San Francisco's Ocean Beach, with the Cliff House on the right.

The Woman, the Myth, the Legend

This morning I educated myself on life and times of "San Francisco Carol," a 75-year-old woman that is living Ocean Beach. It's hard to say "next to" or "near" Ocean Beach, as SF Carol is more "of" the beach, and of the elements, than most Bay Area natives could ever dream.

According to the Surfer's Journal article I read this morning, Carol Shuldt has been body surfing naked since the ripe old age of 10, and has since become something of a local legend in her own right. An extreme case of naturalist tendencies has seen Carol, in decades both past and present, sleeping on the beach despite owning a beach house, recycling to the point of composting her own waste, and becoming a staunch anti-drug advocate (she was even said to have battled it out with Timothy Leary in the '60s).

Her OB digs, a peachy A-frame bungalow, comes replete with wild cactus and other greenery obscuring the front windows, and a psychedelic mural on the side featuring Saint Francis of Assisi at it's center. Over the years it has provided shelter for many well-known surfers, as well as drug addicts she has taken under her wing in the hopes of rehabilitation. Oftentimes, according to the article, she has accommodated so many house guests that she sleeps in her kitchen.

The pictures in the feature story are both revelatory and inspiring (unfortunately I do not own a scanner), and there is a portrait of Carol laughing that I would love to describe: her shoulder-length, wavy orange-red hair is pinned into a '50s era bouffant, and her fuchsia pink lipstick provides a perfect frame for the generous rack of fierce, slightly-yellowed pearlies. What appears to be a kitchen hand rag is tied at her neck and draped over her back like a cape, and her pastel-colored, daisy bikini top completes the retro look. But it is her skin that is most striking: it's braved the elements for so long that it appears to have resembled the elements themselves.

Carol recalls the times she spent with her first husband in her twenties and thirties:

"It was like a family...Your generation has such a hard time understanding because you're into technology. But people didn't just drive to the beach, call their friends on their cell phones, surf, and drive away. We lived on the beach and lived with the beach. There was a community around the fire. We needed the fire. We had to live with the elements. We had to feel."

Her skin, now shriveled, coarse; and with deeply marked grooves, is lightly speckled brown to create an overall brownish tone. While I am sure that many a pale San Franciscan has spotted Carol on the beach and shuddered at what may be viewed as unsightly skin damage, her unorthodox flesh could also be seen as an evolution of sorts, for I am sure it has shielded and camouflaged her against the rough sands of many a Northern California beach.

Even her demeanor appears rooted in the elements. Jaimal Yogis, who authored the article (in addition to Saltwater Buddha: A Surfer's Quest to Find Zen on the Sea), and also happens to be Carol's neighbor, writes:

"She speaks in a stream of consciousness that is akin to watching sea foam change into multiple patterns--connecting, separating, reconnecting--in the ebb and flow of the tides."

It just struck me as such a revolutionary concept: become more connected to the elements, and you can not only understand them--you can become them.

John Wayne

Second installment of fiction, well--this one is semi-fiction. I did in fact once have a collection of John Wayne portraits on my wall as a teenager.

Not many people know this, but I was once enamored with the Duke. John Wayne. That hard-bit all-American hero with the sour look of a cowboy that can smoke a half dozen cigarettes in his mouth at one time; in the blazing desert sun while lassoing a buffalo the size of Oklahoma to the ground at breakneck speeds. I know not of his many films, his real-life amours, nor the temperament and tenacity that, I am sure, made him a force to be reckoned with on the set. I do know one thing however: I did not follow the Duke. The Duke followed me.

In pawnshops, thrift stores, garage sales and flea markets is where he found me. On deep velvet, hazy canvas, in dark oily strokes, and sometimes even gentle breezes of delicate pastel. His eyes looked steely/his eyes looked faded/his eyes looked upon me through artist renderings that could shake a young girl to the core. Why did I find ways to take him home with me every time our eyes locked? How could I not?

How did he know to be here as I casually perused fine vinyl selections, weather-beaten tennis rackets, Chia Pets, and scintillating 1950s Playboys?

I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in the Duke. Ours was a connection that no generational gap could tarnish. At one point I dedicated an entire wall of my bedroom to this man of majesty. With intricate, brassy gold frames clustered like patchwork between lesser ones of faded black and imposter wood, Mr. Wayne’s many faces nestled snuggly.

In smoky gatherings of marijuana-infused revelry rested the Duke, persevering and staring blankly onwards. Crowds evaporated, atmospheric college rock died and morphed into Nina Simone soul and Sam Cooke molasses. The air thinning and the moon glow cooing through the blinds, and a boy on my arm that I wish were as great as my one-dimensional cowboy.

Sugar and Spice

And all things nice...it's what little girls are made of, right? Wrong. May I present as evidence the following video, brought to you by Sarah Haskins at Current TV, which proves that this classic rhyme could use an update. How about "Deodorant and cream cheese and canned croissants, that's what..." Naw. Sorry. That doesn't rhyme at all! But that's all I got.



Credit to Sean for the hot vid.

Sparkles!

Iranian press totally punked

Big shout-out to one of my favorite local sketch comedy groups, the San Francisco-based Kasper Hauser, who successfully made Iranian headlines today with their spoof book Obama's Blackberry.

