no one can fully understand or explain why or where it comes from and that’s why it’s kind of a beautiful thing.

**See here.

Were you aware of it? vol. 11: The salt in salt water

A few hundred million years ago, the waters of the ocean were still fresh enough to drink. It is the earth that contains the mineral salts one tastes in sea water. The salts are in all runoff, leached out of rock and soil. The runoff concentrates in rivers, which end up in the oceans -- or, as in the case of Mono and Great Salt Lake, in a closed-basin sumps up to seven times saltier than the sea. Once in the ocean, the salts have no place to go; the seas are stuck with them. When the water is evaporated, the salts remain behind; when the water falls as rain and becomes runoff again, a fresh batch of salts washes in.

~ Marc Reisner, Cadillac Desert, p. 455

Well, interesting things.

Firstly, my two thousand dollar cat is missing. He ran off maybe two weeks ago, still no sign of him, but my sister suspects a homosexual love affair with the stray next door, who is also m.i.a.

Secondly, the cat we got when I was in first grade died today. Looks like it was a stroke as she tried to climb the stairs, which paralyzed her. My mom made her a bed and she went in her sleep. She was a good cat, maybe the best cat, but she had a good run of things, held on to the end of the end. My sister is opposed to my mother's wanting to bury her in the back yard. Questions of legality aside, I think this is a perfectly natural thing to do. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and all that, but my sister takes issue with our fruit trees' habit of nitrogen reuptake. I for one, though, would rather eat my cat as an apple than a fist-sized ball of petrol, which is our other nitrogen option.

Thirdly, the author of The House of Sand and Fog, whose name my brain has no intention of remembering. Andre something or other the third. Was on City Arts and Lectures tonight.

Sometimes I am around facts and sometimes I am around art, and I'm not sure which is more real to me. Friday at Kyle's proposition party, there was a boy who is a blogger and editor of the California Majority Report, and he seemed to have all the answers. Not in a snooty way, he could just explain the key facts and illustrate his reasoning for just about anything thrown his way. He knew all the numbers and background of everything, a very good guy to have around at a proposition party. You see someone like that and politics and truth and facts seem so tangible and romantic. Romantic in that you want to throw yourself into all of it.

And on the other hand there's someone or other on City Arts and Lectures. Talking about how he teaches adults, older adults in their 80s just getting to writing for the first time and being good at it. And he asks them why they took so long to come to writing, they say because their parents weren't keen on the idea of being a Writer because it wasn't a Real Profession. And, he says, he is lucky because his father was a writer so he could feel good about taking only blue collar jobs cleaning and constructing things so that he could always be a writer himself in the first instance. And to respect that.

Or my banjo teacher who, it turns out, was on some fancy radio show yesterday and has had people calling up the Fifth String wanting to record him and is In Demand for all these punk-bluegrass bands. Now, I am skeptical of his use of the word 'punk,' but he seems flattered and overwhelmed by having achieved this highly specialized skill. Lots of hot shot musicians want him in their band (and he's my banjo teacher). I guess I feel lucky to have him to myself for an hour a week, but what I really feel is kind of jealously awestruck. That music clicks for him and that he's been able to hunker down on that One Thing that makes him tick, the One Thing that matters.

I want to know that I was meant to be a writer or a musician, but I think what I know is that I'm a master of spinning plates. And that I need each of these little counterweights maybe like Alexander Calder's mobiles. I am very conscious of the ballet of adding and subtracting.

Made the cut

I used to want to be (among other things) a professional soccer player when I grew up. I was way into sports. Not normal professional sports so much as the Olympics and any kind of soccer. There was something so epic about it. And running around and kicking things as hard as you could was pretty exhilarating. I wanted to play in the World Cup something awful. And not just a girl's version of the World Cup - The World Cup. Granted playing soccer in the Men's World Cup was pretty unlikely, let's be honest - how much more likely was it that I'd ever play in the Women's World Cup? Not that much.

We never had a soccer team in my grade school, but my high school had a varsity team and it was of like The Utmost Importance to me to be on that team. So I tried out. And I was competing against all these kids who had been playing in the more competitive (expensive) leagues. A lot of them were better. I knew that. But whatevs. I don't know what I was thinking, I just knew that I Had to be on that team. I just did.

