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?