This new work of satire makes obviously bogus claims that Kasper Hauser, a group most likely named after the famous 19th century wolf boy, have hacked into the President's personal phone service. And now, the Iranian government-funded "Press TV" has come out with the story as a legitimate news item, referring to the comedy troup as "cyber hackers" and "terrorists." Somebody, anybody, please destroy their uranium enrichment plants--I don't trust rogue states that don't have a sense of humor.

Interview questions?



So I may end up interviewing this fine chap for an arts magazine some time this week. Trying to come up with some good questions. So far all I want to know is where he learned to dance, and what music--other than his own--inspires him to dance.

Archie and Veronica Wed

I don't know what disturbs me more: that Archie chose Veronica over Betty, or that I am actually really mad about a 60-something year old comic book character proposing to his fictitious teenage girlfriend. It is rather depressing though. I mean, this Archie character had to choose between two girls that look exactly alike, only one is blond and the other brunette. Other distinguishing character traits? The blond has a heart of gold and the other one is a total bitch. But then again, the bitch had all the money to inherit, so there you go. If the comics are meant to reflect reality, I guess it isn't entirely unlikely that this would happen--especially during an economic downturn.

It was really interesting to see the kinds of news items that came out of this comic book development. Jezebel, the women's Gawker site that sometimes lamely poses as a feminist response to popular culture (it's no feministing.com), decided to open up a debate about blonds v brunettes. You go, you pro-woman culture vultures!

"...in addition to surveys that indicate more billionaires have brown-haired wives, and most men would rather marry a brunette, a look back through the annals of pop culture shows that the sassy, dark-haired girl is more likely to come out on top than the boring, blonde girl-next-door..."

Wow. Why read Cosmo when I've got Jezebel to tell me what men really want.

I got a real kick out of The Atlantic's break down of the major comic book event:

"Veronica is the girl Archie worships, and accepts abuse from, the girl for whom he is only sometimes good enough, polished enough, or rich enough to escort. If Veronica’s fortune ever withers, and when her looks inevitably decline, it isn’t clear what she and Archie will have left. The recession—or any edition of Bravo’s Real Housewives—provides all too many examples of what happens to a marriage when one partner’s financial expectations, whether of opulence or simple security, are disappointed...

If Archie wanted a life partner, a wife who knows how to work on a relationship through decades of disappointment and joy, Betty Cooper would have been an easy choice. She could have helped him figure out what he wants to do with his life, because she has dreams and ambitions of her own: She wants to be a journalist—a potentially quixotic goal as the industry crumbles in 2009, but then, she has plenty of practice chasing lost causes."

Insightful? yes. Great rhetoric wasted on cheeseball 1950s Era comic book characters? Totally.

Oh, and of course The Onion had to do a Man on the Street regarding the Betty v Veronica debate:

Noah Magee,
Systems Analyst
"I'd pick Veronica. I’ve picked Veronica every day since puberty, as a matter of fact."

Elaine Tekle,
City Auditor
"If that guy knows the first thing about anything, he'll choose Betty. Or Veronica would be pretty great, too. Actually, he can't really go wrong.”

Theo Brotman,
Lehr Operator
“Married? Oh, no! This is totally going to break up The Archies."

But leave it to the NYT to reveal one little tidibit that can shed light on this travesty: Michael E. Uslan wrote this Archie issue, a man credited with writing and producing The Dark Knight.

So if this story gets all dark and bleak and extreme terrorism is involved, you better bet I'm gonna start buying up issues, only this time with a zeal not felt as a preteen bored in the register line at the grocery store.

Were You Aware of It?

"Jack Ruby owned seventeen dachshunds, whom he referred to as 'his children.' In an astonishing coincidence, all of his dogs were named either Lincoln, Kennedy, or Oswald, except one, which was named 'Li'l Grassy Knoll.'

Meanwhile, Jaqueline Kennedy kept seventeen cats. She disliked the animals, but kept a pack of trained felines for the hunting of voles. This was an ancient European pastime akin to fox hunting, but replacing the dogs with cats, the fox with voles and/or shrews (moles and mice are disqualifiers), and the horses with single-speed bicycles. Her passion for the sport, which bordered on addiction, was considered a potential liability by some within the White House, who feared that many in mainstream America, who rarely eat vole, would perceive the sport as an aristocratic European fancy. Still, it was practiced on the sly, and as a result, most of Washington, D.C., is still voleless. "

--John Hodgman, The Areas of My Expertise

Shepherding becomes eclectic

"I know you wanna herd sheep so bad it's like acid your my mouth, Johnny." --Patrick Swayze, Point Break.

(The following is one of several flash fiction pieces I've written recently)


The Bench

He was kicking the pebbles with the toe of his sneaker. With furrowed brow weighing heavy as shoulders, he felt the sagging despair of words lost in the thunderclap. She breathed and waited for something to happen, anything; a hurdle to slow the steady beat of her heart. Her teeth began to chatter seconds past the first chilled drop of rain hit the back of her neck now arched to the sky.