Only my name wasn't on the list when the coach posted it. Cue the end of the world.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is my banjo teacher wants to start this band with his gf and a couple of his students. A bluegrass band. Like, a real bluegrass band with mandolin, fiddle, guitar, banjo, the works. He says they'll practice "regularly" with the goal of opening a show for his proper band in a couple months. And he wants me to be in it. All the other peeps are supposedly musical prodigies (granted at other instruments and not necessarily in bluegrass) but he wants me to be the banjo player in this bluegrass band. How could you say no to that? You couldn't.

---

**As a footnote, I did once play soccer on a traveling tournament team. One of the last tournaments we played in was a kids' World Cup. I think I still have my jersey.

The human condition is a gregarious one.

Wow. My afternoon practicing banjo in the park turned out to be a little more eventful than I had anticipated. Kind of like a strange dream.

Here are some excerpts of a conversation I had...

Hey is that a banjo?

Can you sing me a song? I'm having a bad day.

Yeah, yeah. That's it. I used to play the banjo. All I can play now is a harmonica. You got a harmonica?

You know what I love is these geese. Canadian geese. I love them. Did you know geese mate for life? I'm a country boy, and I can't keep an old lady for more than five years, but these geese - they mate for life. You see that one there? That's my favorite. I seen him here last time I was in this park. You know how you can tell if a goose is male or female? I'm a country boy, so I know. I grew up in Oklahoma. You know where that is? Well, the female is always watching the male's back. That's what I like in a woman. Someone who can watch my back. I bet you that goose is a male. He's my favorite.

Let me tell you a story. Now, I live in San Francisco, but sometimes I come out here to do some business or see some friends and the last time I came here was ten days ago. I didn't get any sleep. Now, I'm a country boy so I'm up with the sun no matter what and the last time I was out here in this park I was real tired so I laid down right over there. I was here at a time when you're not even supposed to be in this park, but I was sleeping right over there on that grass and I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear all this noise around me. I thought it was the police so I started swinging, but I looked around and it was these geese! They protected me. All night long. Now, I believe in God, and I believe they protected me, so I love these geese. They're beautiful.

That reminds me of my grandfather. He was real special to me. God rest his soul. [holding his half pint of vodka up to the sky]. My middle name's Clifford, after my grandfather.

[A family with young kids starts playing soccer near by]. What's that?! Wait a minute, let me get a hold of the situation. Ok, it's alright. Tell me, can you do me a favor and let me know if there's any police coming. You don't have to watch out, but if you see any, let me know so I can put this away. I don't like no police. I'll watch this way and you watch that way.

Ladies don't like it when you ask their age, but I got a dog older than you. So how old are you? I got a friend that's your age. She's your exact age. I look at a girl like you and you're just a kid to me.

I'm Tim. What's your name? I got a friend with that same name.

Now there's only three geese! Wait. Is that three or four? My eyes aren't so good. You got glasses. See I need glasses. I used to have glasses but I must've lost 'em in a fight. Or they broke.

No, ten years ago there wasn't any geese. I used to come here. You see that bench. We used to sit over there. We used to be lined up back to back. We used to smoke dope. You know what that is? Things is different now.

Am I giving you an earful? I don't want to be too aggressive. What does that mean, aggressive? I don't know. I'm a southern boy - we don't use big words. I know 'good mornin' 'good afternoon' 'good evenin' 'reckon' ... That's it.

I used to be a big man. I had big guns. I don't now, but I used to do pushups every day. Before you were even born, I was back in Oklahoma. I had a nice red {insert name of fancy car}. This was back before they had radar guns. And a cop pulled me over. And I said, what you want, pig? I call the police that cause I don't like no police. He didn't know it, but I had a gun in my left pocket. The police always carry their guns on the left side in the holster, but I had mine in my left pocket. If he tried anything... Bulletproof vest. Don't matter. I coulda shot him in the forehead. I had my gun in my left pocket. I always check to make sure it's loaded. I cocked it. You know what that means? I coulda shot myself in the leg, but I was ready. What you want, pig? This P------ land. This is private property. That's my name, P------. German. Look at these eyes - you can tell. You try something, I'll get my grandpa down here. This here is P------ land. He didn't know it, but I had another gun in my boot. Right here. I said to him, git busy, pig. He tried anything, I coulda shot him in the head. You know what he said? I'll tell you. He says, Timmy, I wish you wouldn't drive so fast. Tim, that's my name. And he drives off.