Moments alone together were as fleeting as the clouds overhead, and they both knew it. But teenage pride was hard to shake, every word muttered too ripe for the mocking. She felt invisible to him as he took the Swiss Army knife to the seat of the bench, piercing the space that separated him from the warm flesh he felt helpless before. A last act of faith, he thought, a faith that she wouldn’t forget him as the seasons waltzed along and left them both adrift. School’s out for summer, as the Top 40 song went—school’s out forever.

The fog was too thick to see whales. The rest of the class had vanished towards the bus. He removed his hand from the wooden bench and revealed the markings he had carved, “Tim and Anna ’73.”

"From Burger It Came"

People who do not believe in sex education in the schools should watch this animated short film by Dominic Bisignano. Children should not live in fear that they may one day contract HIV/AIDS from eating a hamburger--it just isn't right.

Oh Snap!



For my third installment of Oh Snap! I'd like to do something a little different. Instead of recounting some heated argument from long ago and then writing down a major burn that I just thought of as I sat at my computer several months or years later, I will recount a total burn that I blurted out in public just yesterday as a man attempted to steal my wallet from my purse.

Today's Snap finds our hero (me) uncomfortably shuffling towards the center of a sardine tin bus on her way to the Upper Haight district of the city of San Francisco. Her left arm is raised to grasp the bar well above her head for support. Her right is extended along the front of a medium-sized black satchel that has been left open, due to the fact that a large San Francisco magazine with Barack Obama on the cover is jutting out. She looks over towards the purse, thinking of checking the time on her phone, when she notices a heavy-set man of African American descent with a black Raider's jacket. He is holding his jacket over his hand which is slowly hovering above her purse, disabling her from looking inside.

Amity: Are you trying to steal something from my purse?

Pickpocket: (In authoritave tone of indignation) EXCUSE ME?!

Amity: You're trying to get into my purse. GEEE-SUS!

She moves further back in the bus, away from him, covering the top of her bag. A few stops down, her eyes move hawkish and she carefully studies the hands of the pickpocket as he walks towards the back of the bus as well. She is cushioned by a few men of medium height, but can still see the pickpocket's every move.

She notices that the pickpocket is now dangerously close to a short girl of college age who is carrying a messenger bag. As the bus pushes forward from its last stop, the pickpocket suddenly adjusts himself and moves away from her, putting his sports jacket on. The girl zips the side pocket of her bag, and scowls up at the pickpocket.

Girl: Hey, come on.

Amity: (yelling so that her voice carries across entire bus) IS HE TRYING TO STEAL FROM YOU TOO?

Everyone stares at our hero as if she were certifiable.

Girl nods. A soft-spoken Asian man to our hero's right asks who stole from her.

Amity: (pointing) THAT MAN! BLACK...JACKET! BLACK JACKET!

Random black man from the back of the bus: SURE, BLAME THE BLACK MAN!

Amity: BLACK JACKET I SAID BLACK JACKET! DON'T BE A RACIST!

Random: You know our president's a black man!

Amity: DON'T BE A RACIST!

The pickpocket is now hurriedly moving out the door of the bus, with the random man trailing him. Our hero looks down at her magazine, saddened that our president's name has been used in vain.


Fin.

Doogie Howser Orchestra

I never even really liked this show, but now I am caught up in both nostalgia and want in equal measure.

Endurance and the American Way

“Here in the half-light they lie, these sprawling, unconscious forms, their cots side by side, their clothing hung in listless disarray ... a girl is sprawled, her lips moving in pain, as she moans incoherently, and jerks her hands. Bending over her is a man, her ‘trainer’ apparently, who massages her swollen feet with some ointment. Beside her, another girl is lying, her mouth open to reveal her gold-crowned molars, while flies crawl across her closed eyes and buzz against her chin.” (Alice Elinor, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, August 8, 1928).

The above passage is from a news article on Depression Era dance marathons. Marathons which involved depraved, poverty-striken American couples dancing for an average of 40 days straight with 15 minute breaks every hour. Dancers were motivated by the 12 meals (hardly square) they received each day, as well as a grand prize of--in some cases--roughly a thousand dollars cash. Meanwhile, motivation for the organizers consisted of all the income to be made from wealthy onlookers with nothing better to do. June Havoc, a former child actor and participant in such dances in the 30s as a teenager, explained to Time magazine in 1959:

“Our degradation was entertainment; sadism was sexy; masochism was talent.”

My interest on the subject was aroused as I sat through my third viewing of the 1969 Sydney Pollack film They Shoot Horses, Don't They? starring Jane Fonda. And my interest in watching this film yet again came from being introduced to "Dancing with the Stars"--a far cry from the brutal marathon style; nevertheless, degrading and strange on some level.

What strikes me about dance show entertainment--whether it is performed to garner attention to professional performers, or to degrade average Americans competing for sustenance, is that it is a perversion of dance--pure and simple. When I think of dancing couples I want to think of old-timey romance; innocent encounters with first loves. I don't want to think of C-list celebrities in gaudy ice skating outfits smiling until their faces are sore. And I sure as hell don't want to think of men and women on the brink of collapse, swaying back and forth like circus animals in a Depression Era scheudenfraude.

Here are some fun archival pics of dance marathons I found upon investigation:






'
















This is the death of dance and romance. This is the American Way.