Sing me another song. I'm having a bad day and I want to get that good feeling.

Back in Oklahoma, you could get a motorcycle license at fourteen, but my dad used to let me drive even before that. One night I drive over to my friend Denise's house. We were just fourteen and playing pool at her dad's house at three in the morning. Not drinking or nothing, but her dad brought home a big bottle of Crown Royal. You know what that is? Real nice stuff. Fancy. A real big bottle. This big. Well, maybe not that big, but it was big. And you know what I did? I got a big cup, and I filled it up. Denise says to me, my daddy's comin' down any minute. And he walks through that door and I was just fourteen I didn't know what he would do. He says, what's in that cup son? So I said, your Crown Royal. And you know what he said? [Wheezing laughter]. He said, then you better drink it! Yes, sir! I said, may I take your daughter out? And he says, just make sure you bring her back. So, we get on my motorcycle and drive out to my friend's place. He was older than me, but we knew each other. And he had two bedrooms, so I asked if we could sleep there and he says yes. We didn't.. you know. We just slept next to each other. When I woke up the next morning, she was naked, but we didn't fuck. Pardon my French. It was ten years before we made love. Now she moved to Nashville. She's married to another man. Before she went out there she came to me to see if I would marry her, but I said no I'm not in the mood to get married. That was probably a mistake. She was beautiful. You should have seen her.

If you're a lady, you can call me Timmy. Otherwise, you call me Tim.

See where that leaf is? Right there. Ten days ago, I was here with my friend Charles. And there was a lady with huge boobies. Boobies, yeah, that word is ok. She was half-woman. No. You know when sometimes a woman likes men and women? That's what she was. She was Puerto Rican. I don't know what that even means, Puerto Rican, but she was Puerto Rican. And she had huge boobies. Like this. I never seen boobies that big. And she was sitting right there where that leaf is with my friend Charles. I don't normally run with black folks, but Charles is a good guy. A real good guy. And they called me over. We're going to drink together. She gives me fifty dollars and they tell me to go on a run. Charles says he knows me and he can vouch for me. They sent me to the liquor store all the way on 40th Street. You know where that is? 40th Street? So I go all the way down there and get a couple half-pints of vodka and some beers and bring it back. That's what you can get for fifty dollars. And I pick out the first drink. I got runner's rights. You know what that is? When you make a run, you get to pick the first drink. We're drinking and I'm still staring at her boobies, and she told me to come to her apartment. Now, if you're from the south a man doesn't touch a lady unless she asks you to. But then, it's like that kid's game. What is it called? Donkey Kong. Now I'm not good looking. At least not now. Am I? Don't says yes. I know I'm not. But, if a lady asks me, then it's on like Donkey Kong.

You want to hear something funny? I was checking my mail the other day, and I saw I got a letter from my dad. So I took it back to my room and turned all the lights on cause I lost my glasses. And it has a picture of his new old lady. You know how they send pictures on the internet? It was like that. I opened the letter, and a credit card fell out. You know, for the pay phone. And the letter just said. I'm worried about you son. Call and tell me when you're coming home. So I go a couple blocks down the street to the nearest pay phone and call him up. Dad, I said, you're always complaining about how Roxie calls you all the time. Why you want me to call you? Roxie is my sister. Her name is Roxanne. We're German. You see these eyes? You can tell. Her name is Roxanne, but I call her Roxie. My sister is getting out of Washington State not the prison, but the jail in a couple of days. She wants me to fly up to meet her when she gets out. I don't know if I want to go, but she says they gave her some money and she can pay. I don't like flights, but she's supposed to send me the information for the ticket. And my dad says the Mexican wrecked her car and they want to fly me up to take care of things. If you wreck my sister's car, that means business and he better pay. So, I have to think about whether I want to do a few years, but she's family. Usually my dad tells me not to get in trouble, but this time he said go take care of things. If he doesn't pay, I'll kill him. My dad says he'll pay for me. You know what that means? It means he'll pay my bail when I get arrested.

Why do you womens put on so much makeup? You always look better without it.

I have a friend about your age. She's a girl and she's a friend, but we don't fuck. Excuse my language. She's about your age. Twenty-six. I would die for her. I don't want to die, but I would.She's about your age. She's my friend. We never.. I mean we kissed a couple time and sometimes she stays in my hotel, but we never made love. If you're twenty-six, you're just a kid to me. I know women. We're friends. Once you fuck, that changes things. Now, if she was forty. That's a different story. If she was forty, it'd be on like Donkey Kong.

If you look at me, you wouldn't think I would be affiliated with Hell's Angels, but I am. I have short hair now, but you can tell I was a biker. I still am.

I banged on his door. He didn't answer, but I knew he was in there. I could hear the radio on. I wanted to break down his door, but then they'd kick me out of the hotel. Finally he answers and I said you better give me that twenty dollars. He said how about I give you my radio and three sleeping pills instead? And I said, hell yes!

And I had a knife in my jacket just like this. It was open. That's how I got this cut here. I lost that knife. That was a good knife. I don't have my knife today, though. When I have a knife, I get in trouble.

I know everyone in this park. If anyone gives you any trouble, you send them to me. Don't tell them my name. You know my name. Don't tell them my name, but you send them to me and I'll take care of it.

And I'm not sure what to make of all of that. People just want to tell their story, I guess.

Green thumb

I noticed while putting about the apt yesterday that my orchid is putting out not one not two but THREE new shoots for flowers. How great is that?? All the other times, they've just put out one stem per flowering, and this is three!

And not only that. I noticed some crazy green things growing out of my neathebella palm, which I should mention was totally sickly when I took responsibility for it. I read the little tag in the pot, and apparently it is flowering! And even the leaves are turning greener after I put some of my compost mix on it. How sweet is that?

And almost everyone is putting out new leaves. The little alocasia isn't feeling that well, but the big one is putting out new leaves like it's nobody's business.

The schefflera is almost shrub sized. The little rubber plant's leaves are still black and the bigger leaves on the big one are looking healthier. And the aloe is sorta kinda standing up straight again now that I turned it around. I'll probably still need to move it to a bigger pot one of these days, but I'm v. pleased with its performance.

The little mystery plant that got overrun by my hypoestes until I repotted it is even looking happier in its new pot full of compost-rich soil.




All the philodendrons are happy and the jade is growing all over the place.

I don't know how to get the cardboard palm to grow, but at least is hasn't lost any more leaves in a while.

I know there's lots of economic craziness going on now and I'm thankful to have a job that should last as long as I want to do it, but wouldn't it be nice to spend all day looking after plants? Tending a garden and growing food.

Jolie Holland at the Bimbo 365

I ended up watching the show mostly by myself. Took the shuttle to North Beach a little early. Found a cute cafe showing the tail end of the debates and handed over the better part of my last ten dollars for some tea and french onion soup.

Lots of folks I knew were there, but they all disappeared for one reason or another, but I don't so much mind watching shows by myself. If the music is on right, I usually float up in the space above my shoulders anyway. Just being present and absorbing it, you know?

I wasn't too worried about how the atm at work wouldn't give me money because I figured I could always borrow a dollar or so from someone for the bus/bart home. Only, when we met up after the show, everyone else seemed to have a ride, so I ran out to catch the 11pm bus. I counted out the right number of dimes and nickels and tried my atm card again on bart, but with no luck. And the Powell bart machines don't seem to take credit cards for whatever reason, so I fed my last three dollars and my last dime into the slot feeling lucky I didn't buy anything more expensive for dinner.