Tupac is Dead

I don't care what TMZ reports. I know that Tupac Shakur is dead because rap music is dead. I fortuitously discovered one of his songs long forgotten on ye 'ole iPod shuffle the other day, "Keep Ya Head Up." The lyrics are provocative, catchy; overwhelmingly positive and pro-woman. I'd never paid attention to them before--I just liked the song's melody and danciness. Got a nice bounce to it. Anyhew, if only more rappers followed this brave man's lead into writing intelligible, respectful songs about women, I do believe rap would not be dead...like Tupac.

And since we all came from a woman
Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman
I wonder why we take from our women
Why we rape our women, do we hate our women?
I think it's time to kill for our women
Time to heal our women, be real to our women
And if we don't we'll have a race of babies
That will hate the ladies, that make the babies
And since a man can't make one
He has no right to tell a woman when and where to create one
So will the real men get up
I know you're fed up ladies, but keep your head up

(Sigh)

Golden Gate Park totally dissed

Last month's issue of California Home and Design listed Mission Bay Park as the Number One park in San Francisco. That park looks like this:


Ah, California Home and Design: catering to folks who really don't know much about anything outside of the home. Remarkably, although one of my favorites, Dolores Park, made the cut at #2, Golden Gate Park wasn't even mentioned. Golden Gate Park! Where botanical gardens abound, two major museums of the Arts and Sciences await, playing fields and tennis courts run aplenty, windmills...like, sit there...and buffaloes roam! Yes buffaloes!

This caused a major sensation at my workplace a week ago, as our office windows overlook the little slice of the Mission Bay Park, with its imported greenery wedged between a toxic inlet off the Bay and the industrial no man's land that is the outskirts of the UCSF Mission Bay Campus.

Hey California Home and Design, why don't you make lists about stuff you know, like all things domestic and inside of the home!

Jamie Lidell, From the Basement

Just started watching this amazing DVD of live performances, brought to audiophiles fresh from the hands of epic rock producer Nigel Godrich. The DVD, entitled"From the Basement," came out in March but is new to me. There are some particularly amazing performances by Radiohead, The White Stripes and Sonic Youth. But someone who really blew me away--this funk singer I had never heard of and probably wouldn't be interested in if I had--gave a highly impressive performance. Ladies and gentleman, Jamie Lidell:

A Great Guide to Wellness*

Today marks the millionth billionth time that Amity has found herself in bed and sick from a cold or flu when she should be a good little busy bee, out there in the real world of productivity, weather-related small talk and overwhelming coffee intake.

But in the fake world, the one where only me and some type of unidentifiable, untreatable soul-sucking leach of an illness contracted hither or thither via subway train, public restroom, unwashed bowl; loved one's mouth...life can be good. Life can be great! Below, please find a list of FAQs for the sickly and doomed. PLEASE NOTE: If you have swine flu...boy have I got a joke for you that I just totally made up:


A: Knock, knock
B: Who's there?
A: Oink oink.
B: Oink oink who?
A: Oink oink I've got that pig flu!
B: ..uh...you mean "swine flu"?
A: Yeah! Same thing! And I'm a gonna kill you!
B: This is really awkward, er, why did you come to my door?
A: Uh...this is just a classic joke format and not meant to be taken literally?
B: Right. I am slamming this door! Good day sir!


Q: Amity, how do I combat the bitter loneliness plaguing my soul?

A: I'm glad you asked. A common side effect of the common cold and/or flu.

Q: So what's the answer?

A: Sleep more! That way there's no loneliness, just dreams.

Q: Isn't that a Steve Bruele quote?

A: Shhhnext question!

Q: How do I find the strength to go on? There are so many things that people want to sell me to get better and I have no idea what to ingest!

A: I strongly advise flushing all Airborne products down the toilet. They are a sham! Film flam! You're like the elephant in that Disney cartoon movie with the "magic feather," trying to fly. Just drop the feather, Dumbo, you will fly if you believe! Also, fruits that make your throat scratch are good. Think oranges and pineapples, I have no idea why but they help.

Q: This general malaise: why?

A: Your body hates you right now, in turn, you are hating life. Copious amounts of Nyquil and Theraflu are commonly accepted as legitimate medical treatment for this condition among the glitterati of the medical community. Drink and be merry!

Q: Speaking of drinking and being merry, can I do that whilst sickly? I want some booze!

A: Ah, quite the controversial topic. Fact: hot toddies are soothing to the throat, as well as soul. Fact: all you need is 4 parts whiskey to 1 part hot water, fresh lemon, and honey. Cheers to your health!

Q: I feel more confused than when I started asking these questions.

A: Let me put it this way: if two hands clapping make noise, then what is the sound of one? I.e., if your bowl is already full, how am I to help you fill it?



* Not written under the influence of Nyquil.

The Best Parable for Relationships

Can be found in Shel Silverstein's children's book "The Missing Piece Meets the Big O." What could be more simple, profound, and true than this charming little tale?

Enjoy this little film version found on the youtubes:

When people stop being polite

"...and start getting real." I believe that was the original catch phrase of the '90s era episodes of the MTV reality show "The Real World."