I left my laptop at work so I wouldn't have to carry it for however many hours at the show, but, on the way to the city, I remembered that I was thinking of staying home sick today, which would be fine and I could have worked still on some of the stuff I wanted to do with my home computer, but they want to launch this feature and I'm in charge of pressing GO for the help content, which requires the work comp.

So, of course this morning the throat is sore as ever not helped by getting home so late, but I hopped on the shuttle to MV, ran up, grabbed the computer, and hiked over to main campus to catch a shuttle back to the SF office. I had the foresight to buy a bart ticket for the ride back at MacArthur this morning, but it looks like they take credit at Embarcadero anyway. Good to know, I guess.

But man, so that was lame.

Then I call the bank to see what's up with my card not working and they say oh we canceled your card because our accountants noticed that your name wasn't spelled right on your card. We sent you a new one at the end of Sept, but we noticed you haven't activated it. ??????? Who ever heard of deactivating someone's card with no warning for something dumb like a supposedly misspelled name - and it was spelled right! I had been using that card for yearS. in the plural. and Now they decide it's a problem that my first name isn't on the card. And apparently the misspelling was so urgent that they couldn't wait for me to even get the new one in the mail. wtf? I got one for my mom, since I guess she's still on my account for whatever reason, so I asked if I could just use that one (a new one that just got here like last week), but the girl says they canceled that one too!

It took me about an hour and a couple of different supervisors, but I got them to turn my card back on.

I need a nap to recover from all this venting! I was planning to do a lil work today, but maybe I'll just take it easy for a bit then bike over to Berkeley Bowl to see if my card does indeed work again.

What I wanted to say, though, was that seeing Jolie Holland was nice. I like the way her drawl gets amplified when she's singing and how it lets her slide around in her vowels. I think she also had a nice looking Gibson guitar. I am kind of getting a little crush on those, esp. after Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Even though it doesn't so much matter when the music starts, the spinster feeling picks up between songs and on the long ride home, but I try not to think about that much.

Meep

Firstly, I had a fabulous time in Seattle this weekend. I should tell you about it.

This week feels like one of those heavy, sensory-overload weeks, though. Not sure how that happened. Maybe I caught something on the plane ride back. That could be it. Some weeks are just TMI. And there hasn't even been that much this week. Maybe I shouldn't schedule myself to work 12 hours my first day back from a trip. But there are just so many people needing things from me, I seem to have gone into shock.

This is why I haven't answered your email.

If I still feel this fuzzy in the brain tomorrow, maybe I will call in sick.
Probably a good idea.

apple nerd

kind of excited about the new macbooks


and by "kind of," i mean really.

Iron & Wine ...and beer in the park

I had the loveliest weekend. The loveliest. Of course, anything that begins with Sigur Rós in the warm rain is off to a good start.

My banjo teacher keeps telling me I need to get out and play music with more people. Not to be shy about it. I don't think I am though. I mean, ordinarily I would be. I would be petrified. I would not even buy an instrument because what if I wasn't good at playing it?? But it's too late for all that.

I brought the banjulele and some Bohemian tarts fresh from the oven to Molly's party Saturday night. And, for a moment at least, my banjulele was playing with another beautiful cigar box ukulele. Kind of like connecting with other parents when you bring your kids to the park. The owner of the musical cigar box was a much, much better musician than I am, but I was flattered when he said music words to me anyway. He showed me diminished chords and how you can flip and slide them. He made his cigar box sound like Django Reinhart, and I was swept up in it.

Sunday was easy. I slipped into the shower and out to Golden Gate Park for Hardly Strictly. I sat a few hundred feet from Ralph Stanley and Earl Scruggs. We sipped wine from the bottle in the sun. And packed in close for an intimate moment with Sam Beam, with Iron and Wine. We opened a few beers and melted in with the crowd that spread up into the trees, just about as far as you could see.

We danced with Gogol Bordello and ran into everyone you might know even in the crowds. Thousands and thousands of people and you may as well have known them all. Hajera and I wandered over to Emmylou Harris and ate chocolate and perfect goldfish with Angela then found our way to a bar with margaritas and nachos and caught up.