Well the puppet masters of reality television are beyond impoliteness at this point: they're downright sadistic. It seems Rupert Murdoch's television wasteland, Fox, has decided to begin airing a reality show about people getting laid off. Fox's "Someone's Gotta Go" will feature a real-life company of around 20 employees competing for...well...so it's kinda like "The Apprentice." Only there are no winners. Just the unemployed.

Employees will be given an opportunity to view eachother's salaries and decide who gets "voted off the island" as it were...or who's "the weakest link" et al etc etc. Instead of employers doing the firing, however, employees will freely judge eachother's worth and value before a national television audience and demean one another until one of them is no longer on television.

According to the Huffington Post, Mike Darnell, programming officer, said that the show was about "employee empowerment."

Yeah, and "Rock of Love" is about Bret Michaels finding a soulmate.

"Somebody's Gotta Go" will be brought to you by producers over at Endemol USA. No, it's not a pesticide or a nasal spray or Viagara substitute; Endemol USA is comprised of subsidiaries and joint venture companies spanning 23 countries, which have brought such culturally enlightening programs as "Big Brother," "Fear Factor," and "Deal or No Deal." Just last year, Endemol bought up the company that was responsible for the reality/celebrity shows over at VH1--51 minds.

I mean, if it takes 51 minds to think up that Flava Flav show or "Tool Academy," you've got to question the quality of those minds. I do believe they are overpaid and at least 50 of them should decide on which one should be fired.

A few years ago, just after the company decided to go public, 75% of Endemol was bought by the company Mediaset, which, in case you're not familiar with your megaconglomerates, is owned by the Burlusconi Family.

I've got a great tag line for those Italian bastards I do. How about, "Mediaset: Doing for quality television what Silvio Burlusconi has done for his withering nation."

I'm just hoping that the American public will reach its low culture threshold and somehow create a backlash against this show and the impending culture surrounding it. It seems as though the process of judging eachother and creating entertainment out of it live on television is corrosive, vile and destructive. As constant voyeurs into the nightmare "reality" world of rejection and judgement, we are engaging in a destructive societal mentality. I can't help but believe that this mentality will somehow, perhaps subconsciously, seep into the day-to-day.

I know that, personally, whenever I face rejection in the workplace or elsewhere, all I hear are those damn catch phrases, "the weakest link " or "you've been voted off the island."

That being said, I do love Bret Michaels and his fine taste in classy ladies; you can never hear the words, "will you continue to rock my world" too many times from D-listed rocker in a doo-rag.

Obama, pirates and privacy

Earlier today, President Obama made a bit of a gaffe while discussing the triumphant victory of America v pirates (tune in next week, when Obama prevails over rogue ninjas!) Obama stated:

"And I want to be very clear that we are resolved to halt the rise of privacy in that region."



We all know Obama is no Bush--i.e. he's no gaffe laugh machine. Coincidentally, many progressives and Libertarians are taking issue with the Obama administration's behavior regarding state secrets and civil liberties. Freudian slip perhaps?

I've found this administration's insistence upon extending the unconstitutional, inhumane foreign policies of the Bush administration--injustices such as the denial of Habeas Corpus, persistence in carrying out extraordinary renditions, and insistence of warrantless wiretapping very strange, very strange indeed. Is this president progressive...or regressive?

(A brief Talking Points Memo concensus: here).

I know that it's going to be hard for Americans to see the importance of moving past the savagery of the past eight years--whatwith our economy turning to shit and all. But we need to evolve from the dark days of that cowboy monkey man. Immediately. As painful as it is to face the realities of our torture practices, our leaders need to practice a little moral certitude and call for a stop this involvement in all matters clandestine abroad. These innocent men that our troops are beating; psychologically and sexually humiliating? Their stories won't die even if they themselves do by our own country's hands. Nor should they.

Author Mark Danner gave a brilliant analysis of 14 detainee testimonies filed by the Red Cross:


"...monumental decisions taken after the attacks of September 11, 2001—decisions about rendition, surveillance, interrogation—lie strewn about us still, unclaimed and unburied, like corpses freshly dead.

How should we begin to talk about this? Perhaps with a story. Stories come to us newborn, announcing their intent: Once upon a time... In the beginning... From such signs we learn how to listen to what will come. Consider:

I woke up, naked, strapped to a bed, in a very white room. The room measured approximately 4m x 4m [13 feet by 13 feet]. The room had three solid walls, with the fourth wall consisting of metal bars separating it from a larger room. I am not sure how long I remained in the bed...."

Read the rest here.

It's a horrifying thought: Obama continuing the cycle of torture and abuse that once seemed to horrify him as well--at least when he was selling himself on the stump, that is. I can forgive our president for many things, but this one--I don't think anyone can afford such forgivance.

Bike meets girl

I am so in love with my new bicycle right now. I bought it from a lovely lady couple that create beautiful vintage hybrid bicycles with fine brand-name frames. Mine is a 70s Gitane (fancy pants French brand) mixte 10-speed with moustache handlebars--bright, beaten-up white with a dark brown leather seat.

Recently, I discovered what a mixte is via the internets, as I was too embarrased to ask the bike nerd ladies what it was.

The things I found out really blew my mind.