It has become the time of year when darkness sneaks up on you. We sat at the bus stop singing with the banjulele to make the bus come faster. One of the fellows at the bus stop asked if we'd be busking, but taking money for music just wouldn't seem right after a free festival. We sang with the banjulele all the way home. On the bus, the man next to us joined in on Hallelujah. We knew people could hear us, but we were being quiet. Of course, we were in a drunken euphoria, but people seemed to enjoy us, to enjoy our quiet music. It was special. The kind of thing you'd like to do sober if you could quiet your objections. And maybe I will.



I'll leave you with Sam Beam. Such a lovely beard, don't you think? I am pleased that this sort of face still exists.

Iceland, ho!

So, I am barely able to sit still. I am filled past the brim with Iceland love.

Let me tell you. We saw Sigur Rós last night. At the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. And I love the Greek Theatre and Sigur Rós is pretty much life changing, but it hasn't rained here in almost a year. Real rain, anyway. We all wore rain clothes for the show because the weather report said it might at long last be time, but it was so warm and humid you didn't need more than a short sleeved shirt. It sprinkled at the very start of things, but when Sigur Rós came out, the weather held its breath.

And they were wonderful. Different from the last couple of times I've seen them, but wonderful just the same. And happy. And Jónsi spoke to us. He asked us to sing and we sang. And he asked us to clap with Gobbledigook and we clapped. And they covered us with tissue paper confetti as if it was the happiest moment and you just couldn't contain yourself anymore and burst into a million colored sheets. And all the little paper leaves that stuck to me were green. And it just meant something.

But then, when they came back for an encore to play that song like they end the Reyjkavík show in Heima - the one that builds and builds and builds - we were lifted up and up and up, and right at the very top, the rain let loose. But it was a warm rain and you almost didn't want to put your jacket on so you could soak it up. And Jónsi came out to the edge of the stage to be touched by it.



And at that exact moment, I'm sure, there was a conversation happening in New York in which my dear, dear friend Ciana happened upon an unlikely Swede at a party. And I am to email this Swede, who will in turn lead me to Icelanders. Crowds and and parties of Icelanders. Eligible young Icelandic men. Pools of them. At a party in New York in January. I am there. I am absolutely there.

All I need to do is email this Swedish boy and learn Icelandic, which I would do if I could stop dancing around my apartment.

Talking shop about ukuleles

I just wanted to save for posterity that this is my dream ukulele.

Do you ever have the problem where you get into your head the exact perfect thing that you want and then that's just it. Well, this is it.

I love the logo and the koa wood. So classy. Swoon.

I was also thinking about getting one of these for traveling with. You know, for ease of mind. And ease of wallet when I crush it on the train or forget it out during a snow storm.

And also, these Aquila strings are supposed to be pretty good.

I hear polar bears can swim...

Were you aware of it? vol. 10: Páll Óskar

According to Wikipedia, Páll Óskar Hjálmtýsson (born 16 March 1970), known internationally as Páll Óskar and Paul Oscar, is an Icelandic pop singer, songwriter and disc jockey. He had a musical childhood, singing at private functions, with choirs and for media advertisements, but was affected by bullying in school and tension between his parents at home. He came out as gay to his family at the age of 16 years.

Paul Oscar's musical range spans traditional Icelandic songs, ballads, love songs, disco, house and techno. He released his first album, Stuð (Groove), in 1993 while in New York City, and also sang with Icelandic groups Milljónamæringarnir (The Millionaires) and Casino while establishing a career as a solo artiste. His album of ballads, Palli, was the best-selling Icelandic album of 1995.

Paul Oscar came to international attention when he performed "Minn hinsti dans" ("My Final Dance"), Iceland's entry for the Eurovision Song Contest 1997. His most recent album is Silfursafnið (The Silver Collection, 2008). In Reykjavík, Paul Oscar performs regularly as a disc jockey in clubs and appears on radio and TV shows.

Tell me you don't love this:



It's catchy, eh?

Pleased with myself

I love how getting peckish at 8:45 for a quick late night snack means baking whole grain spelt-meal buttermilk biscuits stuffed with mozzarella from scratch and whipping up a little kale with stewed tomatoes and great northern beans. I am officially a hippie. As if there was ever any doubt.

zing!

You know how sometimes you'll just be messing around on the banjo or whatever and then all of a sudden you hear something. The thing you were trying to find only not really trying, more like wanting to chance upon. And then you chance upon it! Well, I didn't actually know this phenomenon until like seven minutes ago when I was practicing for the banjo lesson tomorrow since I've been neglecting it during my cold, which I am finally recovering from.

There was this part in Fireball Mail that I'd heard my teacher do and heard people do. A bit of fanciness. Not even that fancy. Just different in a way that I like. And I could hear it in my head, but of course I have no idea what those notes are. And I couldn't remember where it would go even if I did find the notes. And Then. I am playing around and hit the wrong string by mistake and it was like a shoot of lightening that said NOW! Play it now! So I fumbled around hitting whatever string till I found something closeish to the first note and then the other notes just came straight out my my hand. Just like that. As if I wasn't even trying.

And then I smiled so big at myself in the mirror I was practicing in front of that I noticed my teeth were tinged a shade of kale-olallieberry from dinner and skipped into the bathroom for my toothbrush, hence the delay in typing up this post!

So exciting! Just as I was sulking jealously at people who seem to have a way with stringed beasts and can coax a song out just by flittering their fingers. Where I feel like I can repeat fidelously (which, I know, isn't a word, but it's the word that my brain keeps suggesting instead of the word I'm trying to think of) but I can't or i feel much more timid before the task of musical inventing.

Maybe there is hope for me yet.

Also on the topic of exciting musical news, I am headed for Seattle soon, which means another trip to the Trading Musician! This time, I am on the hunt for a glockenspiel, a glow-in-the-dark shaker skull or two, and, if the stars align, a singing saw. Although, I keep thinking about Grizzly Bear and how they said they sing all the parts of the instruments they don't have in their band, and how I like singing the saw part. Only time will tell what the future will hold!

inventory

have been v. busy lately, and haven't updated as often as i'd've liked. apparently a couple nights of not quite enough sleep catch up with you quicker when you've been working ten and twelve hour days. and when i work now, i work. my work productivity has hit that hockey stick flash point. and i'm pleased about that.

but being sick the past week and some has been a bummer. i tried practicing banjo for the first time tonight in ages. my fingers still remember the moves, but slowly like i'm moving through molasses. and i want to be able to play fanciness. and rock and roll.

things that have been on (or passed through) the mind:
- i am tired.
- what can i do about the industrial food system and the havoc it's wreaking on our health?
- where will my new desk be post-shuffle, and will it have a window?
- oh yes, i bought this cauliflower at the farmer's market, how pleasant.
- how can i turn my icelandic-european farming adventure into a specific research project?
- will work really pay my health insurance if i say i want to learn about organic farming and how realistic it is as a sustainable alternative to industrial agriculture?
- are 2/3rds of the people i see on the street really obese or overweight and is the scale at my parents' house flattering me into thinking i'm not one of them?
- where can i buy "whole grains" and is that something you can bake bread with?
- how nice it is that the alocasia plant at work put out a big new leaf just when i thought it was unhappy.
- how the tea i made today is still sitting at my desk because i forgot to drink it.
- it is a shame that bluegrass banjos are so heavy.
- i am tired.
- i should get out those icelandic tapes that came in the mail the other day.
- when is a good time to join the peace corps?
- do i really need to have my wisdom teeth out, and if so, how will i get home and feed myself afterwards?
- do you suppose there are enough eligible men in iceland that i might get on with one of them?
- maybe a swede would do well enough?
- a scot?
- a liverpuddlian?
- maybe i should buy another bar of chocolate.
- should i buy cycling shoes?
- oh good, earl scruggs isn't playing hardly strictly on friday after all.
- need to email the seattle kids to let them know i'm coming.
- need to sleeeeeeep.