Apparently it is the kind of frame that dips down, rather than going straight across to form a triangle. I just thought triangles were for boys; non-triangles were for girls that wore dresses. While this is true, the mixte is also a style that was once in vogue for both genders; I had no idea that they stopped making this frame style in the 60s and 70s.

From Dave Moulton's Bike Blog:

The mixte frame, for whatever reason, it seems has caught on with the teen and twenty set of young men in America and they are buying up older ones on eBay. They seem to like this style of frame because, like the dance hall on the Queen Mary, it offers a lot of Ballroom.

(My bike, bottom left)


My Gitane has the vintage look of a classic clunker, with the lightweight maneuverability of a racing bike--probably due in part to the fact that there are no fenders. Oh how I love my white chariot that glides over pavement with the greatest of ease! And I almost feel as chic and graceful as these bicycle-loving ladies:









Almost. Need some fancy golden jazz shoes.

Feeling Check: today, mad at the television

If Bill Maher saw this finned friend, he surely would jump it

Bill Maher talks to Ron Howard on "Real Time" for a one-on-one sesh lasting no shorter than 25 minutes, allows politically-insignificant filmmaker to ramble on about high school incident whereby his penis pops out of his shorts during basketball game, also allowing said *completely politically-insignificant filmmaker* to discuss entire career including, ironically, the day that "Happy Days" turned bad and The Fonze "jumped the shark" whilst water skiing. Ironically...

Feeling check: I am so mad you guys. I have actually blown off Friday night plans with people to indulge in new "Real Time with Bill Maher" episodes. Even if I find some of his jokes personally offensive or off-color, at least he has intelligent guests that actually engage in thought-provoking dialogue. Where can you find that nowadays?

Let it be noted, however, that I do believe Gore Vidal's later presence nearly made up for it.

Bill Maher what happened?

All work and no play makes this a dull blog

Yeah. Another one of them "I'm so lazy with the blog hey lemme tell you all about it!" posts. Unfortunately I've been exhausted from work, plus the added stress of finally moving out of my apartment for another one across town...a full three miles away...and I've been visiting the dentist a lot, could be the lucky recipient of yet another root canal...(yawn)...well I can see this post is going nowhere...hey, so, whenever somebody tells you "Work is Freedom!" you tell them they're no better than a Nazi.




Actual photograph of concentration camp with "Work is freedom" written in German.

The day the waves stopped crashing

Tuesday marked the 20th anniversary of the Exxon Valdez oil spill, a cataclysmic event for the communities surrounding Prince William Sound, Alaska. The local fishing industry was devastated; not to mention the wildlife that flocked there--salmon, sea otters, seals, seabirds. Roughly 11 million gallons of crude oil were spilled into the ocean when a massive oil tanker struck a reef. Apparently the ship was on auto pilot as the men who should have been steering it did exactly what anyone who had not been given a six-hour break between 12-hour shifts would have done--they slept. Prosecutors claimed they were drunk.



Riki Ott, a resident of the nearby fishing village of Cordova, wrote a book about the incident and appeared on Democracy Now! the other day. She spoke of fishing communities economically and spiritually bankrupt; a mayor that committed suicide...I found her words chillingly poetic:

We were worried that the oil—the killing would not stop in 1989, the scientists. It was a huge devastation. I couldn’t even go out on the beaches initially. I couldn’t take the emotional hit. People came back, the fishermen, and they said they had sat down on what they presumed was rock to cry, and it turned out to be like an oiled sea otter or something that was dying. There were just bodies everywhere. The oil in some of the bays was over three feet thick. You couldn’t even hear the sound of the waves crashing on the shoreline; everything was muted. Some of the oil, with the storm that came through—there was a huge storm that came through, and it just smeared oil up to forty feet high on some of our coastline—was in the trees. I mean, it just took animals out, and it was very, very quiet.

And the best picture of a former president from the 20th century award goes to...




The Gipper: camping it up in Vegas variety show. Isn't he fabulous? Bonus points for sporting PBR paraphernalia.

And no religion too

I read a column in the Christian Science Monitor last week that gives convincing reasons why the collapse of Christian evangelism is fast approaching. This made me extremely happy and greatly relieved. Not because I hate religion--I respect people who are kind and moral and claim to have a strong faith. Yet I can't help but despise those who are intolerant towards others who don't think exactly as they do, and what's worse, those who make their faith political. Evangelicals tend to be this way. I mean, the whole "Left Behind" series-toting, global warming-denying, George Bush-loving, Chicken Little apocalypse-fetishising Creationists have had their time to royally fuck up this country if not world for the past eight years. I propose euthanasia for these anemic ideas; followed by a proper burial.

Oneida, Ky. - We are on the verge – within 10 years – of a major collapse of evangelical Christianity. This breakdown will follow the deterioration of the mainline Protestant world and it will fundamentally alter the religious and cultural environment in the West.

Within two generations, evangelicalism will be a house deserted of half its occupants. (Between 25 and 35 percent of Americans today are Evangelicals.) In the "Protestant" 20th century, Evangelicals flourished. But they will soon be living in a very secular and religiously antagonistic 21st century.

This collapse will herald the arrival of an anti-Christian chapter of the post-Christian West. Intolerance of Christianity will rise to levels many of us have not believed possible in our lifetimes, and public policy will become hostile toward evangelical Christianity, seeing it as the opponent of the common good.

Millions of Evangelicals will quit. Thousands of ministries will end. Christian media will be reduced, if not eliminated. Many Christian schools will go into rapid decline. I'm convinced the grace and mission of God will reach to the ends of the earth. But the end of evangelicalism as we know it is close.

Reasons for this assessment:

1. Evangelicals have identified their movement with the culture war and with political conservatism. This will prove to be a very costly mistake. Evangelicals will increasingly be seen as a threat to cultural progress. Public leaders will consider us bad for America, bad for education, bad for children, and bad for society.

The evangelical investment in moral, social, and political issues has depleted our resources and exposed our weaknesses. Being against gay marriage and being rhetorically pro-life will not make up for the fact that massive majorities of Evangelicals can't articulate the Gospel with any coherence. We fell for the trap ofbelieving in a cause more than a faith.

2. We Evangelicals have failed to pass on to our young people an orthodox form of faith that can take root and survive the secular onslaught. Ironically, the billions of dollars we've spent on youth ministers, Christian music, publishing, and media has produced a culture of young Christians who know next to nothing about their own faith except how they feel about it. Our young people have deep beliefs about the culture war, but do not know why they should obey scripture, the essentials of theology, or the experience of spiritual discipline and community. Coming generations of Christians are going to be monumentally ignorant and unprepared for culture-wide pressures.

3. There are three kinds of evangelical churches today: consumer-driven megachurches, dying churches, and new churches whose future is fragile. Denominations will shrink, even vanish, while fewer and fewer evangelical churches will survive and thrive.

4. Despite some very successful developments in the past 25 years, Christian education has not produced a product that can withstand the rising tide of secularism. Evangelicalism has used its educational system primarily to staff its own needs and talk to itself.

5. The confrontation between cultural secularism and the faith at the core of evangelical efforts to "do good" is rapidly approaching. We will soon see that the good Evangelicals want to do will be viewed as bad by so many, and much of that work will not be done. Look for ministries to take on a less and less distinctively Christian face in order to survive.

6. Even in areas where Evangelicals imagine themselves strong (like the Bible Belt), we will find a great inability to pass on to our children a vital evangelical confidence in the Bible and the importance of the faith.

7. The money will dry up.

Hallelujah!

Little Lord Fontleroy

I'd like to start a new section of the old blog entitled "Irrelevant Victorian slang terms that you will never use." It shall begin with the concept of the "Little Lord Fontleroy," a name taken from the title character of a Victorian era children's book.

Wiki description:

The Fauntleroy suit, so well-described by [Frances Hodgson] Burnett and realized in Reginald Birch's detailed pen-and-ink drawings, created a major fad for formal dress for American middle-class children:

"What the Earl saw was a graceful, childish figure in a black velvet suit, with a lace collar, and with lovelocks waving about the handsome, manly little face, whose eyes met his with a look of innocent good-fellowship." (Little Lord Fauntleroy)

Alas, you can now in fact use this term. I came across a real-life Little Lord Fantleroy recently; his name is Arlo Weiner, and he is the son of Mad Men creator Matt Weiner, named after Arlo Guthrie.


This Little Lord is so cool at the ripe old age of eight years, I wish that I too were eight so that I could ravish him (is that so wrong?). I mean, to have Beck stalk you simply because you look so awesome walking down the street--there's something beyond cool about that. (See GQ article).

Tip of the hat to you, modern day Little Lord Fauntleroy!

With one fell swoop of the text

I have become my mother. Well, almost. She's always had this strange attachment to the characters in All My Children; and, recently, a friend who had to miss the latest episode of Big Love texted to ask about it. Here was my response:

"Nicky's affair has been made public and now she's in the dog house. Barb and Margine are real mad. Staying with her brother Albie, so you know she' s up to no good."

I feel a sudden rush of unease now. I am discussing fictional characters the way my mother talks about soap stars, or the way my father references the characters in Seinfeld.

Suck It, Mussolini

The economy in San Francisco is pretty bad right now. Now I'm no economics expert, but I did read that unemployment rates for my state were up to 8.7 percent in December. While just recently, I found that the national average went up to 8.1 percent--not sure how they were in December, but most likely a few percentage points below that. So once again, California has proven itself to be ahead of the pack.

So I've been doing a little house hunting lately. With all these people leaving the city, there are indeed housing bargains to be had. However, some people in this town didn't get the memo. And the Craigslist ads listing rooms for rent are still rife with fascist, crazed a-holes who think they can still give potential housemates a series of hoops to jump through in order to "consider" them.

The first room I ever lived in, in this city, was in a four-bedroom Victorian off of Haight almost three years ago. I lasted three months before the German cancer researcher (and I quote: "I won't get offended if you call me a cleaning Nazi!") and depressive struggling actress had a confrontation with me to kick me out. I was so sad, you guys; I felt really rejected. I asked them if I hadn't cleaned enough, or if I did something to offend them? They said "no." Their reply: "You just don't fit in" and "there's going to be a lot of turnover."