Novel Advice

I am running out of books to read, especially fiction. True, I've still got five of the six volumes of the Tale of Genji ahead of me

[which, as an aside, I am super impressed with Arthur Waley's translation. This book is purported to be the first novel ever written. It was written something like a thousand years ago, and it reads as easily as a novel - albeit a somewhat dense Dickens-y novel in its infinite description of minutae - from the 1960s, when the translation was first published. Not only that, but the man has done an amazing job at the encyclopedic work of explaining the nuances of medieval Japanese culture.]

but still. After all the news about David Foster Wallace, I suppose I'll try to attack Infinite Jest once I have my way with the Tale of Genji, but I need something more travel friendly to carry around with me.

So, I put it to you - what should I be reading?

Iceland takes the silver

**Courtesy of the September edition of Dateline Iceland

Iceland claimed its second-ever silver medal, losing to France in men’s handball in the final event of the 2008 Beijing Olympics. According to Iceland Olympic Men’s handball athlete Ingimundur Ingimundarson, "Vikings are crazy. We're crazy. We believe so much in ourselves. I think that's the secret."

Back in Iceland, streets were deserted as people watched the match in their homes or in pubs and clubs. Companies allowed employees time off, while at least two cinemas screened the match for free. Players said that during the team’s semifinal appearance the country’s stock market stopped business as traders abandoned their computers to tune in.

Aside from the 1956 silver in the triple jump, Iceland has won two other bronzes, the last in 2000, and no golds. Despite the name, our country of just 300,000 people has never excelled at winter games, either. Go figure. Perhaps we’re always too busy taking in the sights.

How awesome is it that a whole country could get so excited about a couple of their guys playing handball in the Olympics. That swimming guy broke like crazy records and we got a little bit excited about it, but have you ever heard of companies letting their employees off to go support the team? Or, shutting down the stock market??

And according to Dan Steinberg of The Washington Post - It's like what Iceland handball captain Olafur Stefansson told me when I asked whether people in his country actually believe in magic elves. ‘It's not so much a matter of believing in the regular sense of the word, it's more of enjoying the possibility of it actually existing,’ he said. ‘And it doesn't matter whether somebody judges you or not for having that possibility in your mind. Because it's a funny possibility, and it enlightens your life and makes it more colorful.’

They delight in the possibility of magical elves!

Maybe this all seems so dreamy and foreign to me because I grew up in LA, but I'm all about being there for your peeps, and I love the sense of community, confidence and pride Iceland seems to have.

Soon enough, you all will be as obsessed with Iceland as I am.

Shuffle

So, there's another lil shuffle going on at work. They make jokes about how this happens all the time at the goog, but like dude.

Now, normally I'd be four square against it at least for my own sake. Since shuffle-shuffle usually means I get yanked from all my fave projects and tossed out into the abyss to fend for myself. Only, these last couple of times, esp. this time, my job is getting infinitely more awesome.

I suppose it helped going into it not really concerned one way or the other since I think I've proved myself good enough this quarter that they'd be crazy not to promote me. I've been a total rockstar, I don't even have to say so myself. I mean, it's because I'm much better at doing like organizational big picture stuff than the painful nitty gritty of "core work."

Anyway. The trick now is not to look too happy at work, I guess. Since this is totally a tough time for most peeps regardless of what this change will mean for them. It is true though what they say that we really have all been awesome lately. I am very proud of us. I know that this is something we need to do and I know it'll make things harder for some people than others - thankfully not me this time - but it'll be all for the best.

My biggest concern now is that I may actually start to enjoy my job. Fear of all fears. Other wicked thoughts entering my mind: the default visa time period for living in Europe is only three months. This also happens to be the amount of time I'm allowed to play hooky from work without having to quit. Not worrying about those kinds of decisions yet though.

Lest you, dear reader, become too afraid for my future, you should know that listening to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club on an infinite loop also makes me want desperately to become a full time musician as of like yesterday. I have even been contemplating learning to play the *gasp* guitar. The guitar. Moi. This thought even got so far as to lining up in my head the friends of mine who already have skills in this general area as well as toeing the possibility of paying Emery at the 5th String to learn me some things. And considering whether my parents might not just have a spare guitar that could move in with me.



Rock N Roll, man!!