Lately, me and a friend have been comparing our room rental finds. Some of our favorites included an ad that was entitled: "Cool people--let's live together!" --while it gave very little details about the actual house and room, it did contain a collage of people the Craigslist ad creator thought looked "cool": a late 70s surfer dude with wavy highlighted hair on a skateboard, a band shot of some mod rockers, etc. It was weird. And apparently he swtiched the images around almost every day.

Another ad was put up by a married couple. They were strictly looking for a young bisexual woman and requested pictures. Below, a similar ad:

We are three friendly people who share a very large 4 bedroom Victorian flat in the lower Haight. One of us is a youthful older woman who is a body worker, the others are two forty-something men, one a student, the other a body worker.
We have varied schedules and busy lives, but enjoy a friendly atmosphere at home.
Two of us are bisexual and poly, so we'd like someone who is queer-friendly, meaning someone who gets it and won't make us feel like weirdos, even though we are weirdos, if that makes sense.

Right. I'm going to live with some weirdos while living in a state of denial that they are in fact weird. Got it...

Some people are such fascists that they don't even realize they are fascist because they probably don't understand the meaning of the word:

hi
this place have Comes \
Comes with electric kitchen, Dishwasher, garbage disposal and over the range microwave. Indoor Parking for a reserved garage spa
you will share with two korea room mate there both go to school and nice
this picture is you room !! (insert really ugly, terribly-lit room here)
asia only

Awww man, I really wanted the room, but unfortunately I'm not the world's largest and most populous continent and I don't cover more than 25 percent of the Earth's surface area!

And then this one--a true "diamond in the rough" of absurdly fascist Craigslist ads--popped up on the internets just today:

Hallo! Let's get to the skinny. Ideally, you are somewhere from between 30 to 40 years old. You are healthy and shower daily. You appreciate a nice living situation by being quiet during quiet hours (10 pm to 10 am), and you like to clean up after yourself always and after others occasionally. You are not a TV couch potato and have a life. You are not a Bush neo-con supporter and recognize that even Obama has his hands tied by the corrupt party that nominated him. In other words, you'r not clueless and blindly patriotic. NO drug abusers beyond the occasional spliff (that means NO daily pot heads), no alcoholics, no TV couch potatoes will be tolerated. I need to stress this b/c you won't last a week if you say you are one thing but you are not. This is a trial period for you as a housemate. Also, and I stress, I am looking for a NON-SMOKER.

Please tell me about yourself: your age, your work and length of employment there, your waking and sleeping hours on weekdays and weekends, your noise level, your interests, your former residence and city. Send photos or online profile if you like.
First month, last month and a $400 deposit required and I might ask to see proof of income and savings...We are all mellow, respectful, quiet in the mornings and nights, clean and responsible. You must be, too. No posers, please. Again, NO drug abusers beyond the occasional spliff (that means NO daily pot heads), no alcoholics, no TV couch potatoes will be tolerated. I need to stress this b/c you won't last a week if you say you are one thing but you are not. I am also looking for a NON-SMOKER because we've got one who smokes (outside only) and is trying to quit. Feel free to include photos of yourself, a profile or of anything creative you've done. Oh yeah, you must love or at the very least enjoy a small and sweet Dachshund perrito who weighs only 15 pounds. He is all love and is part of the household as much as we are. Alas, that means no more pets so those of you who are inextricably tied to your pets must look elsewhere.
Again, first and last month plus $400 required. That's $1500 plus $400 = $1900. Don't break anything and you'll get all your deposit minus owed utilities. Write Ben at the address above. Move-in date is the 8th of October.

October! Ha! Seven months away, good luck you sweet bastard! Aww gee, I can't wait to tell you about myself. I'm sure we have so much in common! Do you accept political theory essays about the elitist Left and the hypocritical culture of moderates? Because I have one up my ass somewhere...er, lemme just try to find it...OMG Dachshund perritos are my FAV! City dogs that yap all day are the greatest! Now I know you just asked me for my work and sleep hours for both the week and weekend, but can I tell you more? Like, I think you should know my kitchen hours--how long the average meal, the average snack (midnight snacks not included (-;) and oh, I would love to calculate the average time I spend both on the toilet and in the shower per week--month if needed.

I look forward to seeing this ad up for months until these a-holes finally given in and accept a (shock! horror!) COUCH POTATO! Ooohhhnoooo!

Suck it, Mussolini!

Blast from the Past

I spent over five years as a student and resident in Santa Cruz, California--a little dabbling in the extremely liberal arts here; a little reporting for the local newspaper there. I felt I knew that city well.

Nevertheless, it was so shocking to see the following montage of "public comment" before the city council and board of supervisors recently.

Welcome to the patients-running-the-asylum bubble town that is Santa Cruz. Around the time I moved there, the mayor was giving away medical marijuana on the steps of city hall, a former Black Panther lectured at the university, and there was a spot in the middle of the woods where the center of gravity went awry ("The Mystery Spot"--they still give tours). The Daily Show had reported there twice, once referring to it as a town with "more dreadlocked white men per capita" than any other place in the nation.

And as for the city's politics, Santa Cruz had out-progressived Berkeley by several initiatives, making them look more akin to Orange County than your typical liberal college town. Among them: impeaching former president Bush, and immediate troop withdrawal from Iraq. Welcome to the circus: